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By Honorat
July 21, 2005
~ Impatience
~
For ten years she has felt nothing but the burn of desire for
eternally cursed gold. Not the embrace of wind in her sails.
Not the caress of the sea on her hull.
For ten years she has flung herself like a wounded leviathan
against the snarling seas. She has lashed fortresses and towns
and tall ships with the screaming fire of her cannon in her
search for the gold that calls. And she has wept tears that
rise like banks of fog for him.
She has endured.
Now the curse is lifted, and she has no more patience. In the
joy of salt spray and the kiss of ocean breezes, she flies to
him. What Jack Sparrow has always been for the Black Pearl is
freedom.
By Felaine
July 21, 2005
~ Patience
and Prudence ~
From
the personal log of Lieutenant Andrew Gillette, Port Royal
Never were two creatures less aptly named than Reverend Walter's
mules, Patience and Prudence. Noisy, recalcitrant and unsurpassed
at appearing in extraordinary circumstances. The Reverend has
already been obliged to retrieve them from the town square fountain
and Governor Swann's entry hall.
Last night--the Port Royal Hatter, where they proceeded to devour
and otherwise deface (common decency precludes elaboration)
a number of midshipmen's hats.
It is possible the stalls were unlatched, conceivable the hatter's
door ajar and Patience and Prudence's entrance accidental.
But placing a hat on Patience's head and securing its ribbons
round her neck?
Now really.
By Jenthegypsy
July 27, 2005
~ Patience
Is Its Own Reward ~
Jack waited.
Had been waiting for weeks, in fact, keeping a close watch on
his quarry and a sharp eye out for the opportune moment. At
long last, he felt that both were near to hand.
So he waited with a bit more intensity.
Bloody hot for the likes of waiting, he thought, sitting
on an empty keg beside the little table that Gibbs had brought
from below and set next to the larboard rail. He had divested
himself of all clothing save his shirt (freshly laundered just
a week ago last Thursday), breeches (swum in only three days
past), and his headscarf, of course. Couldn’t have sweat running
into his eyes and streaking the kohl, marring the lovely picture
that was Captain Jack Sparrow, could he?
There they sat, he and his breeches, headscarf and freshly laundered
shirt, at the little table near the larboard rail, with Jack
bemoaning (to the one voice inside his head that was paying
attention) the discomfort of long-term keg sitting. A length
of gold chain played through his fingers, striking the table
top with a faint ‘clink’.
Right hand to left (clink). Left to right (clink). Right…
A slow “tick, tick, tick” reached Jack’s over-heated
ears. His hands were the only part of him that moved.
…to left (clink). Left…
Three more ‘ticks’, a hesitation, and then two more.
Hands keeping the rhythm of their own volition, nothing else
moved, save his eyes, narrowing slightly and cutting far to
the right.
Aaahhhh!
… to right (clink).
“Tick, tick, tick…...tick.”
There the scoundrel stood, bold as brass, head cocked and eyeing
the glitter of gold in his captain’s hands, caution thrown to
the wind by the call of shine.
Finally within reach of those constantly moving hands.
“Gotcha!” Jack screeched, dropping the chain and making a two-handed
grab.
“AWK!” squawked Parrot, even louder, scrambling to maintain
his perch on the rail.
The sound of clacking from a formidable beak was interwoven
with two-toned hisses and highly colored parlance from both
combatants, as Parrot was juggled about in order to keep tasty
morsels of finger attached to frantically flailing hands.
The battle was intense, but brief, ending when Jack suddenly
released Parrot and stepped back from the railing, where the
bird still hissed and spat, looking for something, or someone,
to bite. The railing was awarded that dubious honor.
“Stop that, you great bloody nit!” Jack took a swat at the devil
and shooshed him onto the keg. “Leave off!” He stepped further
back while Parrot continued to beat his wings and fluff his
feathers, fierce as any pirate, and screaming his protest at
a hand played most foul.
The captain was suddenly aware that an audience had gathered
‘round them. Tugging his shirt back into place (bit of a tear
at the shoulder, but that would mend far faster than his flesh
would have) and straightening his locks, he turned, with a great
show of dignity, to face the still agitated bird, wagging a
long turquoise tail feather in it’s general direction.
“There now, you scamp, let that be a lesson! You’ll think twice
and once again before nippin’ a treasured trinket from me hair
whilst I’m sleeping, eh? You’ll have this” and here he
waggled the feather at Parrot again, “back when I’ve me bauble
back. Savvy?”
“Hang ‘im from the yard!” was Parrot’s vehement reply.
Both captain and parrot turned backs to the other and stalked
off in opposite directions, Jack to the helm and Parrot to the
bowsprit.
Gibbs turned to Cotton and sighed. “Don’t reckon he understands
the concept of molting. That feather woulda fallen out on it’s
own in a moment‘s time, the way I make it. He could’ve just
picked it up off the deck and saved himself the trouble. Daft
bugger.”
Cotton opened his mouth in a wide grimace and gave a shrug of
his bony shoulders.
“Aye mate, it may well be that he doesn’t know it can’t
be put back once it’s been plucked, but damned if I’ll
be the one to tell ‘im!”
A/N: No parrots (or captains) were injured in the telling
of this story.
By Geek Mama
July 29, 2005
~ Waiting
~
Well, this was a slap in the face.
But no use fightin’ the tide. Carryin’ on, fit to wake the dead.
Or the guard.
Daft buggers. Keepin’ him awake!
“You can keep calling all night, that dog is never going to
move!”
“Well, ‘scuse us if we haven’t resigned ourselves to the gallows
just yet!” came the retort.
He chuckled, and gave it up. Settled, and tugged at his hat,
shading his eyes from stone and iron.
She’d turned fickle, but it’d pass. She loved her Jack, did
Lady Luck. If escape was on the cards, it’d be through her kind
offices.
Not the bloody dog’s!
~.~
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