Swords and Ink
Our swords clashed, debris flying past our faces as we fought. Strike and blow was matched perfectly with block and deflection, our skill equal to our cunning strategy and wits. After some time however, my swings began to slow, and he noticed my hesitation. With a smile and certainty that he would win, Adam struck my arm past my defences.
“Ow!” I hollered, the stick in my hand falling to the ground. With a laugh, Adam tossed his stick next to mine.
“Swords usually do hurt when you get hit by them, sorry to break it to you Sam.” He patted my shoulder as he said this, a sly grin creeping up his lips. I couldn’t help but laugh and shoved him playfully away. A building across the street had its door swing open, and an elderly man emerged from the darkness. We knew how adults felt about kids playing with dangerous swords meant for adults, so we did what we always did. Adam began walking in the direction of the docks, then broke out into a run. “Come on!” I shook my head and the legs below me began to run as well, catching up with my brother as best as I could.
He was seven now, I was five, and we felt like the world was ours to explore. We would run around town, finding new plants and befriending stray animals. We always bumped into Scotch, an old wolfhound we named when we caught him in our garden. He had difficulty walking, but his spirit was as strong as the blazing sun high in the sky. Scotch would bark as we ran past, limping for a moment to keep up, but soon lost interest and went back to shuffling through town. We would reach the docks at full speed, ducking and weaving through the bustling crowd of merchants trading their goods and storing them in crates to be placed on trading ships that would sail across the sea. That was another thing we couldn’t keep away from; the water.
We were obsessed with sailor’s stories of the ocean, talk of sea spirits stealing men's souls, or heavy storms bashing against the hull with the captain bellowing orders over the deafening winds. Adam and I would sit on the crates wide-eyed while the sailors sang sea shanties, passing goods up a line in time with the music. Our foots would tap and heads bounce with the words, their meaning lost to us but the song piercing our hearts with an even stronger urge to sail the seas. We’d be there for hours at a time, asking questions about knots and sails and even swabbing the deck. Each sailor would either chuckle, pat our heads, or tell us to scram. Once every sailor gave a response, we would run to the next ship that was docked and ask all the questions over again. Our rush to the docks was always quick because we were anxious to get there, but after sunset we would have to walk back. That was when we took it slow, because we didn’t enjoy what was always waiting for us once we arrived home.
The house had become even more decrepit, rain and wind taking its toll on the exterior of the building. The door would always creak when opened, it was something we couldn’t hide. The one noise that signalled our arrival into hell on earth. The insides were even worse, bottles both empty and broken littering the floor. A stack of misshapen logs sat by the fireplace, dark red embers still pulsing with heat from the dying fire. In the middle of it all, snoring in his frail wooden chair, was our father. A half full bottle of whiskey hung from his fingertips, the glass grazing the ground with soft scratches. A wave of shame washed over us as we stared at him, our hope of the ocean darkened by the kind of father we had. Instead of a man that pushed his sons to be great, we had a father that merely pushed his sons away. We walked to Adam’s room and closed the door quietly behind us.
“I wonder if we’ll ever meet a sea spirit,” I muttered, looking out the window towards the last rays of light dipping below the horizon. “Maybe they aren’t all bad.”
Adam looked at me for a second and then laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure they’ll serve you up a nice cup of tea and chat about their day.” His remarks were always done in a way that made many of the adults laugh, as well as most of the children. He knew how to make people chuckle and take a look at the positive instead of how dreary everything in the world was. He began to remove his boots, the dirt on them falling through cracks in the boarded floor.
“Can you teach me to read and write?” Adam paused and looked at me when I made the request. “Eric left while he was teaching me, so I don’t really know much.”
Adam’s face went from puzzled to his usually sly smile. “And why do you want to learn reading and writing? Planning on writing love letters?” He laughed before turning dead serious and staring into my eyes. “Are you going to read poetry to poor old Scotch?” His laughter came back in ten folds, the sound bouncing off the walls in his room. My mind had travelled back to the letter under my bedroom floor, its mysteries still locked away in writing that I could not decypher. However, I didn’t want Adam to know the letter was the purpose for me wanting to learn to read and write. Instead, I felt he might have forgotten about the parchment entirely, and wanted it to stay that way.
“Of course not! I just thought your First Mate should be able to read a map or write down directions if I need to,” Adam’s laughter slowed as I continued with my excuses. “Maybe make a list of any goods that we take on our ship. You never know how important that might be.” My mind was racing with more possible reasons why I might need to read and write, but it always came back to understanding the letter tucked away within my room.
My brother began to nod slowly, then a little faster as the idea sunk in. “Okay,” he said as he stood up and walked to the door. “I’ll teach you reading and writing, but I get to tell the girl you marry that I taught you all my good lines.” He opened the door and walked out to the fireplace, leaned down to grab some charcoal that was dense enough to write with, then returned to me in his room. “For now, we start with charcoal. I don’t trust you with ink yet.”
From then on we spent every night in his room, learning new letters and words each time. When we ran low on candlelight, we used the moon’s light to see the parchment. If there were clouds covering the moon we’d just talk through the night, quizzing each other on spelling. If any words came up that we didn’t know how to spell, we would ask a sailor the next day at the docks. Adam and I became even closer through our world of words, while our father continued to drift further away from us, sleeping drunk on whiskey and rum in the adjacent room.
A Promise
My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear. The world became foreign, hostile and cruel. It had no place for a man thrown through time.
I was born in Hittisleigh, a small run down town in Devonshire, England. 1689 was known for its cold beginning, and one January night was colder than the rest. Winds were wild outside as my mother screamed in pain, my father at her side. My two older brothers sat in the other room, waiting to be called upon to meet me. When I was finally delivered, my mother wept as she held me. Her name was Elizabeth, my father called Stephen. A single look at my frail body wrapped in wool and my parents chose the name that would one day be placed on my tombstone. From then on, I was named Samuel Bellamy.
At first it seemed like life would continue in a positive way, but not long after my birth, my mother became ill. Her body could no longer produce milk for me, her arms becoming too weak to carry me. Eventually, her heart gave out and she passed in her sleep. After that, my father turned to whiskey and rum to subdue his emotions. My eldest brother Eric, no older than ten at the time, had to take on a lot more responsibilities than any child should be asked of. My father was in no shape to raise me, so Eric did it instead.
He would milk the neighbor's Jersey cow and pour it into a leather pouch, putting a slit in the bottom and cover it with linen to create a barrier for my tiny lips to wrap around. He dressed me in his old clothes, too large for my infant body but still better than shivering through the nights with nothing. My other brother, Adam, was merely two years older than myself but still helped out as best he could. He would talk to the cow about how big I was getting, how helpful the cow was being after mommy had gone to a better place. He even held me a couple times while I drank, telling me that he would protect me from anything evil. At least, that were the stories told to me.
My first memory was the summer of 1693 after Eric met a pretty girl named Amanda who was 15, a year older than him, a few towns over. He and our father were talking about marriage, and of course our father disapproved. He had a bottle of whiskey in his left hand, his right holding Eric’s shoulder either for support or to keep him from walking away. With a swig of his drink, our father looked straight into Eric’s eyes while the eldest stared right back.
“You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’ll let you marry.” His breath must have smelt like liquor when he spoke, for when he did, Eric’s face convulsed in visible disgust. He brushed his father’s hand off his shoulder before responding, a thing we rarely did while our father was drunk.
After clearing his throat, he once again met his father’s gaze. “It’s my life, you can’t control it.” A flash of movement happened and our father’s hands were gripping Eric’s collar hard, tightening it around his neck in an uncomfortable way. I felt the urge to intervene, but I knew I would merely get hurt in the process. With fear in my body, I just watched the fight take its course.
Through clenched teeth, our father gave his reply; “I helped bring you into this world, don’t make me take you back out.” He watched Eric very closely, expecting a very specific response from his eldest son.
“But-” Another flash and Eric was pinned up against the room wall, his pain shown through his expressions as our father held him there firmly.
The limited control our father had over his drunken anger finally stopped, and his voice became a thunder directed toward Eric’s face a mere inches away from his. “Do I make myself clear boy?”
“Yes sir.” Eric’s mumble was barely audible, but it was enough for our father to restrain himself and back away, releasing Eric from the wall. Eric felt his father’s grasp disappear from the collar of his shirt, and corrected the shirt’s position on his body before walking away. He strode with granite features masking his face, a brisk movement in his steps as he went to his room. From then on, our eldest brother rarely spoke to our father. When he did, it was always a “Yes sir,” or a “Right away, sir.” It was like the flame within Eric had been snuffed out, but in reality the fight had ignited an inferno.
A month after the fight, I had awoken in the middle of the night to the sounds of glass smashing and wood splintering. Wiping my eyes from sleep, I descended the steps of our home to find Adam at the base, staring at our father in disbelief. He had thrown bottles of whiskey around the room, shattering them against the walls and floor. The table that used to sit next to a window was now mere planks of scattered wood throughout the entire house. In the middle of the entire mess sat our father on his knees, a single bottle of rum in his hands, still intact. Beside him laid a perfect piece of parchment, somehow unharmed by the destruction our father had caused. Taking a few steps closer, I noticed it was a letter. A letter addressed to me. Adam must have noticed too, for her crossed towards it through the sea of broken glass lying upon the floor. While wincing in pain, he leaned over and picked up the letter, adamant about not disturbing our father. Once back beside me, he placed the letter in my hands and went to his room, biting back screams of pain with every step he took. For a second I just stared at the letter, wondering what it had said.
Then my legs began to work again, and I walked towards my room in a sluggish manner. Once on my bed, I scanned the parchment for anything I could make out. Eric, like he did with my other brother when Adam was four, was teaching me how to read. Sadly, I had only learned the alphabet and a few basic words. On the page I saw my name, Samuel Bellamy, written at the top. I could also make out a few scattered words like had to go and goodbye. Frustrated with how little I knew, I decided to hide the letter until I could read better. I removed a board in my bedroom floor that was loose from age. Inside, a small space could be reached. I folded the letter with timidness before placing it within the floor, then replaced the board back to its original position. I told myself I would return to the letter when I could, but for now its mysteries were left alone.
I could no longer feel the beckoning of sleep. Instead, I dressed myself and went down to Adam’s room. He was sitting on his bed wrapping his foot in linen, the glass that was once piercing his skin now on the floor speckled with blood. “I can’t sleep,” I told him as he looked up at me, noticing the awareness in my face. He nodded once and got dressed, then we both left our home through his window. We traveled down the street to the river, oil lamp posts flickering as they illuminated the cobble streets. The moon and stars shone above us, a cloudless night filled with a soft mid-summer breeze. The calm warmth lowered my alertness, and soon we were lying next to the river, looking at the moon through the ripples of water made by the fish under the surface.
“I want to see the world Samuel,” Adam said as he turned to me, a look of excitement and the hint of an inferno that was found in Eric. “I want to sail the ocean and be a captain. That’s my dream.”
I looked at him, trying to think of a good response for my older brother. “Will you take me?” I smiled as he laughed at me, his eyes closing and his feet kicking the ground lightly.
“Yeah, you can come along. I’m captain though.” he said with a small grin.
“Promise?” I looked at him, the seriousness and hope in my face clear for him to see. He sat up, looked me in the eyes, and swore an oath to me that our dream would one day come true.
“I promise, Sam.”
The Prince of Pirates: Chapter 1
My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear. The world became foreign, hostile and cruel. It had no place for a man thrown through time.
I was born in Hittisleigh, a small run down town in Devonshire, England. 1689 was known for its cold beginning, and one January night was colder than the rest. Winds were wild outside as my mother screamed in pain, my father at her side. My two older brothers sat in the other room, waiting to be called upon to meet me. When I was finally delivered, my mother wept as she held me. Her name was Elizabeth, my father called Stephen. A single look at my frail body wrapped in wool and my parents chose the name that would one day be placed on my tombstone. From then on, I was named Samuel Bellamy.
At first it seemed like life would continue in a positive way, but not long after my birth, my mother became ill. Her body could no longer produce milk for me, her arms becoming too weak to carry me. Eventually, her heart gave out and she passed in her sleep. After that, my father turned to whiskey and rum to subdue his emotions. My eldest brother Eric, no older than ten at the time, had to take on a lot more responsibilities than any child should be asked of. My father was in no shape to raise me, so Eric did it instead.
He would milk the neighbor's Jersey cow and pour it into a leather pouch, putting a slit in the bottom and cover it with linen to create a barrier for my tiny lips to wrap around. He dressed me in his old clothes, too large for my infant body but still better than shivering through the nights with nothing. My other brother, Adam, was merely two years older than myself but still helped out as best he could. He would talk to the cow about how big I was getting, how helpful the cow was being after mommy had gone to a better place. He even held me a couple times while I drank, telling me that he would protect me from anything evil. At least, that were the stories told to me.
My first memory was the summer of 1693 after Eric met a pretty girl named Amanda who was 15, a year older than him, a few towns over. He and our father were talking about marriage, and of course our father disapproved. He had a bottle of whiskey in his left hand, his right holding Eric’s shoulder either for support or to keep him from walking away. With a swig of his drink, our father looked straight into Eric’s eyes while the eldest stared right back.
“You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’ll let you marry.” His breath must have smelt like liquor when he spoke, for when he did, Eric’s face convulsed in visible disgust. He brushed his father’s hand off his shoulder before responding, a thing we rarely did while our father was drunk.
After clearing his throat, he once again met his father’s gaze. “It’s my life, you can’t control it.” A flash of movement happened and our father’s hands were gripping Eric’s collar hard, tightening it around his neck in an uncomfortable way. I felt the urge to intervene, but I knew I would merely get hurt in the process. With fear in my body, I just watched the fight take its course.
Through clenched teeth, our father gave his reply; “I helped bring you into this world, don’t make me take you back out.” He watched Eric very closely, expecting a very specific response from his eldest son.
“But-” Another flash and Eric was pinned up against the room wall, his pain shown through his expressions as our father held him there firmly.
The limited control our father had over his drunken anger finally stopped, and his voice became a thunder directed toward Eric’s face a mere inches away from his. “Do I make myself clear boy?”
“Yes sir.” Eric’s mumble was barely audible, but it was enough for our father to restrain himself and back away, releasing Eric from the wall. Eric felt his father’s grasp disappear from the collar of his shirt, and corrected the shirt’s position on his body before walking away. He strode with granite features masking his face, a brisk movement in his steps as he went to his room. From then on, our eldest brother rarely spoke to our father. When he did, it was always a “Yes sir,” or a “Right away, sir.” It was like the flame within Eric had been snuffed out, but in reality the fight had ignited an inferno.
A month after the fight, I had awoken in the middle of the night to the sounds of glass smashing and wood splintering. Wiping my eyes from sleep, I descended the steps of our home to find Adam at the base, staring at our father in disbelief. He had thrown bottles of whiskey around the room, shattering them against the walls and floor. The table that used to sit next to a window was now mere planks of scattered wood throughout the entire house. In the middle of the entire mess sat our father on his knees, a single bottle of rum in his hands, still intact. Beside him laid a perfect piece of parchment, somehow unharmed by the destruction our father had caused. Taking a few steps closer, I noticed it was a letter. A letter addressed to me. Adam must have noticed too, for he crossed towards it through the sea of broken glass lying upon the floor. While wincing in pain, he leaned over and picked up the letter, adamant about not disturbing our father. Once back beside me, he placed the letter in my hands and went to his room, biting back screams of pain with every step he took. For a second I just stared at the letter, wondering what it had said.
Then my legs began to work again, and I walked towards my room in a sluggish manner. Once on my bed, I scanned the parchment for anything I could make out. Eric, like he did with my other brother when Adam was four, was teaching me how to read. Sadly, I had only learned the alphabet and a few basic words. On the page I saw my name, Samuel Bellamy, written at the top. I could also make out a few scattered words like had to go and goodbye. Frustrated with how little I knew, I decided to hide the letter until I could read better. I removed a board in my bedroom floor that was loose from age. Inside, a small space could be reached. I folded the letter with timidness before placing it within the floor, then replaced the board back to its original position. I told myself I would return to the letter when I could, but for now its mysteries were left alone.
I could no longer feel the beckoning of sleep. Instead, I dressed myself and went down to Adam’s room. He was sitting on his bed wrapping his foot in linen, the glass that was once piercing his skin now on the floor speckled with blood. “I can’t sleep,” I told him as he looked up at me, noticing the awareness in my face. He nodded once and got dressed, then we both left our home through his window. We traveled down the street to the river, oil lamp posts flickering as they illuminated the cobble streets. The moon and stars shone above us, a cloudless night filled with a soft mid-summer breeze. The calm warmth lowered my alertness, and soon we were lying next to the river, looking at the moon through the ripples of water made by the fish under the surface.
“I want to see the world Samuel,” Adam said as he turned to me, a look of excitement and the hint of an inferno that was found in Eric. “I want to sail the ocean and be a captain. That’s my dream.”
I looked at him, trying to think of a good response for my older brother. “Will you take me?” I smiled as he laughed at me, his eyes closing and his feet kicking the ground lightly.
“Yeah, you can come along. I’m captain though.” he said with a small grin.
“Promise?” I looked at him, the seriousness and hope in my face clear for him to see. He sat up, looked me in the eyes, and swore an oath to me that our dream would one day come true.
“I promise, Sam.”
To Be Continued...
Title: The Prince of Pirates
Genre: Historical Fiction, Science Fiction
Age range: 16 - 45
Target audience: North America, Central America, Europe
Word count: 1111
Author's name: Jefferson House
Synopsis: "My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear. The world became foreign, hostile and cruel. It had no place for a man thrown through time." After losing his mother at birth, Samuel Bellamy is set on a path in his life that no one could predict. Filled with loss, blame, and a beloved to return to, Samuel must face the test of time in order to return home.
Decorative Pets
Decorative pets, such as fish in fish-tanks, do not sit well with me. It is of my belief that the concept of 'fish as pets' is emblematic of a society of restraint that tries to contain the primitive instincts of Man to the extent of castrating the natural growing process that is inherent. Those subdued guppies would more then likely grow twice their ornamental goldfish size if they were allowed the growing space of a normal sized body of water.
In this sense, Women have often fit this 'fish as pets' metaphor. They are charged with the duty of acting out the latest fantasy of the moment by media, Men, and other competitive Women. Thusly, they are trapped in the prescribed reality of the average Women who's at least mildly obsessed with fitting in. The same can be said for Men, who are encouraged by the media to embrace their role as the more violent sex.
Decorating oneself does not, in any sort of way, have to become a thing that is rigidly consistent. It seems, however, that Men, and Women are becoming more and more identical, and regimental, in their self expression, and this increases limited expectations for all.
As we descend into banality, we should make a point to take more notice in our self expression! Are we imitating the excessively traversed roads of the latest celebrity? Are we truly expressing our own desires with our outfit choices? Was RuPaul correct in saying that that "We're all born naked, and the rest is drag"? Is all clothing simply a band-aid on the bare-bones truth, or can it be a reflection of our intimate selves that we dare not express in any other way but through the medium of apparel?.........................................................................................................................................but now, back to the subject of Decorative Animals. Please don't have a pet for the sole purpose of an eye-catching display. Pets are living animals. They are not objects, and we should stop treating them, and ultimately ourselves as such.
©
2017
Bunny Villaire
Chapter 24: Rock and a Hard Place
"Please hurry," Chris pleaded. I could see he was trying to refrain from reminding Blade that someone's life was in a whole lot of danger.
Blade's calm thought that he was going as fast as he could registered in my mind, slicing through the thoughts of panic that were building up there.
Chris' face was lined with worry, his eyes clouded over with an emotion I hadn't ever seen there--fear.
I'd never seen him this way. And I've been his sister for...as long as I've lived, of course. (Which actually isn't very long.) We get along okay, and don't really talk a lot to each other, but strangely enough, I'm very tuned to his moods.
Anxiously, Ajax paced beside Blade, keeping an eye on the monitors and panels. The Solstice wouldn't last much longer under the barrage from the siege drivers. The Horror Armada was closing in through the void of deep space, and we were all scared.
"Amy's still okay, right?" I asked, nervously. I felt like my head was going to explode. I shouldn't be here. This is all wrong. Pleayus will triumph again, just as he's always done in the past. There's never anything we can do!
"As far as we know. We're the only thing that stands between Khan, Pleayus, and her," Ajax responded grimly, for once not speaking in telepathy.
That didn't help me calm down any. Amy was ultrapthic, and extremely powerful. If Khan or Pleayus got their hands on her, as they eventually would do, things would go down fast. Telepathic abilities can be moved from one mind to another, and Amy was genetically modified so her brain could allow for even more abilities than even the most powerful human Anomaly. Her genetic code would be extremely vital to Pleayus or Khan. And we couldn't let them get her.
"Oh, dear God, help us," I prayed, as I saw the Horror Armada just less than a few yards away. They were going to disintegrate us. I wasn't scared of what was after death, but the pain of death.
Ajax froze.
Not a good sign.
"My ship's great...but we're outnumbered," Ryker grudgingly admitted.
The system is very unstable, Blade informed us, sweat trickling down the side of his face. Once again, his soothing voice helped to calm me.
"Could you upset the system completely?" I asked, as an idea dawned.
Are you trying to kill me?!Blade demanded angrily.
"Make the system collapse! Then the fleets weapon systems will be brought offline..." I trailed off.
"YES!" Blade shouted.
I clamped my hands on the side of my head. "Ow, ow, ow, ow."
"Sorry!"
But he didn't really sound sorry.
We fell silent again. Below us, a bloody battle was going on between Amy and the Mikara and Khan and Pleayus' separate groups of ground forces. We knew if we couldn't get down there fast enough, Amy's side would lose. I'd never met her before, but the thought of her dying because of our delay was horrendous.
Blade was sweating profusely (as we all were) as he recklessly tramped through the system.
Ryker snapped, "Quit the grunting!"
Blade quieted, and then, suddenly, his eyes popped open, and a groan escaped him. he let his head fall into his hands as a horrendous headache overcame him.
"Are you okay?!" his sister Tempest asked anxiously from over by her gunner's position.
"Yes," he assured her in a grunt.
"We need to get out of here," Chris said, still pale.
"Put it in warp drive," Ryker instructed.
"Sure," Albany acknowledged.
I closed my eyes for a brief moment, fighting back the nausea at the thought of the blood and gore that goes with every battle we fight. I mean, I'm only fourteen. A telepathic one, but that just means the government expects more of us. At some times, the missions are pretty simple and exciting. Other times, I just want to cry. I want to wake up every morning and be able to lie around in bed, or watch TV. Or go to amusement parks and complain about school. But I can't. I don't have time for that. And now here I am, with a group of extremely powerful teens, all of whom I barely even know. Or trust, for that matter.
"Sis, get over here," Chris called, and I hurried over, shoving away my thoughts for the time being.
"Yeah?" I asked, hoping he couldn't detect the quaver in my voice.
"Suit up." He pointed to an array of different exo-suits. I choose the one that had something to cover my head. I wasn't going to take any chances with the only brain I've got.
He eyed me for a moment, before sucking in a deep breath.
"No matter what's happened in the past...I love you, sis."
I smile past the lump in my throat and the tears that threaten to flow down my cheeks, as thoughts of all the silence and mistrust between flood my mind. The words I'd always wanted to say, but never knew how to say them or how he would react to them flowed effortlessly out of my mouth. "I love you too, Chris."
He grinned, now, looking relieved. Was it possible that he'd felt the same way I had, all along?
Before I could say anything more, he strapped two long swords on his back. "Let's get out there and kick some butt."
I grinned in reply. They say there's nothing like a hard time to pull people together or rip them apart. I'm pretty sure it pulled us together.
workings & wonders
We sense things which we do not have the words or the science to explain,
but we experience them nonetheless.
I'm told it's a matter of comprehending what we already know,
and not a matter of discovering new information.
i.e. there is no mystery—only lack of understanding; lack of words and science to explain.