Skyriter1
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I'm a young Canadian writer just starting out as an author. I'm also a photojournalist for Independent Plus. 18 years old and a lot to learn
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Love has damaged me and I don't know if...
Written by Skyriter1

What Is True Love?

     Why do we love? A love is stronger than difference, stronger than negativity, stronger than any other force on this earth. That is why love can be so dangerous: because nothing is more beautiful or more cruel. 

     If hurt, your wounds will eventually heal. Yes, there may be a scar, but that scar is the only one like it in existence. No one else experienced that feeling exactly the way you did. It is a part of you, an will forever grow as you grow. 

     Love has damaged me, but I do know; it has made me stronger than before.

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Love has damaged me and I don't know if...
Written by Skyriter1
What Is True Love?

     Why do we love? A love is stronger than difference, stronger than negativity, stronger than any other force on this earth. That is why love can be so dangerous: because nothing is more beautiful or more cruel. 
     If hurt, your wounds will eventually heal. Yes, there may be a scar, but that scar is the only one like it in existence. No one else experienced that feeling exactly the way you did. It is a part of you, an will forever grow as you grow. 
     Love has damaged me, but I do know; it has made me stronger than before.
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Describe freedom in 15 words... with one caveat: you can't use the words free, freedom, freeing, freest or freer (even in the title).
Written by Skyriter1

You Know The Word

Blissful, invigorating, peaceful. It makes the world better, even though it is something everyone deserves.

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Describe freedom in 15 words... with one caveat: you can't use the words free, freedom, freeing, freest or freer (even in the title).
Written by Skyriter1
You Know The Word
Blissful, invigorating, peaceful. It makes the world better, even though it is something everyone deserves.
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Writing with Authenticity 100-300 words. No rhymes accepted.
Written by Skyriter1

Self Worth

     I understand how little I affect in this world compared to others. I'm not famous or well liked. I have little money, and even fewer things to spend it on. Moving mountains is an impossible task; I can barely lift myself out of bed sometimes. However, I do it anyway. 

     I may affect very little in the world but there are still some things that I can change, like making someone's day just a fraction better. I have the ability to be a great man known by few instead of a good man known by many. What little money I have, it can go towards future opportunities and possibilities. Moving mountains is the Earth's job; my job is to share what I know, teach what I can, and learn from others. That's what all of us can do.

     I don't kid myself in saying that I'll be the greatest at anything. Instead, I would just like to be good in everything I put my heart into. Who knows? Maybe the money from this challenge will help me fix up my car, maybe it'll go towards a new tie for that job interview in a few weeks. Or maybe it'll go towards my sister, who needs the money more than I do. What matters is that the people around you don't weigh your self worth; you do that yourself.

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Writing with Authenticity 100-300 words. No rhymes accepted.
Written by Skyriter1
Self Worth
     I understand how little I affect in this world compared to others. I'm not famous or well liked. I have little money, and even fewer things to spend it on. Moving mountains is an impossible task; I can barely lift myself out of bed sometimes. However, I do it anyway. 
     I may affect very little in the world but there are still some things that I can change, like making someone's day just a fraction better. I have the ability to be a great man known by few instead of a good man known by many. What little money I have, it can go towards future opportunities and possibilities. Moving mountains is the Earth's job; my job is to share what I know, teach what I can, and learn from others. That's what all of us can do.
     I don't kid myself in saying that I'll be the greatest at anything. Instead, I would just like to be good in everything I put my heart into. Who knows? Maybe the money from this challenge will help me fix up my car, maybe it'll go towards a new tie for that job interview in a few weeks. Or maybe it'll go towards my sister, who needs the money more than I do. What matters is that the people around you don't weigh your self worth; you do that yourself.
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Explore the concept of Silence in a poem...
Written by Skyriter1 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Nothing. And Everything

To be deaf in a world without sound,

Is it deaf, or merely profound?

The birds chirp and the wind blows,

Though nobody hears it, no one knows.

A wave on the shore can crash,

Swords can swing and slash.

Sprinters can leap and dash,

Lightning can strike in a flash.

What does it mean in a world without sound,

To be deaf whilst walking around?

In the end, my inexperience probably shows,

For silence is never heard when reading the words of Prose.

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Explore the concept of Silence in a poem...
Written by Skyriter1 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Nothing. And Everything
To be deaf in a world without sound,
Is it deaf, or merely profound?
The birds chirp and the wind blows,
Though nobody hears it, no one knows.

A wave on the shore can crash,
Swords can swing and slash.
Sprinters can leap and dash,
Lightning can strike in a flash.

What does it mean in a world without sound,
To be deaf whilst walking around?
In the end, my inexperience probably shows,
For silence is never heard when reading the words of Prose.
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Bleed For Me
Written by Skyriter1

Forgotten

     Shattered glass would have been easier to fix than the way he left my heart. I gave him everything, but it was never enough. He used and abused my attention, betrayed my love, and toyed with my body. It was like I was simply a little play thing that didn't matter, and once I outlived my usefulness I was cast away with garbage. He tore me apart, and for what? A couple nights with someone in his arms? I'm broken, crippled in a way that no one could feel affection towards me again. I was disfigured because of him, twisted and cruel in order to protect my fragile soul. I would go one alone, loved by none and cared by even fewer. 

     Who knows; maybe I'll just end it right here and fix the problem. I mean it had to have been me, right? Why else would he pretend to love me, give me false hope for a future and kids? I was too clingy, obsessive or demanding. I didn't put enough effort into the relationship, and I lost them. I must have driven him away, that's the only possible excuse.

     It's not like I was used. Human beings don't act like that. We care for one another, comfort and console. Hurting each other is idiotic, useless and blatantly necessary. We're smarter than that... Are we not? 

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Bleed For Me
Written by Skyriter1
Forgotten
     Shattered glass would have been easier to fix than the way he left my heart. I gave him everything, but it was never enough. He used and abused my attention, betrayed my love, and toyed with my body. It was like I was simply a little play thing that didn't matter, and once I outlived my usefulness I was cast away with garbage. He tore me apart, and for what? A couple nights with someone in his arms? I'm broken, crippled in a way that no one could feel affection towards me again. I was disfigured because of him, twisted and cruel in order to protect my fragile soul. I would go one alone, loved by none and cared by even fewer. 
     Who knows; maybe I'll just end it right here and fix the problem. I mean it had to have been me, right? Why else would he pretend to love me, give me false hope for a future and kids? I was too clingy, obsessive or demanding. I didn't put enough effort into the relationship, and I lost them. I must have driven him away, that's the only possible excuse.
     It's not like I was used. Human beings don't act like that. We care for one another, comfort and console. Hurting each other is idiotic, useless and blatantly necessary. We're smarter than that... Are we not? 
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Written by Skyriter1

Arm of The Law

     Her lifeless body lay in the dirt, her torso ravaged like a turkey on Thanksgiving. The sadistic pig that did this was still on the loose, and Detective Andrew Thomas felt responsible for the killer eluding the law. He was supposed to protect and save lives, but the corpse that lay rotting in front of him proved just how unfit he had become.

     This was the fourth young teen in a month, and each one had a family that missed their little girl. Sadly, she wouldn't be going back to a family safe and sound. Instead, the frail remains were placed inside a black bag and carried to the vehicle. An autopsy had to be done and quickly. The next girl's life depended on it. 

     This killer enjoyed kidnapping and toying with teenage girls before opening them up and mismatching their insides like a fucking jigsaw puzzle. Autopsy reports suggest that the girls are conscious and very alive when this happens to them, until they die from shock. Once the killer is finished having their fun, a clue is placed in one of the organs before being placed back into its original position. The bodies have no specific drop off, and they are never covered. The first was found in an alley behind a frequently open bar, the girl's body naked and decaying among the empty beer bottles and cigarette butts. The second and third were found on rooftops of apartment buildings, each one left to the elements and hungry birds to peck away at the nude flesh. Then there was this poor soul, thrown out into a ditch just off the highway leading into the city. A family of raccoons were feasting on the arms and legs when police arrived, and they didn't want to give up their free meal of skin and rotting tissue. 

     The city, Defiance, was polluted with crime. Killers were born here, raised in run-down homes with drunks for fathers and whores for mothers. There was nothing joyful or remotely good here, and the world knew it. When a body was found, there was little to do. The churches were abandoned, re-purposed as "temporary" prison cells that became all too permanent. Children wandered the streets to hide from abusive parents, broken lips bleeding from the most recent beating. Fires were started in dumpsters, broken homes all filled with hermits and wild animals. Most of the police force were either too drunk or too lazy when it came to fighting the crime. 

     The Detective was not cut from the same cloth, though. He took each loss of life personally, and would always vow to avenge it. Watching the emergency vehicle drive off towards the morgue, he rolled up the sleeve of his button-up shirt and it revealed scars from elbow to wrist. The blade at his side came out of the holster, and the steel sliced open a new wound. It was placed next to three other recent cuts, each representing the girls that were brutally murdered on his watch. Dozens of scars littered his forearm, and countless more on the other. Each one was a victim he never saved, a life he could never return home. This pushed him harder than any of his training in law enforcement, and it wasn't the first time he dealt with a serial killer. 

     Returning the cuff of his sleeve to his wrist, he glanced at the gleaming watch adorned on his other hand. 4:57. It wasn't even light out yet and the other officers were pulling out flasks, downing rum and whiskey and bourbon. Each one had a poison, but the toxic properties didn't stop them from drowning themselves in it. Every day, Thomas thought as he viewed the empty space a dead girl recently occupied. Every fucking day, I'm surrounded by retards. He returned the blade to his side, crimson blood still slick on the metal as the clip was fastened around the hilt.

    Thomas gave the ground one last glance while buttoning the cuff of his shirt, then began walking to his car. It was time to meet the body at the morgue, and see who's little girl lost her life. With a scowl on his face, the Detective also realized a dark and haunting thought. Since this girl had been found, a clue had been placed inside. That meant the next victim had already been kidnapped. If he didn't act swift and strong, another slash would be etched into his skin.

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Written by Skyriter1
Arm of The Law
     Her lifeless body lay in the dirt, her torso ravaged like a turkey on Thanksgiving. The sadistic pig that did this was still on the loose, and Detective Andrew Thomas felt responsible for the killer eluding the law. He was supposed to protect and save lives, but the corpse that lay rotting in front of him proved just how unfit he had become.
     This was the fourth young teen in a month, and each one had a family that missed their little girl. Sadly, she wouldn't be going back to a family safe and sound. Instead, the frail remains were placed inside a black bag and carried to the vehicle. An autopsy had to be done and quickly. The next girl's life depended on it. 
     This killer enjoyed kidnapping and toying with teenage girls before opening them up and mismatching their insides like a fucking jigsaw puzzle. Autopsy reports suggest that the girls are conscious and very alive when this happens to them, until they die from shock. Once the killer is finished having their fun, a clue is placed in one of the organs before being placed back into its original position. The bodies have no specific drop off, and they are never covered. The first was found in an alley behind a frequently open bar, the girl's body naked and decaying among the empty beer bottles and cigarette butts. The second and third were found on rooftops of apartment buildings, each one left to the elements and hungry birds to peck away at the nude flesh. Then there was this poor soul, thrown out into a ditch just off the highway leading into the city. A family of raccoons were feasting on the arms and legs when police arrived, and they didn't want to give up their free meal of skin and rotting tissue. 
     The city, Defiance, was polluted with crime. Killers were born here, raised in run-down homes with drunks for fathers and whores for mothers. There was nothing joyful or remotely good here, and the world knew it. When a body was found, there was little to do. The churches were abandoned, re-purposed as "temporary" prison cells that became all too permanent. Children wandered the streets to hide from abusive parents, broken lips bleeding from the most recent beating. Fires were started in dumpsters, broken homes all filled with hermits and wild animals. Most of the police force were either too drunk or too lazy when it came to fighting the crime. 
     The Detective was not cut from the same cloth, though. He took each loss of life personally, and would always vow to avenge it. Watching the emergency vehicle drive off towards the morgue, he rolled up the sleeve of his button-up shirt and it revealed scars from elbow to wrist. The blade at his side came out of the holster, and the steel sliced open a new wound. It was placed next to three other recent cuts, each representing the girls that were brutally murdered on his watch. Dozens of scars littered his forearm, and countless more on the other. Each one was a victim he never saved, a life he could never return home. This pushed him harder than any of his training in law enforcement, and it wasn't the first time he dealt with a serial killer. 
     Returning the cuff of his sleeve to his wrist, he glanced at the gleaming watch adorned on his other hand. 4:57. It wasn't even light out yet and the other officers were pulling out flasks, downing rum and whiskey and bourbon. Each one had a poison, but the toxic properties didn't stop them from drowning themselves in it. Every day, Thomas thought as he viewed the empty space a dead girl recently occupied. Every fucking day, I'm surrounded by retards. He returned the blade to his side, crimson blood still slick on the metal as the clip was fastened around the hilt.
    Thomas gave the ground one last glance while buttoning the cuff of his shirt, then began walking to his car. It was time to meet the body at the morgue, and see who's little girl lost her life. With a scowl on his face, the Detective also realized a dark and haunting thought. Since this girl had been found, a clue had been placed inside. That meant the next victim had already been kidnapped. If he didn't act swift and strong, another slash would be etched into his skin.
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You become what you think about.
Written by Skyriter1

How Often?

     There are 24 hours, 1440 minutes, or 86400 seconds in a day. Humans are creatures of habit, and we repeat our standard day-to-day plan. How often are we given opportunities to change and improve, but turn them down? How often do people enter our lives and we don't appreciate them? At a young age we run around and play, scream and shout, eat whenever we get the chance, and sleep every other moment. Sadly, one we've reached a certain age, we lose that sense of freedom and beautiful chaos. We are lulled into a specific routine; that routine controls who we become and what we do.

     How often are there those lucky few that break from the common, and thrust towards the unheard of and unspoken? Those people are viewed as outcast or wrong, until there are drones of society following their lead. Change is uncertainty, and humankind does not enjoy the sensation of being uncertain. We've been desensitized to how change can be a promising and beautiful thing, just as how we saw it while mere children. Chaos has its own beauty, its own rhythm. How often to we acknowledge what we have in our life, and realize how plentiful it is.

     How often do we stop during those 86400 seconds, 1440 minutes, or 24 hours and accept how gifted each and every person is? The answer is not enough.

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You become what you think about.
Written by Skyriter1
How Often?
     There are 24 hours, 1440 minutes, or 86400 seconds in a day. Humans are creatures of habit, and we repeat our standard day-to-day plan. How often are we given opportunities to change and improve, but turn them down? How often do people enter our lives and we don't appreciate them? At a young age we run around and play, scream and shout, eat whenever we get the chance, and sleep every other moment. Sadly, one we've reached a certain age, we lose that sense of freedom and beautiful chaos. We are lulled into a specific routine; that routine controls who we become and what we do.
     How often are there those lucky few that break from the common, and thrust towards the unheard of and unspoken? Those people are viewed as outcast or wrong, until there are drones of society following their lead. Change is uncertainty, and humankind does not enjoy the sensation of being uncertain. We've been desensitized to how change can be a promising and beautiful thing, just as how we saw it while mere children. Chaos has its own beauty, its own rhythm. How often to we acknowledge what we have in our life, and realize how plentiful it is.
     How often do we stop during those 86400 seconds, 1440 minutes, or 24 hours and accept how gifted each and every person is? The answer is not enough.
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Written by Skyriter1

Predicting One's Death

          I've always known my father as a noble man. He wasn't violent or full of rage, and everyone that met him would never think of doing him harm. Now that I'm old enough, I know that life loves to fuck with your emotions.

          I remember being in a dream about flying through the clouds when I was jolted from my sleep. I can still hear my thoughts like they were moments ago; My dad is so mad. I stared wide-eyed at him, and his sweat dripped down his pale face. I can feel the worry creep into my bones as questions ran through my mind. He just woke me up, and he said "I got a bad feeling about my life." His voice cracked as I looked up at him, fear choking his throat like a noose on a convict's neck.

          "Dad, everything is fine," I get out of my bed slowly and began to dress myself. "How bout we take you to the hospital and see if we can figure out what's wrong?" I tried to be brave like the doctors told me, but when he picked up and chucked my lava lamp across the room shattering the glass, I lost any sense of calm.

          The visual fear in his face grew, like a roaring thunder it burst from him as he wailed and screamed. "You don't give a damn about me! You've always hated me, you little prick!" His fear transformed into something I hadn't seen from my father before, and for a moment the man standing in front of me no longer resembled the man I called Dad. The phone on my nightstand was inches from my fingers as I raised my other hand between him and I.

          "You need to take your pills Dad, they'll help you calm down," I was absolutely terrified at this point, and I couldn't do anything about it. Not yet anyway. My hand had slipped around the phone and was now slowly pressing the numbers deliberately. My father realized the tone of each button and looked at me with pain, like he had been betrayed.

          "9-1-1? Really?" The next few seconds happened slowly than any other moment in my life. The operator had begun her rehearsed line, the same one that gets said every time I had to call. This time I never got a chance to respond. The man in front of me that had once been my father was drawing a gun from behind his back, tucked away in his waistband in case he ever needed it. My breath caught in my throat as I looked into the barrel. I could have sworn I saw the bullet leave the chamber and pierce my body, but how could I have? By the time I hit the ground, I was unconscious.

          The operator was screaming into the phone, trying to get a response, but a second shot went off. My father's lifeless body slumped against the wall, his brains decorating the walls. That was the last time my dad complained about his life, and the one time he ruined mine.

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Written by Skyriter1
Predicting One's Death
          I've always known my father as a noble man. He wasn't violent or full of rage, and everyone that met him would never think of doing him harm. Now that I'm old enough, I know that life loves to fuck with your emotions.
          I remember being in a dream about flying through the clouds when I was jolted from my sleep. I can still hear my thoughts like they were moments ago; My dad is so mad. I stared wide-eyed at him, and his sweat dripped down his pale face. I can feel the worry creep into my bones as questions ran through my mind. He just woke me up, and he said "I got a bad feeling about my life." His voice cracked as I looked up at him, fear choking his throat like a noose on a convict's neck.
          "Dad, everything is fine," I get out of my bed slowly and began to dress myself. "How bout we take you to the hospital and see if we can figure out what's wrong?" I tried to be brave like the doctors told me, but when he picked up and chucked my lava lamp across the room shattering the glass, I lost any sense of calm.
          The visual fear in his face grew, like a roaring thunder it burst from him as he wailed and screamed. "You don't give a damn about me! You've always hated me, you little prick!" His fear transformed into something I hadn't seen from my father before, and for a moment the man standing in front of me no longer resembled the man I called Dad. The phone on my nightstand was inches from my fingers as I raised my other hand between him and I.
          "You need to take your pills Dad, they'll help you calm down," I was absolutely terrified at this point, and I couldn't do anything about it. Not yet anyway. My hand had slipped around the phone and was now slowly pressing the numbers deliberately. My father realized the tone of each button and looked at me with pain, like he had been betrayed.
          "9-1-1? Really?" The next few seconds happened slowly than any other moment in my life. The operator had begun her rehearsed line, the same one that gets said every time I had to call. This time I never got a chance to respond. The man in front of me that had once been my father was drawing a gun from behind his back, tucked away in his waistband in case he ever needed it. My breath caught in my throat as I looked into the barrel. I could have sworn I saw the bullet leave the chamber and pierce my body, but how could I have? By the time I hit the ground, I was unconscious.
          The operator was screaming into the phone, trying to get a response, but a second shot went off. My father's lifeless body slumped against the wall, his brains decorating the walls. That was the last time my dad complained about his life, and the one time he ruined mine.
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Chapter 6 of The Prince of Pirates
Written by Skyriter1

Chapter 6: Provincetown (Part1)

          The port was trickling with few people as the merchant ship lowered its sails. Life flowed off the deck beside me, goods being dropped off at the port. It was an important place in my stops of adventure, a settlement positioned on the crest of Cape Cod Bay. I say this because of what happened there, and how it changed my life forever.

          The bag on my shoulder contained my only belongings; a few pieces of clothing, a pouch full of shillings and other forms of currency from docks The Britannia had stopped at, and Eric’s letter to me. My coat flapped in the afternoon winds as I took a step onto the docks of Provincetown. I had retired from the Royal Navy, my 25th year on this earth sparking a need to see the world for what it really was. I was now a mere commoner, my service over.

          I asked one of the shop owners about a place to drink and look for rest, and was given directions to the town's tavern, so I made my trek there. Cobble streets marked my path, carriages and carts moving alongside me. The sun fell lower in the sky, most shops closing up as the vendors went home to eat with their families.

         The town was very different compared to Hittisleigh in England. Provincetown was cleaner, for starters. Even the few stray dogs I had seen around were healthier than Scotch during his life. Flickering flames illuminated the streets and buildings in an orange glow, the wick and embers kept safe in their glass lamps high upon black poles of metal. The evening sun dipped lower as time passed, Provincetown shifting from a pearl-white spectacle into dark alleys and shifty characters roaming around.

          I noticed the tavern from a few buildings away, its familiar music dancing through the air and drunken sailors flowing in and out the door. Outside, clearly reached his limit of drinks, sat an elderly man mumbling about his past glory. He rambled about cannon fire and sword fights, strange tales of vanishing ships and undead crew. I laughed and left him to his stories, and entered the tavern doors.

          The ballads of music intensified, engulfing me as I entered. Sailors and young men filled the building, looking to relax and have a good time. A corner of the crowd caught my attention: men throwing daggers at a board and betting on their accuracy. Naturally, I was drawn to that corner. Gambling was my one and only vice, and it beckoned me like a moth to flame. It wasn’t long until the crowd of people within the tavern watched in awe at my talents and skill. One after another, men would step up and challenge me. Not long after, they’d leave the tavern with empty pockets and a sour expression on their faces.

          One poor soul couldn’t even hold the dagger properly, his feeble hands shaking in anticipation. His voice was hoarse and high, a shrill pierce through the tavern’s joyful ruckus. “Good evening sir,” his shaken voice matched the twitching of his hands. As they shook more, his speech broke with it. “I go by Mr. Williams, but my friends call me Palgrave.” He outstretched his hand in an attempt to greet me. “What do they call you?”

          I smirked, took his hand and shook it. Then my hand snatched the dagger from his clumsy grasp and whipped it towards the target, the tempered steel making a soft whistle as it flew through the air and penetrated the wooden board. “Samuel Bellamy.” My voice came out strong and hearty, easily heard throughout the tavern. There were glances of admiration and also fear. The tales of my service in the English Navy must have fluttered to America based on the way these sailors looked at me.

          “Well Mr. Bellamy, I have a proposition for you,” Palgrave began to ramble on about looking for a crew without a purpose to aid him in finding adventure. I continued to throw daggers while giving him only a portion of my attention. “You see, I’ve reached the age where want to actually live my life. I want to find a treasure lost to most and become renowned for-.”

          I scoffed, my attention now fully on him as the final dagger left my hand and pierced the board right next to the others. “You speak of piracy. Are you sure that’s the life you want?” I looked into his eyes, curious to see what I could find out about his determination. “It’s bloody, and reckless, and probably damn well get you killed.” He took a gulp of air, then sent his head into a feverish nod. Suddenly, through the crowds of sailors and wenches, a door had swung open to reveal the kitchen and a young woman working within. She was washing the dishes, her bronze hair tied back with the occasional curl falling around her face. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks, and her eyes were a deep blue like the ocean waves at night. The door closed and all other sounds around me were cut out.

          I began walking towards that door, an urge I had never felt before pushing me to see that girl again. A hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back to reality and where I was. The burly hand belonged to the large man that had sat close to the door of the tavern. Scrawling ink traveled along his biceps like waves crashing against a shore. His eyes pierced my thoughts in a way I had not seen in a long time. “Commoners aren’t allowed behind the bar, ‘les you want to start something?” His voice reminded me of thunder before a harsh storm.

          “I’m looking for the name of that stunning beauty in the kitchen,” I returned, my voice easily weaker in comparison to his. “Do you know her?”

          His laugh boomed over the crowd, at which point they had dulled their noise and music to watch this event unfold in front of them. “Know her?” His eyes bore into me, and the grin on his face was replaced by a gnarl of teeth. “She’s my daughter.” His size grew as it dawned in my mind how much of a fool I had made of myself. What kind of man would want his daughter to know a sailor that throws daggers and gambles? “Now I think it’s best you leave my tavern, and keep a safe distance away from her. Understand, boy?” His large arms unfolded from in front of his chest and an index finger was firmly shoved at my chest, pushing me hard enough to make me take a step backwards.

          “Yes sir, I understand,” I returned to the table where I had placed my coat and hat, adorned them, and then walked back to the gentleman at the door. “Good evening, and goodnight.” I bowed my head as I passed, not sure what else I could do in the situation. If I fought the man, I certainly wouldn’t get to meet the beautiful girl I saw. So I merely walked away, not resorting to violence. The door swung shut behind me and the music went back to its booming ways, my presence not missed. 

           Outside, the elderly man was fast asleep on the ground. His stories had been replaced with snoring and a soft whistling from his nose. I tilted my head up, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. After letting it all out, I opened my eyes and looked up at the night sky. After ten years of sailing, I knew each constellation off by heart. Turning slightly to the right, I saw the dragon rearing its head up in the sky. I could spot Orion and the two bears within the stars, each there for a purpose. They mesmerized me every night, especially tonight. I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts, I didn’t hear her walk up to me.

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Chapter 6 of The Prince of Pirates
Written by Skyriter1
Chapter 6: Provincetown (Part1)
          The port was trickling with few people as the merchant ship lowered its sails. Life flowed off the deck beside me, goods being dropped off at the port. It was an important place in my stops of adventure, a settlement positioned on the crest of Cape Cod Bay. I say this because of what happened there, and how it changed my life forever.
          The bag on my shoulder contained my only belongings; a few pieces of clothing, a pouch full of shillings and other forms of currency from docks The Britannia had stopped at, and Eric’s letter to me. My coat flapped in the afternoon winds as I took a step onto the docks of Provincetown. I had retired from the Royal Navy, my 25th year on this earth sparking a need to see the world for what it really was. I was now a mere commoner, my service over.
          I asked one of the shop owners about a place to drink and look for rest, and was given directions to the town's tavern, so I made my trek there. Cobble streets marked my path, carriages and carts moving alongside me. The sun fell lower in the sky, most shops closing up as the vendors went home to eat with their families.
         The town was very different compared to Hittisleigh in England. Provincetown was cleaner, for starters. Even the few stray dogs I had seen around were healthier than Scotch during his life. Flickering flames illuminated the streets and buildings in an orange glow, the wick and embers kept safe in their glass lamps high upon black poles of metal. The evening sun dipped lower as time passed, Provincetown shifting from a pearl-white spectacle into dark alleys and shifty characters roaming around.
          I noticed the tavern from a few buildings away, its familiar music dancing through the air and drunken sailors flowing in and out the door. Outside, clearly reached his limit of drinks, sat an elderly man mumbling about his past glory. He rambled about cannon fire and sword fights, strange tales of vanishing ships and undead crew. I laughed and left him to his stories, and entered the tavern doors.
          The ballads of music intensified, engulfing me as I entered. Sailors and young men filled the building, looking to relax and have a good time. A corner of the crowd caught my attention: men throwing daggers at a board and betting on their accuracy. Naturally, I was drawn to that corner. Gambling was my one and only vice, and it beckoned me like a moth to flame. It wasn’t long until the crowd of people within the tavern watched in awe at my talents and skill. One after another, men would step up and challenge me. Not long after, they’d leave the tavern with empty pockets and a sour expression on their faces.
          One poor soul couldn’t even hold the dagger properly, his feeble hands shaking in anticipation. His voice was hoarse and high, a shrill pierce through the tavern’s joyful ruckus. “Good evening sir,” his shaken voice matched the twitching of his hands. As they shook more, his speech broke with it. “I go by Mr. Williams, but my friends call me Palgrave.” He outstretched his hand in an attempt to greet me. “What do they call you?”
          I smirked, took his hand and shook it. Then my hand snatched the dagger from his clumsy grasp and whipped it towards the target, the tempered steel making a soft whistle as it flew through the air and penetrated the wooden board. “Samuel Bellamy.” My voice came out strong and hearty, easily heard throughout the tavern. There were glances of admiration and also fear. The tales of my service in the English Navy must have fluttered to America based on the way these sailors looked at me.
          “Well Mr. Bellamy, I have a proposition for you,” Palgrave began to ramble on about looking for a crew without a purpose to aid him in finding adventure. I continued to throw daggers while giving him only a portion of my attention. “You see, I’ve reached the age where want to actually live my life. I want to find a treasure lost to most and become renowned for-.”
          I scoffed, my attention now fully on him as the final dagger left my hand and pierced the board right next to the others. “You speak of piracy. Are you sure that’s the life you want?” I looked into his eyes, curious to see what I could find out about his determination. “It’s bloody, and reckless, and probably damn well get you killed.” He took a gulp of air, then sent his head into a feverish nod. Suddenly, through the crowds of sailors and wenches, a door had swung open to reveal the kitchen and a young woman working within. She was washing the dishes, her bronze hair tied back with the occasional curl falling around her face. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks, and her eyes were a deep blue like the ocean waves at night. The door closed and all other sounds around me were cut out.
          I began walking towards that door, an urge I had never felt before pushing me to see that girl again. A hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back to reality and where I was. The burly hand belonged to the large man that had sat close to the door of the tavern. Scrawling ink traveled along his biceps like waves crashing against a shore. His eyes pierced my thoughts in a way I had not seen in a long time. “Commoners aren’t allowed behind the bar, ‘les you want to start something?” His voice reminded me of thunder before a harsh storm.
          “I’m looking for the name of that stunning beauty in the kitchen,” I returned, my voice easily weaker in comparison to his. “Do you know her?”
          His laugh boomed over the crowd, at which point they had dulled their noise and music to watch this event unfold in front of them. “Know her?” His eyes bore into me, and the grin on his face was replaced by a gnarl of teeth. “She’s my daughter.” His size grew as it dawned in my mind how much of a fool I had made of myself. What kind of man would want his daughter to know a sailor that throws daggers and gambles? “Now I think it’s best you leave my tavern, and keep a safe distance away from her. Understand, boy?” His large arms unfolded from in front of his chest and an index finger was firmly shoved at my chest, pushing me hard enough to make me take a step backwards.
          “Yes sir, I understand,” I returned to the table where I had placed my coat and hat, adorned them, and then walked back to the gentleman at the door. “Good evening, and goodnight.” I bowed my head as I passed, not sure what else I could do in the situation. If I fought the man, I certainly wouldn’t get to meet the beautiful girl I saw. So I merely walked away, not resorting to violence. The door swung shut behind me and the music went back to its booming ways, my presence not missed. 
           Outside, the elderly man was fast asleep on the ground. His stories had been replaced with snoring and a soft whistling from his nose. I tilted my head up, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. After letting it all out, I opened my eyes and looked up at the night sky. After ten years of sailing, I knew each constellation off by heart. Turning slightly to the right, I saw the dragon rearing its head up in the sky. I could spot Orion and the two bears within the stars, each there for a purpose. They mesmerized me every night, especially tonight. I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts, I didn’t hear her walk up to me.
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Famous First Words: Write a great opening line to a novel.
Written by Skyriter1

The Prince of Pirates

 My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear.

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Famous First Words: Write a great opening line to a novel.
Written by Skyriter1
The Prince of Pirates
 My life was easier in 1717, but that damn storm took everything I ever held dear.
4
0
2
Juice
48 reads
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