Fortnightly Writing Competition: Pirates! (Results)

[Sinitrena]

Pirates!

They come out of the mist, rob unsuspecting trading vessels, they fight in the rig and on the deck, they are the sexy guys in the bodice ripper or the drinking buddies in adventure games. Well, the romanticised carribean type pirates are, but for this competition I'll accept all kinds of buccaneers and pirates: the guys in ancient Rome who famously took Caesar hostage once, or the swashbuckling carribean ones; modern day pirates off the african coast or even future ones in space. (Digital pirates are also acceptable, at least in your stories.)

Your task is to write a story about pirates or some form of piracy, set in any time period or reality. As always, you have two weeks to get your stories in.

Deadline: 1. February 2021

[Sinitrena]

Only a week left. Anyone up to the challange?

[WHAM]

Wait, why do I only see this thread now?
I could have sworn I checked out several times last week to see if a new one was up and didn't see it!

In any case: YARR, HARR, FIDDLE-DE-DEE! BEING A PIRATE IS ALRIGHT TO ME! DO WHAT YOU WANT 'CAUSE A PIRATE IS FREE! YOU ARE A PIRATE!

[Sinitrena]

Wait, why do I only see this thread now?
I could have sworn I checked out several times last week to see if a new one was up and didn't see it!

Spontaneous case of selective blindness?  No idea, I even linked it in the last thread, in a post you answered to, so I really don't know.

But a week is still a lot of time to write (and deadlines are flexible.)

[WHAM]

Plenty of time, now I just need a good idea. Most of my stories are written in a single frantic evening, if the creative mood strikes. Usually if I fail to finish the "chapter" in an evening, I kind of drift away from the idea and it all falls apart.

Definitely going to try something here, though!

[WHAM]

Story almost ready. Going to try and coax a friend to give it a read, since I can never spot my own mistakes in time, and will post it once I've had a bit of proofreading done.

[Creamy]

I tried something.

A dreadfull night to be ashore

The full moon illuminates the beach. No gust of wind dampens the air. It won't be long before someone spots us. The tide will be against us.

Waves lap softly against our feet, taunting us with every flow. The repairs drag on. Our hopes to finish the caulking before dawn dwindle. Our chances of survival too. Nobody dares speaking because we all know that. The villagers will be against us.

We kidnapped their wives and children, slaughtered their eldest just a few months ago. Most of them were fishing at sea during the ransack. Yet we certainly missed someone who'll recognize us. What were the chances of being washed up on that same island? Odds will be against us.

We lost Morgan in the storm and he's not coming back for us. A mere dozen freebooters won't be enough to scare the villagers. Much less with quenched powder.
What's that noise? Leaves rustling...an animal hopefully. It's not an animal. Gods are against us.

It cannot be otherwise if there's a semblance of justice. Her eyes. The frenzy. The taste of blood.

Little dots of fire puncture the horizon, slowly gravitating towards us. They taste of blood too.

Poor Emily. You would not have let me do that. I've been so mad since you left.

Our small crew shimmers silently. The sky was furious last evening. We had a respite in the night but the rage comes back in another form. Why do they come so close?! Too much light! Too much noise! The torches are blinding! The souls of ancestors gaze and linger in the fumes. Have mercy! Am I already dead? When did I lose my sanity? Is that her in the tumult?

"Fear no more Andreas. Tonight, I'll be lying against you."

[Mandle]

The Hull Is Broke, Ye All Despair.

Fifteen leagues out of Justice Port,
The Salty Lad handed his report,
To the Master of our ship that bore,
Her worrisome name, "The Lost Lenore".

Now the Master was the classic type,
His scowl projecting through the pipe,
He squinted over as its sparks boiled out,
And, as he puffed, the sailors shout:

"The hull is broke, ye all despair,
There ain't no comin' back from there,
She's layin' a hair over pitch,
The Lenore is a salty bitch."

Report was read by Master and sort,
And read as much as this, in short:
"Pirates be around, it's sure.
Hug yer bounty close to shore."

The Master clapped The Salty Lad's back,
And said "In any case of an attack,
Make sure me pipe is fully loaded.",
While, below the sailors goaded:

"The hull is broke, ye all despair,
There ain't no comin' back from there,
She's layin' a tad far over pitch,
The Lenore is a salty bitch."

Riggin's rose and canvas bloom'd,
The Lost Lenore sliced to her doom,
A pirate mast peeked unseen,
Hidden by the flash of green.

The Master left for rum and Lenore,
And to spark and puff his pipe some more,
While below iron rivets broke,
And, up on deck, the sailors spoke:

"The hull is broke, ye all despair,
There ain't no comin' back from there,
She's layin' too far over pitch,
The Lenore is a salty bitch."

The Salty Lad stared at the door,
From which his Master nevermore,
Would rise and lead his crew,
Although, this, the Lad never knew.

For, The Lost Lenore, finally tipped,
From her deck, the Lad lost his grip.
The lady curtsied and showed her tail,
While all the while the sailors wail:

"The hull is broke, ye all despair,
There ain't no comin' back from there,
She's turned all over on pitch,
The Lenore is a salty bitch."

Snatched from a drunken musing,
His face on fire from the fusing,
Of his pipe with his beard, which was fuming,
The Master fought through the foaming looming,

Of the wave that invaded his cabin,
But then the door burst and in,
A moment his proud pipe and life went out,
The last thing he heard was a pirate shout:

"Your hull is broke, ye all despair,
You ain't never comin' back from there,
She's gone, capsized.
The Lost Lenore is now our prize."

The wooden world of The Lost Lenore,
Clippered her page into pirate lore,
The only ship they'd ever got,
By never firing a single shot.

And, on foggy nights,
When the moon rides bright,
Over those fateful waves,
Her sailors sing from their briny graves:

"Her hull is broke, ye all despair,
We ain't ever comin' back from there,
All hands on deck in the never-more,
Goodbye, farewell, The Lost Lenore."

[WHAM]

The Darkest Storm

The weather worn brass skull grinned, as if taking delight in the distress it was witnessing in the distance.It gazed upon the almost perfectly white sands and lush green jungle of the nameless island not too far in the distance. Upon that sand one could spy, through a magnifying looking glass, how men hurriedly rushed from side to side, their bright blue coats and silvery sabers forming a flurry of colour and motion, as sand barriers were erected, stones and felled jungle trees dragged, and dismounted cannons laboriously hauled onto whatever elevated position the men could find.

Isabella placed her hand upon the dome of that brass skull, which adorned the tip of the fore topmast with its wicked grin and hollow eyes, as she steadied herself high up above the sails and the black flag, and the bustling deck of the pirate ship beneath her. The Grinning Ghost, her ship, had taken a fair beating of her own in the freak storm that had interrupted the chase and battle during the previous day, but despite the brief frustration of having lost her quarry in the stormswept night, she had managed to track down her prey once more. Whether her crew had sailed her there on purpose, or if she’d been sent crashing to her doom by the storms wind and waves, a shallow bay had become a trap for the imperial galleon along with her soldiers and sailors, her bottom hopelessly stuck on the rocks and sand and her hull cast at an unnatural angle, as if teetering on the edge of rolling onto its side like an all-too-playful dog.

Isabella smiled as she watched her helpless prey make a pretence of hardening their defences on the flat beach. The untold wealth still hidden beneath the tilted decks of the Garra de Acero would make for a fine prize, and her captain would make for an even finer trophy when Isabella would haul him, bound and gagged, to be ransomed back to the empire. A small rowboat had turned away from the beach after sitting atop the lazy waves for a long moment. Isabella had heard faint voices and shouts carried across the water, but had not been able to make out the exact words of the inevitable argument. She tucked the spyglass into her broad leather belt and gave the brass skull a pat on the head for good luck, before taking to the rope ladder and heading down to the deck once more.

As her boots hit the polished deck of the Grinning Ghost, Isabella straightened her back and raised her gaze to the approaching boat, for a moment abandoning her almost playful manner of movement and adopting a firmer appearance more suited for a captain. Her hand rose to adjust the angle of her glorious tricorn hat, formed of stiff crimson cloth and decorated with three colourful feathers of exotic birds, its edges detailed with glimmering gold thread. The glint of her emerald edes, set upon a narrow and unlined face, the rich tan of which was further accentuated by the shadows cast by the ships great sails, was enough to let any sailor working the deck know full well what was on her mind in that moment: untold fame and glory.

“Ahoy!” -came a call, the boisterous and booming voice of a man, echoing across the slowly rolling waves, startling off a few of the seabirds which had perched themselves upon the railings of the pirate ship. Isabella smiled and held up her hand in greeting. She called back, stepping up to the railing as sailors rushed to her side with hooks and rope ladders to welcome the returning negotiation party back. “Ahoy Strong Thomas! I trust the imperials sent you back with warmest of words!” -she called out over the bustle, as the boat and the sailors were lifted up to the deck.

The large man stood in the rowboat as it rose, its wooden frame seemingly tiny beneath his muscular, shirtless frame. He was paler than most, his head and chest shaven, both covered with tattoos depicting betentacled horrors of oceanic lore. He laughed at the question. It was a unique laugh, one filled with both lively mirth and an underlying threat, like distant cannonfire given a human voice. “Warmer than warm!” -he called out in return as he stepped up onto the railing and crossed, his boots slamming into the deck beneath his fearsome bulk. “Fiery might better describe them. ‘No surrender and no deal’, he says. The prideful bastard will die with every last one of his men, rather than give up the Empress’ prize! Whatever they carry, it must be good. Better than we’d hoped, I’m sure!”

Isabella had expected no less from the Imperial captain. The negotiation party had been less a matter of honour and righteousness, and more a matter of observation and espionage. As the large man swept salty spray and sweat off his brow, the three sailors accompanying him boarded as well and rejoined the crew. Isabella stepped back to await the rest of his report. His grin was almost as bright as hers, a shared excitement, like arcs of electricity in the air between them. The two great pirates clearly shared the same sensation of impending accomplishment. “Three cannons they’ve dragged to the beach so far. The others are scattered, some stuck in the sand, some stuck inside the ship.” Thomas has a good eye for detail, and was trusted to spot any traps or tricks. “The tilt of her hull is too great...” The large man turned and gestured with his hand to the beleaguered galleon. “...her guns can either shoot for the sun, or at the crabs in the shallows, nothing more. I think they will try to prop up their three guns with logs, to gain some range, but the ground is too unstable for more than a single shot. The soldiers and sailors are desperate, and know they cannot hope to hold out for long if we begin our attack.” Isabella nodded, her eyes sweeping the vast beach in the distance. Strong Thomas had confirmed her belief that the battle was as good as won. She could order the cannons to fire at any time, finish off the galleons' defences and annihilate the stubborn defenders on the beach. Atop its tilted mast, the Garra de Acero still flew the red and blue flag of the empire. Defiant to the end.

“You gave them our demand?” -she quizzed, sounding as relaxed as a sailor on the second day of shore leave. “Aye.” Strong Thomas replied with a nod of his own. “Three hours from midday, and not a minute longer. If the white flag does not fly by then, they will have sealed their fate.”

Isabella felt like laughing, but she held her mirth and instead gazed up at the sky. Only a few tendrils of wispy white clouds crept along the vast blue, where the sun was steadily climbing towards the apex of its travel. A far cry from the fearsome storm of the previous evening. “Come, you four!” -she called out, skipping on her feet so that her boots thumped on the boards of the deck. “Your throats must be dry from the rowing and the negotiating. A drink to each, but only one for now! There is work left to be done this day, before we truly celebrate!”

-

On the beach the imperial men dragged another cannon out of the water and onto the sand. Water spilled from its barrel, along with a single confused crab, and it would take time and effort to clear out the mess inside. A sergeant cursed and spat on the white sand, while the sailors sank to their knees, exhausted from their effort, their muscles burning and their hands raw from handling the coarse rope.

A blind man could see the, through the skin of their forehead, the nature of their plight. Their ship was helpless, their armaments practically non-existent, and the terrain trapped them in an open killing field of flat sand, with the sea to their fore and the dense, unknowable jungle at their back. The officers had to shout and curse to order their men into the trees to hack down trunks to be turned into hasty barricades and gun platforms, for the sailors complained of feeling ill at ease near the trees. There was an eerie quiet there, and the sensation of being watched.

The young boy working as the carpenters assistant had said he’d heard whispered voices in the shadows, but his report was laughed off in nervous tones. And yet, a minute later, each and every soldier within earshot had touched the grips on their blades and pistols for comfort and assurance.

-

Isabella stepped out onto the deck once more, tilting her head to relieve strain on her neck before gazing up at the sky once more. The clouds had multiplied, darker and denser now, and she worried another freak storm might be about to manifest. It would be a disgrace for the Grinning Ghost to end up trapped on the beach along her prey, so she had ordered lookouts to keep an eye not only on the imperials on the beach, but also the weather on the horizon. She had time, and could afford to peel off and find shelter, rather than let her precious ship be smashed into the nameless island. There was but an hour to the deadline, and she could see the movement on the beach had not ceased, as the poor wretches set up their desperate defence.

A gunshot rang out from the direction of the island, echoing in the bay. The pirates froze in place, their work halted, as each man and woman turned their head to see and to hear. Isabella frowned, wondering if the men on the beach had turned so desperate they were firing their rifles in the hopes of reaching her ship, or perhaps there was mutiny among the imperials? That would make her work much easier. She stepped up to the railing once more and took out her looking glass just as a great flock of birds took flight from somewhere in the jungle, forming a living shadow in the sky, which dispersed with the swelling wind.

Things on the beach looked different now. The barricades erected were manned by stern men in sharp uniforms, rifles and sabers at the ready, but all Isabella could see of them was their backs. There seemed to be confusion, orders being barked, groups being rushed off to somewhere unseen.

“A ship!” -came a call from one of the lookouts, the second wholly unexpected turn of events. “A bloody what!?” -Isabella called out instinctively, her eyes scanning for the lookout who’d called out the warning. The odds of another ship being here were astronomical, but if the imperials had somehow called for help, she might well find her crew in deep trouble. She rushed to the bow of the ship, to the side of the lookout who had raised the alarm. The young man gave her a baffled look, then gestured at a spot in the distance. Isabella could see it too, even without the looking glass: not really a ship, but some kind of boat built of hollowed out tree trunks, carved branches and propelled forward by a dozen bowed figures working flat oars in perfect unison. As the sound of more gunshots echoed from the beach, that one native boat of unknown origin was joined by another, emerging from beyond the line of trees that reached the shore at the edge of the bay. “Locals?” -Isabella murmured, and her lookout shrugged. They hadn’t seen a single sign of life on the island until now. Two boats became four, and four became twelve, and as each new boat emerged, their black-skinned crews adorned with bright white stripes of warpaint began to chant and sing as they rowed toward the pirate ship, great black clouds forming in the sky behind them as the wind unpredictably picked up, as if summoned by their song.

On the beach a cannon fired, a crack and a fiery roar splitting the world as a great ball of metal was hurled into the jungle where it shattered trees and more. There were screams and shouts in the distance, and more chanting and singing. Isabella glanced at the beach and could see swarms of the natives emerging onto the beach, hundreds and hundreds again, catching the imperials by surprise.

“Sound the alarm!” -Isabella cried out, snapping out of the unreal sensation that had momentarily chilled her insides, to rile up her crew and drive them to action. “Raise the anchor and sail, you bastards! Sail! Now!”

Men dashed into action, working the ropes and the sails, the quartermaster handing out rifles from below the deck, while the pirates rushed up and down the decks, each with a place to be and a task to perform. Grunts and shouts rang out as men worked the chains and began to raise the anchor, allowing the ship to move free once more. Isabella found herself nearly slipping off her feet as the deck beneath her lurched unpredictably, a foul wind swirling above and catching the ill-prepared sails so that they snapped and whipped wildly, like biting snakes in a frenzy. A sailor was knocked off above, and he fell with a scream followed by a splash as he hit water.

“Man overboard!” The voice was familiar, and Isabella knew without looking that Strong Thomas was rushing to the aid of the poor soul.

The black clouds had reached the sun, and a vast shadow crept across the deck of the Grinning Ghost. The shouts and gunshots from the beach had become erratic now, as the imperial line shattered and the men waded into the water to escape their unexpected doom. Isabella caught the railing with her hands and craned her neck to see the approaching war boats. She could see black faces and white teeth and wicked grins, and the singing was fast becoming an overwhelming wall of noise. She couldn’t make out words. A few of her sailors had managed to bring up their rifles to the bow and were firing wildly at the approaching boats. Arrows were flinged back at them by native bowmen with terrifying accuracy, as the inhabitants of the nameless island eagerly proved themselves a worthy opponent indeed. Bitterly, Isabella wondered what name the natives called their home, and what name they might call her and her crew if caught here.

The Grinning Ghost lurched like a drunken sailor stumbling from a tavern, and only barely began to move as the wind whipped her back and forth. “They’ll be on us! Blades! Blades in hand!” -boomed the familiar voice of Strong Thomas, the jolly tone replaced by urgency now that chaos had befallen the crew. “Do as the man says! Cast them back!” -Isabella cried out, drawing her cutlass so that its polished steel gleamed in the fading light of what had been a bright day but a moment ago. “They will not take the ship! The Grinning Ghost is ours today, and for all days!” Her voice seemed louder than that of even Thomas as she called for courage, but the swelling chant in the unknown language of the natives threatened to drown even her out. Those of her crew that could her her, cheered.

Intricately woven ropes and hooks of bone and wood began to fly up and catch on the railings faster than the sailors could wield their axes to chop at them. Pistol shot and swinging blade held off the assault for a mere moment, until an explosion and a shockwave rattled the defenders. The wounded imperial ship, stranded in the shallow water, had gone up in a pillar of fire and smoke. Its powder stores must have caught light somehow, and the shockwave sweeping across the waves knocked down men on the beaches like they were but twigs in a whirlwind. The Grinning Ghost swayed ever more dangerously, and many sailors lost their footing and fell. The natives seemed unhindered, as if steadied by some spell or enchantment. They began to climb over the railings, clutching spiked clubs and spears and knives of bluish metal, their bodies clad in reeds and grass and leaves, as well as the hides of jungle animals. The white stripes of paint around their chest and arms may have been marks of rank or age, or perhaps the very source of their immense strenght. They chanted and sung as they fought, all in one voice.

Isabella found herself faced with two of the attackers, rushing at her with malice in their squinting eyes. A shot from her pistol caught the first, while a diagonal cut of her cutlass broke the spear of the other, and left a deep cut in his chest and arm. He no longer chanted or sang as he went, face first, over the railing and into the roiling water where the native war boats jostled for space, their crews eager to join the fight.

“Move this ship!” -she called out as the first drops of rain began to fall on the shadow swept deck, joining the freshly spilled blood in making the surface even more treacherous. She could see one of her sailors being dragged off the deck by three native warriors, kicking and flailing before disappearing over the railing along with his attackers. A loud splash and curses, the anchor had been released. Clearly the natives knew a thing or two of these ships, enough to know how to halt their escape. A terrible thought, a vision of a trap, crept into Isabella’s mind.

Tall John, towering over others as he often did, had resorted to wielding his rifle like a club, whacking at the heads of ill-prepared native warriors from above, while redheaded Cat spat and hissed like her namesake, striking left and right with her two daggers, moving like a living whirlwind amid the battle. Strong Thomas was hoisting men up off the deck, wounded or well, with the latter getting tossed upward to grasp the rope ladders and lines, to seek higher ground and new opportunities for violence. “Secure the anchor, damn you! And get those sails cleared!” -Isabella ordered, tucking her pistol away and drawing her second from within her coat. Strong Thomas shouted a reply, but his words were lost in the mayhem, then cut short as the wicked tip of a native spear found him.

Roaring in anger, Isabella rushed to the aid of his second-in-command as he sank to his knees, disappearing from her sight among the swell of bodies. An errant shot flew just past the captains head, tearing off one of the bright plumes that decorated her hat. Whether it was the shot-gone-wide of a frantic sailor or an attempt on her life by native who had managed to wrest a gun from a fallen foe, it was impossible to say. Unhurt, Isabella kicked at the back of a native warrior's knee, sending him falling forwards and striking the back of his head with the butt of her pistol. She could feel the sickening crack as her victim broke and fell to the deck to be trampled in the melee. Others turned to face the new threat, a wall of black bodies and white teeth, and soon her cutlass swung to shield herself from spear and club, hacking at limbs and bodies that seemed endless in number. But the wall of warriors was too much for her to penetrate alone.

Just as she paused to curse and evaluate her situation, a massive arm rose and swept down at an angle, sweeping three of the distracted warriors off their feet. The injured Thomas, crimson seeping through the fingers with which he pressed a wound in his side, rejoined the fight. “I am not out yet!” -he roared with near bestial rage before catching sight of Isabella. Strong Thomas blinked, cast a hurried look off to his side, somewhere beyond the melee, then called out: “Captain! The helm! The helm!”

Isabella knew what he meant in an instant. The ship was trying to move, wind finally agreeing with her sails. She felt it in the flow of air, even with the rain now beating down on them from above. But if the helm were lost, the ship may well end up beached as well! She cursed again, in words that would have made Strong Thomas blush, slashed at one of the native warriors trying to grab her from the side, then dashed off. “The helm! With me! We must
secure the helm!” -she called out, and her sailors responded with roared affirmations.

-

Water flooded the ears of the young man as he blinked raindrops from his eyes. Even without the water his vision blurred, and his ears rang. Waves cradled him as he floated, limbs splayed out, unsure of where he was for the moment. The memories began to roll in with the waves. An ambush, a fight, a retreat and a detonation of the Garra de Acero, as its interior was breached. The captain had been there to the end. The distorted images flashed in his head, of faces twisted and shouting, of white teeth glinting in black faces, of steel and silver and fire and smoke. He raised his head and the movement nearly caused him to roll. His hands sank into the water as he flailed, but found sand just inches beneath him, and soon he sat there in the surf. The wreck of the destroyed galleon still smouldered, with corpses laying in the water in pitiable condition. The young man, a mere assistant to the ship's carpenter, on just his first oceanic voyage, could not say how he was still alive.

As unfamiliar voices called out and his arms were grabbed by strangers' hands, he could not help but find a twisted sense of satisfaction in seeing the swarm of dark figures swarming the decks of the pirate ship off in the distance. Their prize, at least, was denied to them. The empress’ silver was not theirs to soil with their filthy hands.

-

Isabella found herself back to back with the redheaded Cat, slashing and cutting and stabbing their way across the slick deck until they reached the wooden steps that led up to the helm. Here the sailors had made a desperate stand, as witnessed by the pile of dead natives at the foot of the stairs, but above on the landing the men were wounded and weary, their ammunition all but spent. “Cat! The anchor!” -Isabella shouted to her companion. “Secure the anchor and I’ll sail us away from this hell!” She couldn’t hear the redheads reply, but knew she would do as she was told. There were no unreliable sailors in Isabella’s crew, and she silently thanked her stars for such a steadfast collection of sailors, for a weaker willed bunch would have fled overboard long ago. She climbed the steps up to the helm only to find the handful of sailors around it fending off fresh attacks, as more of the native warriors climbed up their boarding ropes from the aft.

The sound of her third and final pistol cracked the air and stirred her men, the sound reminding them of duty and pride lost for a moment as their own firearms were turned into little more than clubs due to lack of ammunition. Together they charged the would-be boarders, bodily throwing a hulking man as tall as Tall John back overboard, where his fall crushed one of the smaller rowboats the natives had used in their coastal assault.

“For the Grinning Ghost! For glory!” -she cried out, striking with the butt of the pistol again, but this time having it dragged from her fingers. She kicked the warrior rather than wrestle the man for her gun, and let go. The heirloom firearm and its new owner fell back into the sea. “Good riddance!” -she shouted, before turning and rushing to take control of the helm. As she held the metal reinforced handles, she peered over the chaos on the deck to find Cat, to see if the anchor was under control and they could make their escape. Her gaze found the redhead rushing away from attackers, disappearing into a crowd, then re-emerging along with the sound of an explosion and rattling chain. “Down-bloody-anchor!” -the redheaded woman screamed, visibly exhilarated, her face twisted in a gleeful grin. She must have blown off the anchor housing, sending it beneath the waves with the chain and mechanism. Isabella could have kissed her, the absolute madwoman.

Her crew defended their captain, but even now she had to wrest the wheel with one hand while swinging her cutlass with the other. Ahead of the ship, the bow of the Grinning Ghost crushed the native boats, shattering their light and hollow hulls while the bronze figurehead of a mermaid with a grinning skull for a face silently laughed above them. The attack of the natives seemed to abate as the larger ship began to move, their moment of surprise slipping from their grasp. Many jumped ship so as not to be dragged off to sea, perhaps fearing that they might be captured by these strangers from an unknown land. Strong Thomas hoisted one of the native warriors up over his head, and tossed him head first and sreaming over the railing, before sinking to his knees and falling sideways onto the deck, the last of his strength spent.

“For the Ghost!” -he called out, winded and wincing, the shout turning into a pained groan as he rolled onto his back and stared up at the stormy sky. Tall John knelt beside the big man to put pressure on his wound. Cat stood at the railing, waving her dagger in the air and shouting indescribable insults at the retreating natives in the surreal moment that followed the end of an intense battle. Sailors stumbled and fell to exhaustion, gripping whatever they could for support, whether it be another sailor, a railing or a rope. The dead would take a day to count, and Isabella dared not think how many good sailors she’d lost.

And all for nothing.

Up above the suddenly silent deck, the grinning skull of brass gazed at the smouldering wreck in the bay, as it began to fade from sight with rain blurring its broken form. As she leaned against the helm, shaking to her very core as the stress and excitement drained from her body, Isabella wondered if the Ghost had known of the fate of their voyage all along.

[Baron]

Yar, I be out of time, matey!  Shiver me deadlines!   

[Sinitrena]

Was that a formal request for an extension?

Three entries already and still about a day for last minute ones, so keep them coming.

[Baron]

Well I ran out of time, but I won't have time later, so I kinda just mashed something together at the last second.  Enjoy!

No Keelhaul for Old Men

Captain Firebeard nursed his last dram of rum, the creaking sway of the rocking chair reminding him of his youthful days at sea.  The fire of his beard had long since burnt down to ash, and his jaunty swagger was now more of a rickety teeter.  Aye, roving the seven seas had cost him his left hand and right foot, but rocking on the porch these last few years had cost him the last of his treasure.  And which did he lament more?  Not for the first time the hook scratched greedily down the left arm-rest of his rocking chair, tracing a deeply worn groove of ruefulness. 

Captain Firebeard took a final swig, grimacing through his last three rotting teeth towards the empty cup.  That was the last of his rum.  Not just in the cup, but in the decaying shack as well.  There was no booty left to buy more.  In a fit of hollow rage he tossed the cup towards his old mistress, the sea, but it landed feebly at the edge of the beach not ten paces from his porch.

The cup was dry.  He was now dry too, he supposed.  His youthful well of energy had long since run dry.  Desiccation was the nemesis of pirates and retirees alike.  It was the cancer of disuse, shrivelling plank from beam and skin from bone.  Even the depths of his soul now seemed an arid desert, for he was dry-eyed about his fate.  Why, given the choice of just one more raid, he'd take it in a second.  He'd win back his treasure, no matter the price.  And then he'd greedily hide it away for a well-earned retirement.  And then he'd squander it all on bobbles and booze, and he'd end up right back here, dry as a beached whale left three years in the sun.  The inevitability of his demise made him smile dryly.

So if the end was predestined, it must be the journey that counted?  It was hard to believe that all that rapine and pillaging was the stuff of fulfilment, but a pirate does not grow old enough to retire by being too judgy.  Captain Firebeard considered the matter philosophically: the important thing was that he steel something, and hopefully hurt someone along the way.  He frowned sulkily, squinting up and down the deserted beach.  Not a lot of options there...  He turned stiffly to look further ashore, and noticed an old lady gathering hundred-year old driftwood from the weeds.

Avast!  He reached for his cutlass, rusty as a weathered hinge.  How was it that the hated dry could decay him inside and out, but it couldn't keep his weapon in working order?  Such a fickle enemy....  No matter, for he had his pistol at hand and the powder would surely still be dry!  But no, he had forgotten that he had spent his last shot keeping a seagull from his last wormy biscuit....  It would have to be the hook, then.  A blessing in disguise, the loss of limbs.  The grim menace of his artificial limbs was almost as potent as their actual utility in battle.  His old reliable hook would never let him down.  Old Rippy, he had named it.  And now it was time for the two of them to sally out on one last malicious venture. 

The stooped and crooked pirate rose menacingly from his rocking chair like a cat stalking its prey.  His outstretched hook glinted in the sunlight as he hobbled along the deck towards the stairs.  The grim rapping of his peg leg foreshadowed the boney reaper coming to collect his due.  Tap step, tap step, tap step....

And then the leg snapped, and Captain Firebeard tumbled helplessly onto the scorching sands.  "Bloody dry-rot!" he shouted.  And then the seagulls moved in for their revenge.
   

[Sinitrena]

Harr, harr, harr, what a mighty treasure, lads!

Four vessels sailed in out trap and left this for us to pillage (good haul!):

- A dreadful night to be ashore by Creamy
- The Hull Is Broke, Ye All Despair. by Mandle
- The Darkest Storm by WHAM
- No Keelhaul for Old Men by Baron

Now chose your loot, mates:

Best Character: The most interesting, faszinating, unnerving, unusual person, persons or personalities.
Best Plot: The order of things and what is happening.
Best Atmosphere: The feelings a story evokes.
Best Writing Style: The technical aspect of writing - interesting turns of phrases, good descriptions, ect.

One swig of the bottle per category, ye landlubbers!

Sail back to the port by the end of 7th February or forever be lost at sea!

[Creamy]

Best Character: Isabella from WHAM's story.
Best Plot: WHAM.
Best Atmosphere: WHAM
Best Writing Style: Baron

[WHAM]

My votes go as follows:

Best Character: Captain Firebeard by Baron
Best Plot: Mandle
Best Atmosphere: Mandle
Best Writing Style: Baron

And now, my two cents on each entry.

A dreadful night to be ashore by Creamy
The short fragmented sentences feel like they communicate a certain urgency and despair, but when combined with the first person it also made the tale somewhat frustrating to read in my opinion. The repeated sentences seem to establish a sort of theme and style, but then the story itself breaks that sequence of repeated statements. I came very close to giving a point for atmosphere, though, but Mandle just inched past in that area. I hope to see more in the future, though!

The Hull Is Broke, Ye All Despair. by Mandle
I loved this for the effort of making it rhyme, and my mind immediately went into sea-shanty mode.
I hate the fact that no matter my spending a literal hour trying to hum a tune while mouthing the words, I failed to find a tune to which I could sing this. 

No Keelhaul for Old Men by Baron
A fine character and a fine theme, and easily worth a couple points from me, for despite its brevity, the tale manages to have a nice little narrative flow to it. Nearly had to give this one a third point on atmosphere as well, but the sea-shanty feel of Mandle's won over the decrepit pirates woes.


The Darkest Storm by WHAM
Absolute trash.

[Baron]

YAR!  Avast ye scurvy writers!  All yer stories be brimming full of booty, yar, but some booty be more valuable than other booty, if'n ye take me meaning!

Best Character: I vote Creamy for his Andreas.  In the course of just a few paragraphs we sense his exhaustion, dread, analysis, yearning, despair, hope, madness (?), and finally something resembling acceptance.  I liked WHAM's motley crew, but in all the action there wasn't room for much character development.  Mandle's drunken captain and Salty Lad seemed to have less combined character than the Lost Lenore, although I suppose that might have been the point?

Best Plot: I'm torn here.  I might have voted for Creamy on this one, because he had an excellent set-up, but then events moved at lightning speed and it was all over so fast.  It's a little unfair to Mandle as poetry typically has less plot than prose, but his story of "first the ship started tipping over, and then it tipped over" also struggles to claim the prize.  WHAM comes closest to a conventional set-up, problem, resolution, but his plot has more holes than that beached imperial galleon.  Where did those storms come from?  If it was some native magic (which was kind of implied, since their suddenness seems to have confused all the sailing experts in the story), then why did they rush out beforehand?  Why not just let the storm do the work for them?  But if the storms were just some freak natural occurrence of lightning striking twice, it is still baffling that the native warriors would have divided their troops for two simultaneous attacks.  Their assault on the Grinning Ghost was so nearly successful - I bet those hundreds of warriors from the beach would have been really handy at the height of battle!  So either these particular natives are too primitive to understand basic strategy (unlikely given their analysis of the weaknesses of sailing ships, not to mention the sophistication of the civilization required to support such teeming numbers), or they are just a trope of a mindless swarm (which again doesn't really fit with the knowledge they do display).  And then there's the issue of the battle hardened pirate crew who dared to take on a cannon-armed imperial galleon not knowing how to react to a fleet of smaller craft with weapons of almost pitiful range.  Um.... broadside, anybody?!?
        So.... I don't know.  I think I have to vote WHAM for sheer effort, but it wasn't his finest hour.

Best Atmosphere: I think, based on the above analysis, that I have to vote Creamy in this category.  The set-up was heavy with fear and menace, and it really got me into his story.

Best Writing Style: Another tough one.  Mandle's poetry has some good turns of phrase (Lenore "curtsied and showed her tail" as the ship tips over), but is hampered by a meter that runs unpredictably from 4 to 10 beats.  Creamy's minimalism is compelling ("dots of fire puncture the horizon"), but it is all over so quickly.  WHAM deals out a much more measured flow of wordy treasures (the recently conscious young man's "memories rolled in with the waves"), so I vote WHAM once more.

[WHAM]

..his plot has more holes than that beached imperial galleon.  Where did those storms come from?  If it was some native magic (which was kind of implied, since their suddenness seems to have confused all the sailing experts in the story), then why did they rush out beforehand?  Why not just let the storm do the work for them?  But if the storms were just some freak natural occurrence of lightning striking twice, it is still baffling that the native warriors would have divided their troops for two simultaneous attacks.  Their assault on the Grinning Ghost was so nearly successful - I bet those hundreds of warriors from the beach would have been really handy at the height of battle!  So either these particular natives are too primitive to understand basic strategy (unlikely given their analysis of the weaknesses of sailing ships, not to mention the sophistication of the civilization required to support such teeming numbers), or they are just a trope of a mindless swarm (which again doesn't really fit with the knowledge they do display).  And then there's the issue of the battle hardened pirate crew who dared to take on a cannon-armed imperial galleon not knowing how to react to a fleet of smaller craft with weapons of almost pitiful range.  Um.... broadside, anybody?!?

Native magic is correct. However, while the natives may have captures other ships in the past, the skilled sailors of the Grinning Ghost saved their ship from the initial storm, and were thus more capable than usual to defend themselves. The dual attack was hubris on part of the natives, so sure of their success and the power of their sorcerers, as in the past their swarming appearance and chants and war songs had left beleaguered foreigners quaking in their boots, unable to put up a fight. Isabella and her crew rallying to actually fight their way out was wholly unexpected and unprecedented for the native tribe.

As for not knowing how to deal with a swarm of smaller ships, the Ghosts guns were prepared to fire on the beached galleon, and the small, fast boats approached from directly ahead. Perhaps I failed to communicate the suddenness of the native attack properly, but the surprise nature of the attack, the confusing events on the beach drawing sailors attention, along with the unexpected and unnatural winds, would have made it nigh impossible to turn the Ghost and fire her guns at the small vessels, especially as they were already getting too close to engage with cannons. There would simply have been not enough room to angle the guns far enough down to get hits on the attackers.

Once again, it's a case where it all makes perfect sense in my head, but I fail to convey all the key details so that it makes sense in someone else's head as well.

[Creamy]

Some insight on my votes:

I chose WHAM's plot because it's more elaborate than the 2 others but I think Baron raises some fair points. My 2 cents:
- In open sea, I don't see how the natives would be able to catch up to a sailing ship with a rowing boat during a storm.
- The numerous natives with primitive technology should struggle to get on the ship - I suppose that the Grinning Ghost have cannons - but their numeral superiority should offer them an advantage at close-range. Here, it's the other way around.

Thus said, it was living, entertaining, precise and reminded me of good swashbuckling reads of my youth.

Although quite predictable, Baron's story was pleasant to read and I looked forward to that last paragraphe. And yeah, seagulls are nasty beasts. I learnt it from The Lightkeepers and from personal experience.

Mandle's poem was expertly told - as far as my uneducated ear can tell. Yet, all I take from it is that some pirates capture a distressed ship. It's never explained why the hull is broke (since the pirate didn't fire a single shot). Like WHAM, I wished the CD was also in the case 

I agree that my story is underdeveloped. I wrote it in one sitting and planed to flesh it out but I haven't been able to find the right tone afterwards. Whatever.

[Creamy]

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[Creamy]

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