Monday, September 19, 2011

In Honor of "International Talk Like A Pirate Day"!!!

(I had to post my favorite picture of Long John Silver for today.)

I wanted to share a writing exercise that was a bonus for my Writing Workshop. The assignment was to describe a single blade of grass. I did a little more than that, and I used the "International Talk Like A Pirate Day" as an excuse to write it from a pirate's point of view. So give a big "Arrrrrrrrrrrrrr!" and read on!

He held the boat steady, following the set course, under the shifting stars. But though his calloused hands were unmoving on the great wheel, in his mind, he was running free along the moorland. How could a boy that had been sea-mad since he was a tot, ache for the sight of grass again? Even a single blade would ease his homesickness right now. Long and soft, he would pull it through his fingers, as slender as the mustache he was now cultivating on his upper lip. Nothing like the grasses he’d been seeing these last two months; wild, unnatural stuff that grew as wide as half his hand, woven by the brown-skinned women into mats, and bowls, and even whole houses. He shook his head. He hadn’t minded being press-ganged when it gave him an early entry into his chosen profession. Those three years had been miserable, but he’d never looked back, until now. Six months after their old captain’s blood had washed the deck red, he still gave grudging allegiance to Lucky Nick and his tattooed crew. He was one of the few who stayed sober while the crew debauched themselves with rum and women, and consequently entrusted with the wheel more often than not. If only England was only a day’s journey away instead of three months. He would steer the cursed ship straight into South Hampton and let the whole gang swing. Then he’d walk his bare feet off this splintery deck, over the cobblestones and muddied roads until he could feel the soft whispering green grass between his toes again. He would lay in the stuff, and roll in it like a dog, reveling in the crushed, sharp scent that would cling to his skin, hair and clothes. He would build a house out there somewhere in the hills where he could see a dozen shades of green in rolling waves from one horizon to the other. He sighed and was brought back to the present by the overlaying reek of tar, rotten oakum, and the persistent brine that invaded his nose and dried his mouth. The splashes against the hull sounded slightly off, urging him to check his position against the stars. He couldn’t help but notice the sky was a paler shade of Navy blue in the east. Digging his toes into the deck, he braced himself as the desolation of another day at sea swept over him. 

No comments:

Post a Comment