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Challenge: Movement
June 29, 2005

The motion was pleasent to him as he stood on the deck. The gentle rise and fall played havoc with many a stomach that was more sure of dry land, but to him it was as though a mother were rocking her child to sleep. It was almost hypnotic and he found himself staring blankly into space, trying
vaguely to remember what it was he was supposed to be doing. He was definately supposed to be doing something. He was looking for something; that was it. Looking for something that he had lost, something very dear to him but for the moment, his thoughts lost in the waves, he could not recall.

"Sir?" the young seaman approached him cautiously.

"What is it lad?" he asked.

"They've spotted smoke sir, coming from an island."

Suddenly James snapped back into consciousness. "Elizabeth!" he exclaimed. "Set course for that island." he commanded.

"Yes sir." The boy was gone.

Now he had other things to think about but James could not but help cast one last glance at the sea before he turned towards the helm. The rocking of the ship helped to sooth his brain and keep hope in his heart.

By Felaine 
June 30, 2005

~ Moving On ~
From the personal log of Lieutenant Andrew Gillette

None are more conscious than I of my shortcomings: a tendency toward sarcasm, and lack of swift perception. My previous captain used the word
"obtuse", with more truth than charity.

"Is this my fault?" I asked the Commodore as we sat together that evening. "Shall I request a transfer? Or resign?"

"No, Andrew." He uses my given name once in six months, if that. "Absolutely not."

"Someone will pay for this fiasco."

"It won't be you," he spoke flatly.

"Perhaps it should be---I bring little enough to the table."

"Little enough? You bring integrity, loyalty, courage. I would rather teach a good man skills than attempt to teach a facile man honor. You will learn
from this...we both will." His eyes lost focus and my impression was we were no longer discussing military matters.

"We can get through this; evaluate our errors, of judgment or action; learn from them and move on. That is my plan; I suggest you do the same."

So I have, after much thought and a sleepless night. When he asks me in the morning about pursuing Sparrow, I will recommend waiting until he raids an English ship or port "to better ascertain his location." If the Black Pearl avoids our waters and merely plagues the French and Spanish. . .

Perhaps I am learning to move on.

By Geek Mama
July 1, 2005

~ Scherzo ~
The third movement in a symphony; from the Italian, meaning “joke”.

He’d become accustomed to being alone, insulated amid close heat, smells, strenuous but calming exertion, and the deep satisfaction of making useful things, and, sometimes, of creating beauty. For a long time, his brief forays outside had seemed like dreams: enjoyable, for the most part, but alien.

Now, his perception had altered. Considerably.

Odd that a pirate should be the one to drag him from the quiet dream of the forge into wildly shifting light, into the arms of the sea, and now to this place of riotous, raucous, cacophonous reality.

Jack was babbling something about the ‘sweet, proliferous bouquet’ of the place, and demanding to know what he thought.

What he thought! What could he think?

“It’ll linger,” he finally managed, and knew it for the truth as the words left his lips.

For good or ill, it would linger.

By Jenthegypsy
July 1, 2005

~ Like Unto Like~

The way she moved intrigued him, with her rolling gait and gentle sway, not practiced like the whores of the harbor towns, but natural and easy. He stopped his story mid-sentence, bottle half raised to his lips, as she began to dance in and out of the fire light, brightly colored fabric swirling about her legs and flitting along the tongue’s edge of the flame. Lithe brown arms snaked behind her head, then in front, down to silk covered breasts and back up again while slender bejeweled fingers wove words about her in a language that only he could understand.

When she stopped before him, her gold-glinted smile calling to his own, he murmured apologies and left his audience, his story and, quite remarkably, his bottle, to follow her into the shadows.

(Sequel: Bells of Silver)

By Virgo79 
July 2, 2005

~ Overexertion ~

The little green-painted rowboat drifted in the shallows of the lagoon, lazilly tugging at its tether. A breeze kissed the surface of the water, sending the reflected pink and gold evening sunlight fluttering, broken into a thousand pieces.

Elizabeth reclined, right leg hooked over the side of the boat, foot trailing languidly in the cool water. One arm was tucked beneath her head, fingers flexing absently, tracing invisible patterns in the air. The other hand weaved through Will's sable hair where it spilled across her belly. His chest rose and fell in the soft movement of not-quite-sleep, and one thumb rubbed sleepily at the underside of her bare knee.

She felt something brush her dangling foot, and cracked open one eye, craning her neck just enough to see her dress float by. She snagged it on her toes and lifted it to drape with a wet slap on the edge of the boat.

Then her foot submerged again, her head tipped back, and all was still save their breath, and the breeze.

By Melusina
July 2, 2005

~ Dreams of Flight ~

In his dream, Jack is a sparrow indeed, with wings to flit from any cage and lift him high into the clouds. Dream-flying is like swimming with the tide, and also like sailing, with a better vantage point than the tallest crow's nest. Beneath him there are white capped mountains and winding rivers, and then the sea sparkling in the sun; he loops and whirls, letting the wind carry him where it will.

But when he wakes, he's still caged and dawn is coming fast. He'll be in the air soon enough, but he takes little comfort in that fact.

By Trinity Day 
July 3, 2005

~ Practice Makes Perfect ~


Midday heat made work impossible and Brown was asleep; it was time for Will’s daily practice. Learning would be easier, he mused, with a partner. On his own, Will never knew if he was moving properly. Real life would be nothing like this solo pantomime; he would be facing someone if it were real.

Was it step, step, pivot? or step, pivot, step? Then there were his hands—where did they go?

“Will?”

Will turned guiltily, not expecting his fiancée in the forge.

“What are you doing?” she inquired.

Even Will’s ears were red as he mumbled, “Learning to dance.”

~.~

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