The Lay of Halrekk

The Lay of Halrekk
Written: 2007
Synopsis: Another Epic Poem
Note: I tried treating caesuras as line breaks here since I can't format them properly. I'm not sure it works
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Whisper to the wind,
And if the muse is willing
I'll tell to you
A tale of tales
Of heroes and of heathens
Of the legendary Halrekk
And the doom of Domrill
Dealer of death

Many valiant Vikings
Vied in Modhall
To lead the legions
Against the dark Lord
Who threatened their lands
And their leader and their lives
And Malr was slain
By Modi, son of Magnus
And Dvalin felled the brothers
Bragi and brave Breka
Many lives were lost
And thus fell powerful lords
King Thengil called halt
And the heroes heard
The bickering ceased
And he bid the bard
To speak a tale
Of splendour and spare
No detail of death
Or desire in his sotry.
The bard was new
But had much knowledge and nerve
"Hark! Warriors
Hear this harrowing
Tale, in which I tell
Of terrible tragedy
From Kvasir's spit
Of which I speak shall spring:

The wanderer walked
To the walls of Gotheim
And was welcomed by the king
And his wife, the wer.
Mead was drunk
And many of the men
Slipped into sleep,
Slaves to their drink
But King Weland still heard
The words of the wanderer:
Breaking the silence
He softly said:


"Betrayal strikes from those
Whose truth we trust
You will die by her hand;
No halberds nor huscarls
Will spare you this.
You will die young
Leave her this night
Or your life will be lessened."

Weland was wounded
By the words of the wise-one
"Flarmen is loyal
Loving and learned
She will remain
at my right, no reason
Would drive her away"

"Drink and dream
Never shall you again
Be glad in Gullholl."
The seer vanished
As the sun set.

That morning the woman
Wore her wolfskin
And quickly killed
Her kin: her son
And his father, destroying
The family forever
And Domrill the brave,
Her brother, broke
The gates of Gotheim
And burned the Gullholl
He ploughed salt into the soil
And sailed to lands unknown

But the wound the son
Of Weland took was weak
The vicious blow he survived
And swore his vengeance
Halrekk he was called,
The hero of Hathor
For seven years
He sailed the seas
Earning rewards
And wine and women

He swept off his hood
Halting the hiding
Halrekk stood in Modhall
Magnificent and mighty
"This battle is mine;
I was born to be
The killer of Domrill!
Cold and callous
He stared at the knights
And none had the nerve
To withstand the gaze,
Willful, unwavering.

Thengil slowly rose
And regally replied:
"Warrior of the waves
We welcome you here
We value your aid,
Your valour and vigilance
Is not unknown.
Prove your name

And you shall lead
Our lords to the light."
He handed the hero
And helping of iron.
"This chain has challenged
Fenrir the chosen
Break through Dromi
And my brother you shall be."

His muscles grew mountainous
As he mightily rent
The chain asunder
The chore was no challenge.

The deed was done
And the king decreed:
"The strength of Fenrir
Will strike fear into our foe
You will lead my legions
As a lord of Modholl"

The horns heralded
The way of the host
As they marched
Through muck and mire
To Dolgvoll Green
To deal with Dromrill

The battle long
Many lives were lost
Blood ran on the dirt
From the dead and the dying
Halrekk drove through the press
Driving towards Domrill
His defenses were useless
And Halrekk's uncle was undone.
He threw down his enemy
And thrust at his throat
Thus Domrill died
And forever was he damned.

But Halrekk was not unscatherd
His scars had scars
So many were his wounds
Mightier men

Had lost to less,
But he was losing
His fury spent,
He fell, finished
And was carried from the field
By courtiers of the king

They laid him in a longboat
And set it alight
As it sailed to the sea
King Thengel said:
"Verily, the valkyries
Took him to Valhalla
He was the mightiest
Man in Midgard.
The Einherjar will enjoy
Their new enlistee."
And he walked away
From the women weeping

Poetry Portfolio III

A Small Selection of Even More Poems
Written: 2007
------------

VISION OF THE DAMNED (Sonnet)

A tortured soul, devoid of all true life,
Its soulless eyes gazing into the fire.
Forgotten by his daughters and his wife;
Fore'er to rot in this eternal pyre.

His hands are gone; his arms are rife with rot,
His legs are trappéd in a mass of stone.
For all his torments, one thing he is not:
In solitude; he'll never be alone.

Six billion souls live here in misery,
With each as misbegotten as the last.
Forever condemned to this fiery sea,
Though all the ages of mankind be past.

I watch them pass and I begin to pray
That I'll return to see the light of day.

--------------------------------------------

NIGHTMARE

Children sleep in silken sheets
thinking of futures.
Silence lies over the wilds.
The lake lies still, no shimmering
light illumines it.
The forest of firs is hidden from the stars.
Shadows lurk in the hills
Waiting to strike --
no gold can buy them off;
no kindness can repel them.
And the children dream...

Poetry Portfolio II

Another Selection of Poems
Written: 2007
-------

FLOWERS

A happier day is was, long ago
My eyes first fell upon your face
Broken dreams began to heal
Ruined futures built again
On every day I longed to
See you, even just once
I felt that there was hope
And I was not alone

A spark of hope can do so much
Lead you through all woe
Mend any ills you come upon
Or banish every fear
Nothing evil can reach you
Do any harm unto your soul

Don't say it has a chance when it doesn't
Ask not for me to hope
For hope is a beautiful thing
For hope is a painful thing
Only hope can hurt where other weapons cannot reach
Duty holds me to my oaths and I shall always be alone
I never truly said it, and now I must forget I
Loved you

Here I stand, all by myself
Ever and ever, always alone
A hope turned false, a dream
Turned into nothing but a dream
Heaven is out of my reach

Yesterday I thought the world was clean
Eternity looms before me, scarred and torn
Where shall I find peace now?

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THE HUNT

Kak-kak-kak-kak
The shadow beneath my feet looms larger
As the kingsbird soars down from the cliff above.
As the motled gray shoots past my face, I see its eye
The eyes of a hunter
The eyes of a killer
A colony of murres scatters, croaking, as the missil strikes
Kak-kak-kak-kak
Blood sprays into the frozen air
And the gyrfalcon wings its way homeward
Clutching its prize
It's victory echoes across the tundra
Kak-kak-kak-kak

----------------------------------------

THE ROVER

A rover wandering lost his way
Amongst the trees.
As morning waxed he found a path
That lead a way outside
But as he tried to follow,
A voice, serene, spoke out:
"Traveller, go not down this path
For surely thy soul shal die."
Mindful the rover turned back to the trees
But a voice, quite strong, spoke out:
"Traveller, turn not from this path
For surely thy mind shalt perish."
The rover looked toward the path
The rover looked toward the trees
And disappeared into the forest.

Poetry Portfolio I

A Selection of Poems
Written: 2007
----

CLIFFSIDE

The tiger's growl fades as it returns to its lair
The pages of a book are lost in swirling air
to Chaos; O'er the brink it lies
Stretching on through azure skies

The tide rolls in and out
Forever to eternity

Shadows herald coming change
air of water, sea of gas
no edges only transitions
from which time is not exempt
from Death for all things end
in other places that aren't here.

The tide rolls in and out
Forever to eternity.

On the other side things are alive
But behind me lies the drive
From it can cannot escape
I'll leave the cliffside and the cape

The tide rolls in and out

Forever

To eternity

-------------------------------------------


AZURE

The most perfect sapphire in the land
Broken open o'er and o'er
Each time reaching new perfection
Then polished for eons
Scattered brains may hide but never mar it.
The light of sun and stars shines through it.
Engines burn across it yet it heals
It takes your breath; it takes your life
And gives it back in time
Sparkling with new colour when its done.

Is it any question where the gods dwell?

-------------------------------------------------

THE SCYTHER'S SONG


"We are born to die. Men are the dogs of the gods. Through their svbtle prodding, thovsands of vs march for miles across vnknown lands for the sole pvrpose of bringing death to those we hardly know. But we do not fight this, for the gods in their graciovsness have vshered vs towards ovr noble foe, and so we give thanks to Lord Mars and Jvpiter most high for this. I swear by the blood of my kin that by eve tomorrow Hannibal's lifesblood shall be spent on these sands."
-from the last writings of Laurentius of Renwick, 204 B.C.

Broken.
Trampled, yea, ground into the very dust
The blood of foe slipping down your hair
The blood of friend dashed across your face
Meeting, mixing, mingling
When Flavius died, was it like this?
Arrow to the brain.
There.
Gone.
No lingering.
Why dost thou cling, Laurentius?
No chirugeon can mend an elephant's crush
No hawk-eyed friend can find your missing arm
For you have none.
I see your eyes flicker
And I know you hear
the screaming
the bellowing
the hacking
the howling
the dying.
There is nothing left here.
Zama is a wasteland
You remember in Rome
When you heard of Cannae
and Flavius.
You didn't quite believe it.
You never really did.
Is it vengeance that holds you to this world?
You remember Renwick
Holding your mother's corpse
in your cold hands
You were too late then.
You'll never be too late again.
Come with me, Laurentius
Forsake this field of woe.

----------------------------------

THE LAY OF FERELMAR

In ages past, when grass was green
When the sky was clear and people sang
of Heroes
In days gone by when men had honour
When the truth was valued
And you could ride across the land without a fear
When the sea was green and the air was clean
In this time, this eon
Dwelt Ferelmar the Horseman.
He was a tall man, a proud man
The fairest, save for the Death
That smoldered in his hungry eyes.
His horse was Buri, black as night
Swiftest in the realm.
He could outrun anything
Save the spearcast from his master's hand.

One day Ferelmar was riding on the moor
When he met a wand'ring bard
"Hero!" cried the singer, "Wherefore goest thou armed
In this happy fertile land?"
"In Eden," quoth the horseman, "Dwelt the Serpent.
Perfection is but a fancy of the mind."
Straight were his words, but yet foretelling
For by day' end the bard had been attacked by bandits
And carried away.

But Ferelmar was still near
And he heard the ruffians.
At dawn's break he found their trail.
Buri raced over hill and dale, glen and fen,
Until he reached the secret lair.

The bandit's slept, save for a guard
Who soon slept eternal, spear through his heart.
Ferelmar knew the arts of stealth
But no creature can lie sleeping when blood runs on the sand.
Even as the Horseman loosed the bonds
The bandits awoke.
His spear cast, the Horseman
Stabbed and slashed with sword
Driving back his enemy.
Nineteen of them fell slain in the first rush.
They came again
And this time
A full score fell cloven
With the horseman yet un-scarred.
Hero and Bard reached Buri
Who galloped away
Swifter than the Sun
Back to Bardshome.
And Ferelmar rode off, with horse and spear
Ever Westward, as he always did.
And the Bard remained
To sing his tale to all.

The Lay of Sædraca

The Lay of Sædraca
Written: 2006
Synopsis: A epic poem about a Norse warrior who encounters peril on the high seas
Note: I'm having trouble formatting the caesuras; sorry.
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Hark! The whole universe was formed in ages past
From Ymirs corpse so too did Hjorrheim rise from the blood
Of Darren Damirson whose death allied the three tribes of Jutland

But strife came in those glorious halls as Loki's hand was played
The Shield-peace was shattered and many were the fallen
Dvalin and Nori Orm and Vili
Thyam and Erik Sworthin the Spear Thrower
And many more whose names have beeen lost, though their deeds live on

As the green-meat failed to grow the Lord looked elsewhere
Oer the seas to the brighter land
And sent his Thane on a crossing
To seek food to feed his people's open mouths.

Melrakki launched a longship with thirteen mighty men
Calling it Sædraca a name of ill omen
He hastened to Hibernia for conquest and spoils.

On the shark-road they sailed for many days and nights
Until a cloud darkened Ymir's skull blotting out the sun as though the wolf earned his meal
The waves tossed up and hurled the ship about as a toy in the hand of a God

Undaunted Melrakki stood at the fore holding his ground as he was tossed about.
He shook his fist at the wind and invoked the Treehanger
For Odin, the One-Eye, the All-Wise might answer
And dampen the demons of the eternal sea.

And even as he spake the storm retreated to its astral home
And the angry water returned to its soothing rythym
The storm had vanished as completely as Haelend
After he saved the Sverdings from an untimely death
All those years past In the dread winter.

Peace was not to be had for they were not alone
A flying-sheet was on the horizon and moving ever closer
The sigil was of Vandbarr the Kinslayer of Jorgum
The water-horse drew nearer as the warriors readeid their Skjolds
Knowing that this fight may be their last until they joined with Odin in Valhall.

"Kinslayer!" called Melrakki his voice echoing across the water
As that of a Thor calling for a giant in Jotunheim's halls
"What business have you here? Leave us and begone!"
Vandbarr's reply was more biting A swarm of arrows from above
Fell upon the warriors Slaying two noble men who were Melrakki's kin
And then he boats met And Vandbarr's demons swarmed across

Melrakki slew the first And drove his Sverd into another.
Vandbarr bellowed as the Berserkgangr came upon him
Transforming him into a raging bear who barreled forth
Ripping out the hearts Of two warriors and devouring them

Melrakki stood with sverd in hand and took he first drive upon his skjold
Pushing back the demon with the boss
His sverd swung in the air but did not bite
Though Vandmarr's claws tore though his chain

The Thane swung low and the flat of his blade
Took the bear below the knees ssending him to the deck
And seizing his head between two hand Melrakki snapped his neck.

The battle done the enemy corpses
Were turned into the eternal depths
The swiftest route to Hel where they would work on the nail-boat.

The four of Melrakki's warriors who had fallen
Were placed on Vandmarr's boat with their sverds and skjolds.
Their hair was long their nails were trimmed
They lived their life as true warriors.
Then the teller of tales Grettir the Bard
Lifted his lute and began to play

Ragnorok's herald, Baldr Odin's son
Whose death would call the Ragnarok
Could not be allowed to languish in Hel
Hod's hand had shot but Loki had guided
The dart that dealt the final blow

Hermod rode for many leagues
On Slepinir Stallion of Odin
The Seer's Sevant asked for Baldr's release
And was refused by Hel herself
Unless all living things lamented the fair one's passing

So the pantheon passed throughout Asgard and Mitgard
And all the branches of great Yggdrasil
Even in Jotunheim did they lament the death of Baldr
But in one far-off cave slept Thokk the giantess
Whose eyes would shed no tears not even for one so fair
So Baldr languishes in the pi t until the First Day
When he rise and return to the fields of Asgard
With Magni and Modi and Hod his brother
And the world shall be replenished anew

And the torch was put to the boat as it was cast away
And the dead were sent away in the manner of kings

In the sun's last light the ship suddenly collapsed beneath the waves
Pulled down by an almighty arm into the depths.
"They have been taken up by the Valkyries"
said Valern the Young the next to die.
"No," said Melrakki "take up your skjolds
A fell presence is at work here.
They were dragged down not up to the heavenly hall."

For it was no mortal presence that assailed them
It was the Sædraca itself seeking vengeance for its name
The conquering kraken the tentacled horror
The fourth spawn of Loki devil of the gods
and the doom of Melrakki though doomed in itself

Even as skjolds were reborne A massive tentacle lashed from the deep
And grabbed Valern yanking him away
Towards some massive maw beneath the waves

Eight of the appendages latched to the boat
And no sverd nor spear Could unlatch them
With a thunderous crack Louder than Mjollnir
The boat was rent asunder and the water rushed in

Melrakki held on to his sverd and swam toward the monstrous head
A massive tentacle grabbed the viking holding him away from air
With fading breath he plunged his sword into a gigantic eye
Sending massive clouts of red dust into the dark blue

The kraken sunk but its irresitable grip
Dragged Melrakki down the depths
As the world turned back there was a flutter of wings
And an outstretched hand tore Melrakki from his foe's grasp
And pulled him up to Asgard where he fought until the Ragnarok.

Crossing the Rubicon

Crossing the Rubicon
Written: 2006
Synopsis: A private eye gets set up
----



Sometimes you turn on the TV in the middle of the afternoon. It means you’re bored to tears, but there’s nothing better to do then rot your mind. The same television shows are running on a loop. It’s a different show every time, to be sure, but its always the same story. And in every story, there’s a tall, dark, stranger. The kind of man whose face you never see, the one who shows up at your door at night, asks some questions and leave. The man who shoots first and asks questions later, like a modern-day Clint Eastwood. That man is me.

It's raining outside. It's always raining. The weatherman comes on the telly every morning, going on about "percentages of precipitation" and all sorts of technical mumbo jumbo, but all he's saying is that it's going to rain. Again. It's always raining.

My name's Darrel McCrimmon. I've been living in this city for almost three years now, and I don't think I've seen a clear sky since I left Scotland.

Still, a wee bit of water is always a good excuse to visit the bar. A stiff drink and a bar of chocolate always makes the day seem a bit dryer. And there's no better place for information.

I'm an investigator. Some people call me a private eye, and I laugh at them. I have two eyes, you see, so I'm twice as good. And twice as expensive, but you get what you pay for.

I'm on the job today. Some dame got her diamonds pinched by a mugger. Rich girl like her ought to learn to keep her jewelry hidden, but then where would I be? Living on the street somewhere, not that my apartment's much better. Anyways, its damned hard trying to find two men in a city of thousands when all you have is a picture to go by.

I slip into a barstool and slip Lenny a fivespot. "The usual." Lenny nods and passes me a glass and a bar. "Say, Lenny..." He looks up from an empty glass he's been wiping. "I gotta case. You seen either o' these fellas?" I slip the crude drawing across the bar.

"Yeah," he says, "That's One-Eyed Fred." He leans forward conspiritorily, "You can tell cause he's only got the one eye."

Day's starting to look brighter already. "You know where he lives?"

"27th and Bryce. What'd he do now?"

"Pinched some shinies. I won't hurt him too bad." I slip him another fivespot for the scoop and leave. My glass is still full, but you can't let a lead go cold. And if the dame pays up, the price of a beer isn't going to be a problem.

The buildings loom over my head like unflinching gods as I make my way up Bryce street, their gloomy windows staring into my very soul. The rain has slowed to almost a drizzle, and it pools in the crease of my fedora. I slog through the gloomy streets and watch the eccentricities of the ants. Here, a shopper tries vainly to shield her purchases from the rain. There, a drunkard argues with an SUV. I glance at the streetsigns as they go by. 21st. 22nd. 23rd. The numbers rise in a steady rhythym, mingled with the ceaseless torrent. 24th. 25th. 26th. I reach into my inner pocket and pull out my glock. Subterfuge is a lost art. 27th.

The street corner has an old Amoco station, a Dunkin-Donuts, a Walgreens, and an old warehouse. I check out the warehouse first. I knock on the large wooden door. No answer. I shout. Still no answer. I try the handle, but it's locked. My Glock makes a good lockpick, even if its a bit noisy. The door swings open easily.

The place has been ransacked. Papers are scattered everywhere, and a rather large cabinet has been knocked over. The oven is still on, and there's a bowl of cereal on the table. Somebody left here in a hurry. I reach over to turn of the often.

My hand is just barely on the dial when I feel cold metal on the back of my head. I put my hands up slowly. "Hello, Fred,"

"That's right, Inspector. How about you keep your hands up and lets have a nice little chat,
shall we?"

I turn around slowly, my eyes falling upon my Glock, lying abandoned on the table near the cereal where I set it when I went to turn off the oven. Fred is a well-muscled man with a wide face and a buzz cut. "I'm sure we can be civil about this."

He grunts, and gestures to the chair with the gun. I sit down slowly, and he ties my hands and legs. "Come now, can't we come to a deal?" Fred only glares at me, "If you just gave me back the diamonds I'm sure I could come up with some monetary recompense--"

He laughs. "There are no diamonds," he says bluntly.

"But I was hired-"

"It was a ruse. Sheila, say hello to our guest." A women, clad in a blue dress with long blonde hair steps out of a backroom.

"Hello, Mr. McCrimmon. Are you comfortable?" It's the dame who hired me in the first place.

"You filthy low-down wh-" I strain at the ropes.

"Language, Mr. McCrimmon," she coos, "Please try to be dignified on your final day alive." She picks up an old piece of wood that looks like it fell off the rotting wall. She holds it over the oven until it ignites, then drops it on the floor, which catches flame. "Oops, I dropped it," she giggles, "Have a nice death, Mr. McCrimmon. I'll be seeing you." She walks out the door.

"Or not," growls Fred, with a one last glare at me before he follows her.

I was a boy scout once, a long time ago. I never made it past Tenderfoot. Wish I had. Then I might know something about how to untie a knot. As it is, I seem to be totally screwed. Unless...

I shift in the chair, scooting across the floor away from the flames. I have to do this just right...

The fire reaches my glock. As the flames roar up along the table, the bullet in the chamber began to superheat....

And nothing happens. Blast it. The flames are too close. I blow on them, but to no avail.

BLAM!

The Glock fires, and the bullet passes through rope and chair leg, freeing my legs. I just had my timing off, that's all. With a good backwards kick, the old chair falls apart and I can slip my hands free. I dodge a burning timber. Wrapping my hand in my trenchcoat, I grab my Glock and dive out the door just as the warehouse collapses.

As I sit in front of the ashes in a cloud of smoky rain, thoughts meander through my head. Why were they trying to kill me? And how did he know I was going to be there? Unless there was a third man in that nefarious trio, one whom would lead me in the right direction, send me unknowing into my doom....



"You’ve crossed the Rubicon, Lenny,"

The bar is closed, and the patrons have left. Only me, Lenny, and Buster are left. Buster is my Glock. Lenny is behind the bar, I'm on the other side. Buster is between us, his muzzle in the bartender's throat.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Darrel."

"The Rubicon. When Caeser crossed it, it was his final act of treachery, forcing Rome to take action," I press Buster further into the folds of his skin, "You sold me out. Ratted on me. I want to know why. How much did they pay you?"

“If I’m Caeser, then, you’re Pompey,” he says slowly

“I guess I am.”

“Pompey died. Caeser won.”

There’s only one thing I hate worse then a traitor, and that’s a man who twists my words against me. “Let’s change times, then. I’m thinking Ides of March.”

BLAM!

There's a searing pain in my left arm as something slams into it. I spin and fire three times at the new assailant. Sheila falls, her blue dress stained with red.

A left hook from Lenny drops me to the floor. I taste blood in my mouth, and I don't mouth. "Why, Lenny?"

"Fred, take his gun," says Lenny. Fred steps out from the shadows, too, and takes my Glock.

"Well, well, the gang's all here. Now will someone tell me what this is all about?"

"Richard Montalesci's out of jail, Darrel," says Lenny, "and he's mad at you for busting his Alkali Lake ring. He's offering a million for your head. That's too much to resist."

"A million!" roars Fred, "You were only payin' Sheil' and me 250 grand."

"I would have paid you more, but--"

"You lying bastard!" BLAM! Lenny taks the slug in a belly and he's down beside me. "And now to end your meddling influence once and for all." The Glock swings round to point at me.

"I'm sorry, lad," I say.

"Too late for apologies, McCrimmon." He pulls the trigger.

"I'm sorry for being out of ammo." I kick out with my leg and send him spilling to the floor with a thud. I dive for the bar and grab an empty shot glass. Fred's flailing hand grabs my wounded arm and I can't help but scream. Screaming or no, I manage to bring the glass down on his head. The glass shatters and his eyes roll up. He falls, releasing my arm. I take Buster from his limp hands and holster it.

I check pulses; all three of them are alive, even Sheila. I put my fedora back on as I move behind the bar. I take up the phone and ring up the station. I tell the cops I have three wounded suspects, and the chief says he'll be right over.

I won't be here when he arrives. I'll be on the docks, looking for Montalesci. No one puts a bounty on my head unless they want me to come looking for them. That means it's a trap, and I love springing traps. Rather a hobby of mine, come to think of it. Ah well, the night is young, and it's still raining.

Death on the Wind

Death on the Wind
Written: 2005
Synopsis: A pirate shanty, originally used as an introduction to another work.
----

The crew o' the Quinn were a haughty folk
Ready an' willin' t' kill
So they set t' sail oer th' mighty sea
Scoffin' their fruit an' swill
Don't mind the draught, boys, 'tis death on the wind!

Miles from shore they lost their bluster
And as such spoke the mate,
"We're a target for pirates," he said t' th' crew
"Let's go back afore its too late!"
Don't mind the draught, boys, 'tis death on the wind!

Fer we was upon 'em like dogs t' a bone
And oh there was such a row!
Them rotters fought back like th' cowards they were,
But 'ow we did 'em we'll tell ye right now!
Don't mind the draught, boys, 'tis death on the wind!

I skewered the bosun!
I decapped the cook!
We gutted the cap'n w' an old fishin' hook!
We tied up th' gunners
An' left 'em t' die
Threw th' mates o'erboard
T' see'f they could fly!

Don't mind the draught, boys, 'tis death on the wind!
Don't mind the draught, boys, 'tis death on the wind!

Swords and Scurvy

Swords and Scurvy
Written: 2006
Synopsis: A how-to guide on writing a story about pirates. Mostly humourous. Includes a sample tale.
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INTRODUCTION

Why pirates? The call of the high seas lingers in our blood, the yearn of the salty spray in our face, the wind in our hair, and the clear skies above us. The haunting whispers of forgotten gold, calling for one worthy to reclaim it. The clash of metal on metal as a duel as much of wits as brawn ensues. That's why pirates. Sure, we know that in reality, piracy is bad. A pirate ship was more or less a confined space full of rapists, thiefs, and murderers with weapons. But we romanticise it because we can. A story is a story, and fiction is fiction. And so we tell of pirates.

To start, first, before the treasure is buried or the winds blow south, we have to populate our fictional Spanish Main.


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PIRATE CHARACTERS

Characters are the bulwark of the pirate story. Pirate characters are usually easy to create1, as they rely on a number of archetypes. The majority of your pirates will be redshirts (see below), but the Captain at the very least should be a main character. A typical story usually has 3-5 pirates with character, though this number varies depending on length.

ARCHETYPES

THE SOFT-HEARTED MERCENARY
-This character is introduced as an unfriendly sort who cares only for money. Over the course of the story, we see that he actually has a heart and cares about people, and really only has a rough exterior. Oftentimes he himself is unsure of whose side he is on. He makes a good first mate, or even a captain, but isn't necessarily a ranking officer. He is a frequent occurance in a GPS. He is rarer in an EPS, but occasionally makes an appearence where he turns to the good side at the end.
Example: Jayne Cobb, Firefly2

THE LUCKY LOONY
-This character appears, at least to the other characters, to me completely mad. Sometimes he is actually sane, but not alwats. However, he is luckier than Tyche3. No matter how horrible things get, he manages to scrape his way out in some nigh impossible manner.
Examples: Jack Sparrow, Pirates of the Carribean;4

THE MENTOR FIGURE
-This character stems from the Campbellian archetype, but has been warped. In a GPS he is very reminescent of his forebears, but strangely enough he is more frequently seens in an EPS. He plays a role of temptor, trying to lure good characters to the side of piracy.
Example: Long John Silver, Treasure Island

THE WATSON
-The Watson archetype did not originate nor is exclusive to the pirate genre. Somebody has to be an explaininer, telling the other characters (and more importantly, the reader), the background and legends of the story, as well as explaining what's going on in times when it gets confusing.
Example: Mr. Gibbs, Pirates of the Carribean

THE YOUNG LAD
-When he appears, he's usually a main character. Since Robert Lewis Stevenson, it's become a tendency to make a Pirate story a Bildungsroman. Toward that end, it requires a young lad to join the Pirates (or the Anti-Pirates in an EPS).
Example: Jim Hawkins, Treasure Island

THE BANTERING DUO
-This is actually two characters rather than one. It stems from the pair of R2-D2 and C-3PO in Star Wars, which in turn harkens back to the peasant duo of Akira Kurosawa's Hidden Fortress. The pair is usually of low rank, but appear through at the movie, providing witty commentary on the events. In effect, this provides the story's comic relief.
Example: Pintel and Ragetti, Pirates of the Carribean

THE DEVIL HIMSELF
-Not really much to explain here. This character is the villain, of either a GPS or an EPS. As the Captain of a Pirate Ship, he's just as likely to kill his own men as his enemies. He is devious, shifty, cruel, and nigh impossible to defeat.
Example: Davy Jones, Pirates of the Carribean

THE GOOD FIGHTER
-Only appears in a GPS. This character has turned to piracy is an attempt to do righteous deeds, usually by attacking either the French or English exclusively. He is often, but not always, an ex-nobleman.5
Example: Captain Blood, Captain Blood

REDSHIRT
-A frequent occurance in any genre whre people die. The redshirt is usually, though not always, unnamed. His role in the story matters little, and his character has no room for development. His only purpose is to be shot, stabbed, poisoned, garroted, or drawn-and-quartered so your main characters don't have to.
Example: The guys in the other cannibal cage, Dead Man's Chest

CROSS-CLASS STOCK CHARACTERS
A pirate story can also be adapted to fit within a number of other genres, and vice-versa. If your pirate story is a fantasy, the young hero and the wizened guide can easily be adapted to fit in a pirate crew. Though variants already exist, as noted above, in this case they should stick closer to the traditional guidelines. Characters can always be pulled out of genre; it would not be amiss for the British Privateer to be a "loose-cannon cop," for isntance.


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PIRATE NAMES
Pirates are probably the luckiest characters in terms of naming. Most modern names, such as a Joseph, Robert, or William, work for pirates. However, more archaic names are still acceptable. Because the Carribean is a trading center, pirates were influenced by many cultures so all sorts of ethnic names are also applicable. Pirates are also heavy users of nicknames, so you can always substitute adjectives and descriptive terms in lieu of a proper name. In other words, just about anything works. Except Steve. I think we can all agree that Alan Tudyk is awesome even when he's got a few yards of Reaver spear sticking out of him, but Steve is just a bad name for a pirate.6


GOOD PIRATE NAMES
Three-finger Dave
Isaac Shepherd
Redbeard
Garax Linn
Crimson Jim
Peter Rimmer
Sam Waling
Killer Smith
Crom
Wallace Whitby
Samson Mathers

BAD PIRATE NAMES
Steve
Ralph8


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PIRATE STORY STRUCTURE

Pirate stories do not often begin in media res. There is frequently an introduction that sets the stage, giving the time period, introducing the pro- or an- tagonist, and occasionally establishing the Macguffin.

After that, the story usually jumps to introducing the pirate crew as well as any other characters. As soon as this is done, there is usually a beginning conflict; a short duel or shoot out. This is occasionally between protagonists. After this, the real antagonists are made clear, and there is another larger battle. The protagonists usually lose, though somehow escape.

After that is a rather slow period. Loose plot threads are tied up, the last few mysteries are solved, and the Macguffin (often buried treasure) is found. Then all hell breaks loose and the final battle begins. This is the climax of the whole story, and it is expected to be good, so you better make it so.

After that, just bring the characters back home (if they're alive) and the story's done. But not yet! The story should end on a cliffhanger, so you can make a sequel. Throw in one last scene that introduces a new character, or kills off an old one, or shows what really happened to the lost treasure, anything! It'll be worth it in the end.


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COMMON ELEMENTS

The weather is always a big deal in pirate stories. The opening scene should always be set in inclement weather. Rain, sleet, fog, class X hurricane, whatever floats your boat. Or capsizes it, as the case may be. The use of cloud cover can be a valuable asset in setting mood.

Superstition makes a frequent appearence. Pirates, as sailors, are superstitious creatures by nature. Many pirate stories portray this superstition as, well, superstition. Pirates can be easily tricked by playing to their fears. Other stories, most notably Pirates of the Carribean, make these superstitious fears a reality.

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PIRATE DIALOGUE

The best part about writing a pirate story is the dialogue.

The First Rule of Dialogue: There should be lots. As a swashbuckling tale, the pirate story should be full of witty sayings. In a duel, every thrust or parry should be accompanied by witty repertaie.

The Second Rule of Dialogue: Apostrophes are your friend. Pirates almsot never speak proper English. If a word doesn't have to be said in full, it isn't.

The Third Rule of Dialogue: Growling is acceptable and reccomended. Pirates do a lot of growling. A good growl should be placed at the beginning or end of a sentence.

Useful growls:
Yar
Yarr
Yaar
Yahar
Yaharr
Yaahar
Yahaar
Arg
Arrg
Arrrg
Arrrrg
Argh
Arrgh
Arrrgh
Arrrgh
Yarg
Yarrg
Yarrrg
Yargh
Yarrgh
Yarrrgh
Grr
Grrr
Grar
Grarr
Grarrg
Grarrgh

The Fourth Rule of Dialogue: Directed sentences should end in mate, or matey. Make sure you choose one, rather than switching between the two. They can also be placed in the middle of the sentence at an appropriate stop if neccessary, or even at the beginning. But mate, be careful of overusing them, mate, or it'll get really annoying, mate. Pirates use mate like Canadians use eh. For everyone's sake, don't write a Canadian pirate.

A Special Case: The word "you" should never, ever, be written out in pirate dialogue. Both "y'" and "ye" are acceptable replacements. One or the other should be used, most characters should not switch, except in mid-sentence to emphasize a difference in tone. "Yew" should be used in the case of the plural, as in "Yew lot!". When "you" appears in the predicate, especially as the last word, "Yeh" is also an acceptable variant.

SAMPLE CORRECTIONS:
Here are some sample sentences to emphasize how dialogue should go.

Wrong: Captain, the enemy is attacking at the forecastle!
Right: Yarr, Cap'n, th' rapscallions be attackin' th' fo'c'sle!

Wrong: Okay everyone, you can stand up now.
Right: On yer feet, yew scab'rous dogs!

Wrong: Good evening, sir, would you like something to drink? I can make you some tea if you'd like.
Right: Don't. Just don't.


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SAMPLE STORY
Here's a short sample pirate story. As we go along, I'll show you what the author does that is characteristic of the genre. Note, of course, that as most pirate stories are fairly sizable, portions have been shortened for length.

The Treasure of New Berington

A good title is worth a thousand words. By naming the MacGuffin right off the bat, the audience is immediately enticed. What exactly is the treasure of New Berington?

"Storm's a-coming." The rolling seas heaved up and spilled over the sides of the ship. The heavy waves sloshed across the deck, leaving a fine mist in the air. The pirate ship knifed its way through the rolling waves.

"Storms's coming." The skies above the stoney fortress began to darken. The clouds snuck in and coverd the sun. In the last fading light, the two frigates bearing the Union Jack slipped out of the dock and onto the open sea....
* * *

First, we establish the setting. Note the bad weather. Also, we see how the author is playing up the similarity between the British and the pirates. This is a common theme.

In the 17th century, pirates ruled the Spanish Main. No coastal village, town, or city was safe. The worst pirate, or best depending on your point of view, was Captain Francis James Abadar. He was captured thrice by British authorities, but escaped each time. He kidnapped the governor of Kingston for a king's ransom, and sunk at lest a dozen ships to Davy Jones's Locker. His ship, the Albatross was the largest and fastest ship in the Carribean. In 1627, he raided New Beringon and came away with all the gold in the king's treasury. But his nemesis, Commodore Arnold Thatcher, was anchored just south of the town and began pursuit...

Now we have our "history." The time, the names, and the setting are all set forth in a ruthlessly efficient manner. This particular format also allows this story to start as close to in media res as a pirate story can.

The HMS Mariner rode across the waves. The salty water swelled and rolled as pure water from above slammed into the froth. A single figure, clad in the blue and white, stood at the prow. The long dark hair was pasted to his head by the rain, and he clasped the steering wheel with a death-grip. As he turned the ship through the chaos, he sang softly, too himself. "And now the stormblast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong : He struck with his o'ertaking wings, And chased us south along." He whistled a bit in a lighter tone.

The first descriptive sequence establishes the setting and sets the tone for the work. The helmsman alone in the storm, usually singing, is a stock sequence. The song, in this case, is The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Given the work's dating, this reference is anachronistic, but that is acceptable. Note that the names of the ships are Mariner and Albatross.

"Shut yer rambling!" yelled a voice from inside the cabin. "Th' weather's bad enough wi'out listenin' to ye' sing!" A peal of thunder reinforced the point and the helmsmen went silent.

Inside the cabin, Commodore Thatcher was examining a map with his aides. "This weather's not kind to anybody. Abadar will seek shelter here." He jabbed the map on the south side of an island just south and east of New Berington. "There's a cove there; he'll be making for it. But we can cut him off here." He pointed slightly to the north. "Johnson, tell the helm to change course."

As a British officer, Thatcher is of high-class, and so does not use standard pirate parlance.

"Yessir." One of the bluejackets left the cabin, crouching low against the rain.

"But sir," protested another, one who was younger than the rest, "How do you know it's Abadar?

The Commodore glared at him. His blue eyes were alight with fire, but he spoke calmly, "No other pirate would be so brazen."

"What about Hancock?"

"Dead."

"McMullers?"

"Imprisoned last month."

"Finch?"

"Sunk off Tortuga"

"Ottson?"

"Retired."

"Freemark?"

"Enslaved in Tripoli."

"Abadar."

"Exactly."

This rapid-fire exchange is another staple, though it can be difficult in a literary medium. The specific usage of listing people and their fates is a frequent use of this.

The young soldier stood silently for a second, completely overwhelmed by the rapid fire exchange. "But sir..." he finally spoke, "There are dozens of pirates, how can we be sure it's him?"

Thatcher picked up his pipe from the table and began to stuff it with tobacco. He didn't look up. "I've always been clear about my policies regarding questioning my orders." He struck a match and lit the pipe. "Kill him."

The Commodore's bodyguard's picked up the youth and dragged him out of the cabin, though he protested all the way. There was a scream and then a splash.

We now see that Thatcher is representative of the "Devil" archetype, and this is certainly not a BPS.

Far away, though not as far away as he would have liked to be, Captain Abadar was being predictable. "We'll shelter t' th' south o' Tarin's Isle," he said, "Helm, bring us about."

"Yessir," the helmsman complied.

Abadar hobbled off across the deck, his wooden leg splashing in the pools of water. "Damned weather," he cursed, "Rain always gets in me eye." He rubbed at his right eye. The left was coverd with a black patch.

His first mate, a tall, thin man named Sorenson, scampered across the deck towards him. Sorenson's most distinguishing feature was a horribly ostentatious hat, wide-brimmed with a huge fether to one side. The feather, at the moment, was rather droopy and waterlogged.
"Cap'n, there's a sail on th' horizon."

"Who is't?" growled the pirate.

"Can't say in this weather, sir. Too far away."

"Grar, don't bother me, then." Abadar opened the cabin door and went down belowdecks. A small number of crew were gambling. The clatter of dice echoed above the noise of drinking, snoring, and money sliding across a small wooden table. Without stopping, Abadar drew his pistol and shot the nearest man in the head. The unfortunate victim toppled backwards, dead. The rest of the gamblers leapt to their feet. The table fell over with a crash, sending pieces of eight scattered across the floor. Sparing a glance at their captain, who continued walking past, the pirates dove for the money.

The scene of pirates carousing is another staple that is almost a requirement. We also see that Abadar is also a "devil" archetype, meaning this story is one that casts both sides as villainous.

Sorenson slipped in out of the rain and closed the door behind him. The dumped his hat upside-down, emptying the water. Slipping through the massive throng of pirates diving for gold, he fell into step behind Abadar. "Why'd ye shoot Binkley, sir?"

"Din't like th' way he looked. 'Arf t' show th' crew who's in charge ev'ry so often."

Abadar's justification comes from Blackbeard. The infamous pirate used the same excuse for maiming his gunner Israel Hands.

"Too true, sir, too true," agreed Sorenson. But his clenched teeth and downward glance showed otherwise.

Sorenson is showing the early signs of being the "Cold-Hearted Mercenary" archetype, though unfortunately in short format the story doesn't have much chance to delve into it.

"Sail t' th' nord, cap'n!" Lt. Bursar, a rather portly man with a small scruff of beard, lowered his spyglass and looked at Commodore Thatcher. "I t'ink its th' Albatross."

A note here: Commodore is not technically a rank; its a title meaning the bearer has direct command over both ships. Hence Bursar's calling Thatcher "cap'n" is appropriate.

"The winds at our back," said the Commodore, "We have them. Send the Viceroy to flank."

"Yessir." The Lieutenant disappeared into a cabin. A lantern flickered on, and the shutters opened and closed, sending a coded message across the blue.

"Captain Trevalyn, we've picked up a message from the Mariner." The young officer dropped his salute as the Captain acknowledged it.

Trevalyn took a sip of wine before replying. 'What does Thatcher want now?"

"They've spotted the pirates. They want us to flank them."

Trevalyn jumped to his feet. His desk shook, and the wineglass toppled over, crashing to the floor. "Flanking? Again? That rapscallion just wants to take all the glory for himself! Damn the sea, damn the pirates, and damn the Commodore, we're taking this one ourselves. Ready the men, give the order to engage."

"Yessir."

The smaller ship angled closer toward the black sails.

A common theme in not just pirate stories is "Evil Turns on Itself."

"'Tis def'nent'ly British, cap'n. Can't make out a name in this weather." Sorenson's words confirmed the pirate's doom.

"They're on t' us, then," growled Abadar, "But we don' go down easy! Run out the guns!"

The hodgepodge crew scrambled about, making ready for battle. Two gunners, Messers and Mathers, began to redy their cannon. Messers picked up a cannonball and began loading it into his gun. "Do y' think we'll make it?"

"Course we will," said Mathers, loading the gunpowder, "Cap'n'll find a way out, surer than y' can say abracadabra."

"Aberrawhat?"

"Never y' mind. Look, we outgun 'em,iffen we can get th' wind we can outrun 'em. We're only in trouble if they hit us wi' chain shot."

"Aye," agreed Messers, "We might make it yet."

We see here the introduction of the bantering duo.

The English cannoneer saluted. "Captain Trevalyn, the Chain Shot is loaded and ready."

"Good," nodded the officer, "use it as soon as you have the range."

They say, on the blue, that before battle, there is a sudden calm. They say, on the blue, that during a battle, sometimes you lose your sense of hearing. The endless rain finally ceased, and the sun peeked through a break in the clouds. Then there was silence.

At times, its best to pull back from the action and be rather metaphysical. It's the final battle where descrition is needed, this also helps you to not overdo it too early.

The first British volley fell short, splashing just in front of the larger ship. The second volley tore through the bulwarks, sending men and splinters firing. Then the pirates returned fire, sending spheres of death into the blue-shirted men. Then, silence died. There was a whirring sound followed by a KRAAAAAAAAK! as the chain shot severed the mast. The mighty pillar thundered down, crashing backwards onto the British ship to make a bridge.

The phrase "all hell broke loose" doesn't begin to apply. All the spawn of Abaddon could not produce such noise, such confusion. Perhaps if the Gates of Hell were thrown into the dust and then beneath the seventh layer another, greater Hell was found, an adequate description would exist. If we, as humans, could look upon the primal force of chaos in all its glory without being driven mad, then, then we might be able to produce an adjective. But our mortal minds cannot handle that woebegotten strain. And so, as an author, I am left with but one, albeit inferior, solution:

All hell broke loose.

The horde of blue scrambled across the makeshift bridge. A peal of fire cleared away the first wave, sending bodies toppling into the sea. When the smoke cleared, swords and axes were drawn, and the battle began in earnest.

Sorenson was at the front of the pirate line. He ducked under an overeager bayonet thrust and plunged his cutlass into the Briton's chest. He yanked out the bloody blade with a flourish, and promptly disemboweled another soldier. Amidst the shouting and the clanging he heard the crack of a flintlock and felt a searing pain across his arm. He cried out and dropped his blade. He glanced and his wounded limb; it was just a scratch, thankfully. But his weapon was lost in the scuffle. He reached into his sock for a knife, but not fast enough. A rifle-butt struck him in the head and he fell into blackness.

Now we zoom in on the important characters with rapid battle sequences.

Abadar hacked through the British, laughing like a madman. His broad-bladed scimitar left a bloody swathe behind him. "C'mon, yew Jacks! There ain't a man among yeh! Ain't there anyone t' fight me!" He hacked through the back of another soldier, severing the spine in a cloud of red. As his victim fell away, he found himself face to face with Captain Trevalyn. The Captain was covered in blood, one eye was black and his wig was askew. "Ye be the man who wrecked me ship!" Abadar roared, "I'll be killin' ye and takin' yers, then! Haarr!" His scimitar flashed, and the end of Trevalyn's cutlass clattered to thee deck. Left holding the broken hilt, the unfortunate captain stepped back once, twice, then turned and fled. Abadar stood and watched him go.

Trevalyn wasted no time in his flight. "Lost!" he raved as he ran, "All lost!" Reached his gunwales, he tore the nearest cannon away from the gunners and, with effort, spun it around to point at the deck.

"Is it loaded?" he asked.

The stunned gunner could only nod slowly.

"Good." Trevalyn lit the fuse.

The gunner found his tongue. "Sir! No! You can't! We'll-"

The cannon when off with a roar, tearing through the wood. The ship rocked. Water began to burble up through the hole.

"This is the end then," said Trevalyn, "Draw your swords men, we'll fight to the last."

Sacrificing the ship so the pirates don't get it is a frequent occurance

It was done before the waves claimed the Viceroy. No quarter was asked, and none was given. The surviving pirates dumped the blue bodies into the deep, letting them go down with their fallen ship.

The phrase "No quarter was asked, and none was given" or a variant thereof, is a stock phrase. use it.

Commodore Thatcher put down the spyglass. "The damn fool engaged too early."

"Sir?" queried an attendant, "What are your orders?"

"Take a bearing back south. Without a mainsail, Abadar has no choice but to make for the nearest island. We could overbear him now, but if we swing around, we can catch him while he anchors and half his men are ashore. Yes, that should work."

"And so it will," agreed the attendant.

* * *
This end the first "Act" The stage has been set, the first blows have been struck. It is now time for the finale (this being a short story).

A dark day lead to a darker night, but as the red sun rose the sky was clearer the ever. The damaged Albatross was anchored in a sandy cove. The broken ship seemed out of place next to the majestic trees that the beach disappeared into. Seagulls wheeled overhead, but there was no sign of life besides.

As before, we open with description.

6 canoes slipped into the bay, each one carrying six soldiers. Commodore Thatch was crouched in the bow of the lead ship. "Sssshh..." he hissed. The oars rose and fell in unison as the crafts moved forward.

The ambush with the crew waiting in canoes in another stock scene.

"Quiet!" growled Abadar. The surviving pirates, no more than a score, crouched in the lower decks of the Albatross. Abadar grabbed an unfortunate rogue by the scruff of his shirt, "Where be Sorenson?"

Not all real references have to be direct. when Blackbeard was cornered at Ocracoake, Lt. Maynard had his crew pull this trick to lure the pirates out. Now, Abadar uses it in reverse.

"I-" stuttered the pirate, "I ent seen him, cap'n, honest!"

"I saw 'im, Cap'n" said another pirate.

"Quiet!" growled Abadar, "But speak yer piece."

The pirate lowered his voice to a whisper, "Took a wound durin' th' fight, we 'ad 'im laid up in the kitchens, but then he left. Last night, he took some vittles and those two lads, whassernames, Mathers and Messers? They took the longboat t' land, said 'twas yer orders, they did."

"Dagon's breath, a pox on 'im! I'll kill 'im meself! After I finish with Thatcher, that is." A floorboard creaked above.

We see the "Evil turns on itself" idea again.

"Looks deserted, sir," came the voice of a British soldier, filtered through the wood.

"Doesn't feel right. Something's wrong here," said Thatcher.

A trapdoor behind him burst open and Abadar leapt out, his sabers glinting in the sunlight. His motley crew leapt out behind him. Thatcher's reflexes were well honed, and he managed to leap away from Abadar's blow. His soldiers were less lucky, six of them fell to quick thrusts before they could ready their weapons.

Well inland, Sorenson heard the sounds of battle. "Tha' shoul' distract 'em for a bit," he said, "and this place is as good as any. Yew two, start diggin'."

"Aye, sir." chorused Mathers and Messers. They began to unsheathe shovels from their backs.
"Dig seperate holes, so there's a decoy," he eyed the ornate chest taken from New Berington greedily, "We don' want this fallin' into wrong 'ands."

Once surprise was lost, the pirates began to lose ground. With discipline and numbers on their side, the British soldiers were making short work of the buccaneers. Abadar and Thatcher were dueling on the fo'c'sle. Abadar's heavy scimitar had been lost, and now both combatants were wielding cutlasses. Abadar was bleeding from a good score of wounds. "Ye'll never take me alive, Commodore," growled the pirate captain.

"The thought never crossed my mind." Thatcher drew a flintlock pistol and unloaded it into Abadar's chest. The huge pirate staggered back.

A variant of this phrase is another common set of ddialogue.

But he didn't fall. "I'm not tha' easy to kill." He spat blood and charged. Thatcher plunged his cutlass into the pirate up to the hilt. Abadar's wild blow caught the officer across the head and sent him sprawling against the gunwale.

The huge bearded man drew his own pistol and leveled it as the commodore. "I'm goin' t' th' gates o' hell, mayhap, but ye'll be joined me for sure." Then he staggered, and fell to his knees. He tried to reaim the gun, but he couldn't. With one last final act of defiance, he spat at the British officer. Then he collapsed fully, dead.

Abadar's death, like much else, recalls Blackbeard. The pirate was supposedly bleeding from 3 pistol shots and a score of wounds before he finally fell.

"Yew lot finished yet?" growled Sorenson.

"Aye, matey, this should do 't," said Mathers, scrambling out of his hole and leaning on his shovel.

Messers climbed out of his hole and nodded his assent, "Ought t' be deep enuff"

"Good," said Sorenson. He drew his pistol and shot Mathers between the eyes, then ran Messers through with his cutlass. The two bodies fell gracefully into the fresh graves. "That worked well enuff," said Sorenson. The pirate lifted the chest and began making his way to the southwest.

"You mean to tell me," growled Thatcher, "That you've searched this entire ship and you haven't found the Berington chest?"

Lt. Bursar winced, fearing his captain's onslaught, "Ye-yessir."

There was a bang and a series of squaks. A small column of birds lifted above the treeline to the north. "They went inland..." whispered Thatcher. Then he switched to his ordering voice. "Bursar, take two men and form up on me. We're going in; we'll have to find it before its buried too deep."

Bursar's eyes lit up. A smile almost creeped across his face, but didn't. The assaying of the Commodore's wrath was merely temporary. "Yessir, right away sir."

Sorenson ran through the jungle carrying his special cargo. He knew if he could reach his longboat he could row out to the next island and be away scot-free. Not ever Abadar would be able to catch him. He chuckled at his brilliance and he leapt over a small log. The laugh died in his throat. He had entered a clearing full of British soldiers. Thatcher's pistol was aimed straight at his head.

"Game's up, pirate. I'm in a good mood, so if you'll just hand over the chest, I'll let you go."

"I-" Sorenson's statement, whether refusal or acceptance of the deal was interrupted by another pistol cocking. A bedraggled figure clad in what had once been Navy Blue clambered out of the underbrush. His pistol was pointed at Thatcher.

"Forgetting t' invite ol' friends t' th' party? Ye threw me overboard, Commodore." His voice was layered with ire. "But I can swim. I swore I'd get revenge, and it seems I have."

Thatcher gulped. None of his men moved. "You shoot me, this man dies."

The "Mexican Standoff" is a common conflict in Pirate stories.

"I'm not his friend." The ex-shipman fired. Thatcher fired too, but Sorenson was already moving. The pistol shot ripped the hat from his head, put left the pirate untouched. The Commodore was not so lucky; his brains splattered across the grass.

Dropping the chest, Sorenson fired his pistol once, and Thatcher's killer fell. He tossed the smoking weapon aside. There was no time to reload. He drew a pair of cutlasses and charged.

Leaping forward, he slashed the throat of the closest soldier. Another came at him from behind, but he spun the swords around and fell backwards, burying both blades in the warriors chest. Then he turned on the last Briton.

Lt. Bursar dropped his rifle and stepped back, hands raised. "I-- I surrender. Even pirates have their codes. You wouldn't kill an unarmed man with nothing to loot, would you?"

Sorenson glared at him as he retrieved his hat. "No, I can't say I would. Catch!" He tossed his off-hand cutlass. Reflexes acting too fast, Bursar grabbed the blade from the air, and Sorenson buried the other in his belly.

Once more, we see a cliched sequence used to kill off cowards.

The pirate wiped both swords in the grass, picked up the chest, and continued his race to the longboat.

* * *
Three days out to see, he spotted a schooner. The captain, a gaunt man with shaved head hauled the pirate aboard. "Thank ye, sir," said Sorenson as he clambered over the bulwark. "What's yer name? What's yer country?"

"I have neither," said the gaunt man.

Sorenson paused, confused. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing that concerns the dead," said the gaunt man. Sorenson never saw him move, but sure enough a rapier hilt was embedded in his chest. The gaunt man drew it out slowly as Sorenson's body toppled back into the sea.

Slowly, the old sailor examined the chest. "This," he said, "is an interesting development."

And now the sequel is set up. The end.




FOOTNOTES
1. "Easy" is figurative. If you have a difficult time creating pirate characters, I have no liabity.
2. Firefly is not, per se, a pirate story, though it shares many elements and character types, and thus makes for a good example in this case.
3. The Greek god of luck.
4. For a less-flattering, but just as entertaining, portrayal, see Rincewind in Interesting Times.
5. In layman's terms, Robin Hood on the water.
6. The debate is out on exactly why Steve is a bad time for a pirate. My personal opinion is that is results from the pirate tendenct to trill long vowels, making it Steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeve, which is rather annoying. Another suggestion is that Steve is a cubicle worker's name, and thus has no place in piracy. Another person suggested that it is all Alan Tudyk's fault, and his portrayal of Steve the pirate ruined the name for any future pirates.7
7. That person, of course, has been hunted down and shot.
8. The name of Ralph is also up for debate. Ralph Kiner is one of the greatest Pirates of all time, but in this case he doesn't really count.

Shuffle

Shuffle
Written: 2006
Synopsis: Guy loses girl. Some hallucinations. Possibly deep, but probably just emo.
----------------



This is my story. This is not my story. This is your story. This is everyone's story, and the cast is everyone you ever knew. She is the girl. The one you loved, the one who meant something to you. He is him. He needs no further introduction, I think, but if I must, he is the one she loved. The one you had to fight, the one you had to hate. You are the author. You are me and I am you and we are everybody. I am the walrus. Coo-coo-ca-choo and all that.
- - -
Shuffle
American Pie - Don McLean

A long, long, time ago. That's when it starts. That's when all stories start. And when all stories end, if they come to an end. Not all of them do. This one doesn't. Any tale becomes a tale of the past. Even if it was not written as such it shall become one, as the now melts away and the future becomes the now. So it goes.

Shuffle
Funeral/Rebuilding Serenity - David Newman

Music used to make me smile. Now all it does it make me sigh. What's a man to do when all seems lost? The cards have been dealt, and you can bluff your way to the top, but when you finally get called, can you still win? I lean back in my chair, lean back more than is really necessary, and dream of better odds, of possible futures.

Shuffle.
Duel of the Fates - John Williams

I knew if I had my chance, I could take him out. And this is it. I see him coming. I have a sword in each hand. I toss one to him. This has to be done honourably. He makes the first pass, I block. The metal echoes into the void that surrounds us. I counterattack, and everything falls away. There is nothing else. There is only the duel, there is only the dance. Nothing else exists. It lasts for eons. Empires rise and fall, great civilizations are dashed into the dust. Universes are born, suns die. Then she is there. I see us reflected in her face, the fear etched across her visage. My concentration wavers. I do not feel the metal biting into my neck. I do not feel the hot blood spraying from my jugular vein.

Shuffle.
Wheel of Fortune - Hans Zimmer

I see him coming again. I drive one of the swords into the asphalt and step back. He draws it out. This time I make the first move, driving hard at his flank. His parries and counter-attacks, and the world slips away once more. I see the whole of existence spread out before me. A massive hand stretches out across the starry heavens. Cards flutter down, each one dealt is another clash of metal. The Ace of Hearts floats down before me, then the Knave and the 10 of the same suit. The King of Hearts follows shortly thereafter. Then the Queen of Hearts is falling towards me, and its face is her face, and I meet her eyes. I blink, and glance away. My concentration holds, and this Royal Flush fortells my fate. Nothing can stop me now. My sword rends muscle and bone, and he is torn apart. But the cards keep falling, and her screams echo in my ears even as she tumbles away across the stars. It makes me shiver.

Shuffle
Flamenco Sketches - Miles Davis

Everything is merely a reflection of who you know, and who the people you know know. A few dollars in the right hands can make a world of difference. One day he doesn't show up. He left home and no one ever sees him again. No body is ever found, but I know what happened. My friends held up their end of the bargain. I console her in her grief, and then we're together, for a while. But the pain eats through my mortal soul, devouring so completely music cannot save it.

Shuffle
It's Not My Birthday - They Might be Giants

Sometimes fate plays Baccarat. Two cards are easier then five. She's the nine of hearts, a winning hand by itself. But you need two cards to play, and he's the ace of clubs, leering out at me from the unlucky clover. Together, they make nothing, nothing at all. I know I'm out of luck. I can call for another card, but the odds are not in my favour. They never were.

Shuffle
The Switch - David Arnold

I followed them to the mall. A trenchcoat to guard my form, a cap and sunglasses to hide my face. They never saw me coming. But the odds are wrong, and he's still ready. He ducks and my first shot passes over his head and into a coatrack. Then he's charging at me, and I'm tumbling back across the racks. The shirts are falling everywhere and people are running helter skelter. I pull the trigger again. I don't hear the report, I realize I can't hear anything, but blood blossoms on his shirt and red trickles down his mouth as he collapses. She's there, her mouth is open, I think she's screaming but I cannot hear her. She stares at me, and her eyes are so full of hatred it hurts more than any bullet wound.

Shuffle
The Fool on the Hill - The Beatles

Sometimes I just watch. I can see everything, everything that was, everything that will be, everything that won't be. My mind arcs across the possibilities, and he pops up each time, heading me off. They say that life's a stage, and if so then he's a damned good actor. I clench my fists and howl at the injustice. It feels good to scream. But it doesn't help anything.

Shuffle
Calico Skies - Paul McCartney

Sometimes you sit down to a game and you get a great hand on the first go. No drawing, no bluffing, no tricks. He never existed, never will exist. I sit with her on the hilltop, watching the starry skies, no city lights to counter their glow, no zepellins to obstruct their eternal gaze. Nothing is wrong, and yet everything is. It's not real, never will happen, never can happen. Hope fails, and the Challenger explodes.

Shuffle
He's a Pirate - Klaus Badelt

What are the odds? Just numbers determining a random fate. A million to one? 3,270 to one? Ten to one? Is that all that life is? A random hand, a stock deal? We are nameless, we are faceless, we are nothing in the grand scheme of eternity. But not everything can be random. There has to be hope. Never tell me the odds.

Shuffle
A Narnian Lullaby - Harry Gregson-Williams

I cannot always know the odds. He drifts in and out of my vision, but I can feel his presence like a weight on my back. Then he's gone, and I don't know why. I spot her in the hall, and I ask her for some happy news. She just smiles and turns away. Have I done something wrong? Has he done something I know not of? I hate him all the more for not knowing.

Shuffle
Anakin's Betrayal - John Williams

Everything changes. Probabilities shift, the odds are changed. What has happened may have happened, what has not happened may never happen. What has happened never happened, and what will happen never will. She went out with him yesterday and never came back. Was she killed? Is he dead? Did they run off to a better place? Did they catch the last train for the coast? I look for answers, but there are none to be found.

Shuffle
The End of All Things - Howard Shore

It ends in fire. Most things do. I cannot win against the oppresive tide and I am swept away. She goes on, she does not. He goes on, he does not. It doesn't really matter anymore. You cannot fight fate. So I'll just wait here, biding my time. Nobody's perfect, certainly not me and least of all him. Sooner or later, he'll make a mistake. When he does, I'll be ready. I'll be waiting. Waiting hurts, and sometimes every day feels like it'll be the day that I die, but patience is a virtue, as they say. And so I wait.

To Slay a Dragon

To Slay a Dragon
Written: 2006
Synopsis: A pair of astronauts find themselves fighting a dragon for all humanity.
----------



The balance shifted. The very eddies and currents of the oceans reversed, and in the center of the Pacific, a gargantuan whirlpool opened up. There was a horrible crack as the sheer force of the water sundered solid rock. Islands were sucked down into the massive horror. The Solomons were the first to go, the Fiji, then Tonga, and the Marianas. Hawaii lasted a second longer, then it too disappeared into the void. Australia sank, and the western part of California snapped off into the abyss. And then, from inside the cataclysm, it rose from the depths. Its blue scales glittered in the light. Its talons flexed, ready to rend and tear. As it cleared the water, it unfurled leathery wings and bellowed forth a terrible roar. The dragon had risen


***
D+0. Space Station ST321
***


Jason McNamath stared down at the destruction. "I told you so," said George.

George had, actually. It had been only twelve days ago when George had said, "If you activate this device, a giant whirlpool will open up in the Atlantic and a long-forgotten dragon will rise from the depths." Admittedly, he had guessed the wrong ocean, but he had still been mostly right.

"You were right. Now what do we do?"

"We fight."


***
D-17 Days. Arcite Laboratories.
***


"Are you sure this will work, Jase?" George and Jason were walking through the long white corridors of the laboratory.

"Of course it will. You've seen the data, why won't you believe me?"

George spoke hesitantly "It's not that I don't believe you, but...."

"But what? We're saving the world, George. We'll be heroes!"

"You and your heroism! You place too much faith in ancient texts. A barely translatable work taken from an ancient pyramid is no basis for a scientific experiment of this magnitude!"

"And why not?" Jason stopped and turned on his friend, "People are dying, George, and this might be able to stop that. Can you stand by and let them suffer when we have the chance to save them? Anyway, what do we have to lose? Earth is a barren wasteland. Everyone's been evacuated for years now, except for people like us."

"I still don't like this, Jason. But let's go ahead."

"Thanks, George. It'll work, trust me on this."


***
D+1 minute. Space Station ST321
***


"We have to evacuate the station. Get to the shuttles," said George.

"Look at it, George! Isn't it magnificent?" Jason stared through the viewpoint in rapture.

"Dammit, Jase, yes, but it's going to kill us! Run!"

"Run... yes.. right..." Jason wrenched his head away from the viewport. "I'm okay. Let's go."


***
D-12 years. Parkway North High School. Earth.
***


"Blast it, nothing works anymore!" Jason punched the air angrily.

"What's wrong, now?" sighed George. People rushed past them in the halls, racing to classrooms like a herd of cattle heading for the slaughter.

"Nobody believes anymore," lamented Jason, "No honour, no courage. No minds. Look at them, George. Watch them in the halls. What's the point to it all?"

"I would like to point out that we are in the halls heading to class as well."

Jason dodged a football player who wasn't paying attention to where he was going. "And that's the worst of it. But it doesn't really matter. It's our last year, we'll get out of here, and then..."

"And then what?"

"I don't know. In the stories, the hero always slays the dragon, gets the girl, and lives happily ever after."

"Sounds good."

"But there are no dragons anymore."


***
D+6 Minutes. Solar System.
***


The two shuttles, white, pristine, and bristling with armaments, blasted away from the space station. Jason toggled a couple dials on the console. A small screen began showing what was happening behind him.

The whirlpool had disappeared, and the dragon was looking about at its new environment. It glanced upward, staring straight into Jason's eyes.

"No! It's a camera! It can't see me!" protested Jason to no one in particular. The dragon leapt upwards, away from earth, with a speed matching the shuttle's. With a single swipe of it's claw, it shredded the space station, barely pausing in its pursuit.

George's voice crackled over Jason's intercomm, "It's following us already. Was that part of the plan?"

Jason keyed his own transmitter. "No, but we can deal with it. We'll lose it in the asteroid belt. Switching to manual controls."


***
D-5 Days. Arcite Laboratories
***


"You don't care, do you?" asked George.

Jason screwed a bolt on the gigantic contraption. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You don't care if this summons a dragon. You just want to kill one. You've always wanted too."

Jason tightened the bolt a few more times than was absolutely necessary. "Listen to me!"

"This will work," exploded Jason "Dragons don't exist, dammit!" he hurled his wrench across the room where it hit the wall with a smash. "Stop talking nonsense! Get to work!"


***
D+8 Minutes. The Asteroid Belt
***


"You sure about this?" said George, "Flying into the Belt on manual? You're crazy"

"It'd have to be crazy to follow us," replied Jason with a smile.

"Always Star Wars quotes with you, isn't it? But this is different! Our lives are at stake!"

"Got a better idea?"

"No, but -"

"Then stop arguing. Here goes nothing."

Jason guided his shuttle into the ring of rocks. Weaving and twisting, he dodged the space debris. Checking the monitor, he saw the dragon behind him smashing though the rocks. He glanced up just in time to yank the ship out of an asteroid's path. He dove down under another rock but found himself trapped between three more. He pulled a trigger, sending a pair of missile shooting from the craft's wingtips. The front asteroid exploded in a shower of fragments and Jason flew through the cataclysm. Shooting out of the flames, he saw no more rocks. He had cleared the belt. He keyed the transmitter.

"I'm clear, George. You alright?"

George's voice came through clearly. "I'm green. You look a bit singed. Are you stable?"

"I'm ok. Lemme see, engines are down to 99.7%... nothing that bad. Looks like the rocks at least slowed it down a bit. Let's keep to the plan."


***
D-3 Days. Arcite Laboratories.
***


Jason and George sat at a small table. George had an ancient-looking book in front of him.

"I agree," said Jason, "that we should be prepared for all eventualities. I still think you're crazy, mind you, but better safe then sorry."

"Alright. It seems that the monster gets bigger with each summoning. The first summoning occurring almost 8,000 years ago in Albion." said George, looking at the book.

"And how did they kill it?"

"Actually, they didn't. It was so small and mostly harmless so they left in the local lake. The next one, the one using the book we are, was in the time of Narmer in Egypt. It seems they hurled rocks at it until it fled."

"Right. This is helpful. If I ever meet a dragon, I'll be sure to remember 'throw rocks at it.'" said Jason sarcastically.

George glared at him. "The most recent was almost 2000 years ago, in Nicomedia. That one they stabbed with a lance, and tamed it before killing it."

"That sounds a bit more effective. So what will we do?"

"That's the problem," said George, "The dragon seems to grow exponentially with each summoning. If my calculations are correct, our dragon will be the size of Australia."

"Australia," echoed Jason. "Well, we can still throw rocks at it. Not likely to miss a target that big," he joked

"That's my idea." said George seriously, "We just need bigger rocks. Something almost planet-sized."

"Like Pluto?"

"Exactly. If my theory is correct, that will cause it to revert to the next smallest size, and then our missile launchers can easily take care of it."

"Works for me. Of course, you're still crazy."


***
D+18 Minutes. Pluto.
***


"It's starting to catch up again," muttered George.

"S'okay, we can make it. Say, how does it breathe in space?"

"I don't know, it's a magic, I guess. Ask me later when I'm not frightened for my life."

The two shuttles maneuvered to the dark side of the dwarf planet as the dragon closed.

"Almost there...." muttered Jason, "almost there...."

"Hey!" say George, "What'd I say about quoting Star Wars?"

"Oh yeah. Fire!" Jason reached over a pulled an exceptionally large lever. Metal doors slid apart on the underside of the shuttle and a gigantic missile was lowered out on a crane. Then, jets ignited and it flew away into Pluto. George's shuttle did the same, and the two projectiles hit simultaneously.

The explosion shredded off half of Pluto. Knocked askance from its orbit, Pluto hurtled sunwards, straight into the dragon. The monstrous beast bellowed in anger as it tumbled head over heels. Waves of energy coursed over it as it began to shrink.

Jason pulled the trigger as fast as he could, sending missile after missile into the magical reptile, creating a series of silent explosions until he was out of ammo.

"You think we got him?" he asked.

The smoke cleared, and two yellow eyes stared at him through the viewport.

"I guess not," said George, "It is smaller, though."

It was true; the dragon was only about the small size as one of the shuttles now.

"I'm out of weapons," said Jason.

"Me too," echoed George.

There was silence. Neither spoke, and the dragon continued to stare. Then the dragon exiled a gout of flame.

Jason slammed on the thrusters and dodged, as did George. "Move back sunward!" yelled Jason, "We have to lose it!"


***
D-5 Minutes. Space Station ST321
***


"This is it," said Jason, "the day the galaxy will rejoice!"

"Or the day the galaxy trembles in fear," muttered George.

"This will convert the nuclear-blasted Earth back into fresh farmland to feed the hungry!"

"Or awaken a dragon that will kill us all," said George, "Are you sure about this?"

"Of course." Jason pressed the button.


***
D+26 Minutes. Near Earth.
***


The two rockets cleared the belt and blew past Mars with the dragon right on their tail.

"What'll we do now?" yelled George over the communicator.

"Slingshot around the sun and head for Alpha Centauri for backup!" shouted Jason.

"The dragon's too close, it'll catch us!"

"Who said anything about us? I'll hold it off!" Jason began to turn his shuttle around.

"No! You'll be killed!" yelled George.

"Then I'll see you in hell!"

"Quoting Star Wars to the end," whispered George, "Good bye, Jason."

George watched on his monitor as Jason's shuttle blew past the dragon. The creature stopped and turned around. Jason tried to go past it again, but the dragon's talon tore the shuttle clean in half. George shook his head, slowly, and began to make the calculations for the slingshot.


***
D-12 Years. Parkway North High School. Earth.
***


"How can you make a name for yourself?" aksed Jason over lunch. The commons was crowded, and the dull roar of countless converstaions occuring simultaneously almost drowned out his words, "You can't go into politics without being a hypocrite, and you can't go into sports or movies without having your life scrutinized by random people and haivng every flaw blown out of proportion."

"Yeah, that's a problem, isn't it?" agreed George.

"It's not like the good old days," said Jason, "When all you had to do was slay a dragon."


***
D+27 Minutes. Wreckage of ST321.
***


All you have to do is slay a dragon. Jason woke up. It was cold in space. The dragon had torn through his ship, but he had managed to get suited up just before it decompressed. His checked his a gauge on his wrist. He had two hours worth of air.

Looking around, he noted he was in a floating scrappile. A nearby spar said ST321 on the side, and he realized he was in the wreckage of the space station. The broken spar, he noted, was rather pointy on one end. It couldn't actually work, could it?

"Hey dragon!" he yelled. He knew there was no sound in space, but the dragon was a magical being and Jason had the feeling it could hear him anyway.

It did. The beast turned and stared at the floating human. Hunger glinted in repitlian eyes as it moved in for the kill.

Jason pushed off a piece of debris as a gout of flame rushed past him. A talon swipe just missed his head, and he lunged out with his spar. The sharpened debris plunged into the dragon's chest.
White energy shot out from the point of impact and spread across the dragon. The beast began to glow, brighter than the stars, brighter then the sun. Jason shielded his eyes with one hand, but kept holding the spar. Then the dragon collapsed in on itself, massing at the spar's point into it was just a ball of light. Then it leaped away. Jason dropped the spar.

It hit the Earth's atmosphere and dispersed across it, falling down on the forsaken planet. Brown continents began to turn green. The ocean spat forth fallen islands, and those two grew lush with life. The polluted waters turned a bright shade of blue. The Earth was alive again.


***
D+6 Days. Alpha Cenaturi Colony New St. Louis.
***


"You were right, Jason. It worked," said George, "And you killed the dragon too!"

"Slew," said Jason, "You slay dragons."

"Whatever, you're a hero now, Jason!"

"I guess I'll live happily ever after now, then, huh?"

"Well..." said George, "That's the thing. Seems everyone in the area with a monster problem
wants the "Dragon-Slayer" to come help them."

"Figures. At least life is a bit more interesting now."


***
D+7 Days. Earth.
***


It awoke in the water. Fish swam in small circles around its head, and it snatched one in its powerful jaws. Bones snapped as the flippered denizen disappeared into an unnatural maw. It recalled, in its tiny brain, a vague image of two white fish that had hurt, and there had been another thing, something small. This thoughts quickly dwindled away, replaced by a more vital concept. Hungry. It swam after another fish.