Archives

I've just been looking through some of the pieces that I've written within the last few months, and I'm rather amused at what I'm finding here. I was going to write myself a piece that I've had marinating in my brain for a few weeks now (and as I was encouraged to write it this morning, I've had some new ideas) but I'm not exactly in the mood right this minute. Perhaps I should have tackled it earlier.

Anyway, back to the things I've discovered. One is a piece that started off being completely random, and then somehow magically turned itself into a Pirates of the Carribean fic. Hee hee hee, how often does that happen? A sample:

There was grit beneath his toes. His boots lay abandoned a few metres away, scuffed and forlorn. Behind him, he knew that the fire was kicking up sparks, sending little glowing ashes high into the cool air, where they winked out, defeated. Jack could feel the warmth on his back, the heat soaking though his shirt, pressing on the back of his neck like the breath of a lover. The night was chill and clear, the stars scattered over the deep sky like a handful or three of carelessly flung sand.

A bottle of wine with at least another glass in it was sunk into the sand at his side, like a faithful dog possessed of boundless loyalty. The smooth green glass looked black, but the burgundy wine was darker still. It was a good red wine, rich on the tongue and complex in its aftertaste. It asked no questions; it simply provided an alternative to thinking about the answers. He rested his hand on it for a moment, considering, then sprawled deeper into the sand, knowing that it was going to stick to his skin and stain him with the tang of salt.

There was, curiously enough for a beach, no waves crashing onto the shore, no seagulls screaming through the air. The water was almost still in this sheltered cove, which was a shame. He did so enjoy listening to the boom of the waves, the thunder of the surf greedily streaking up the sand before curling under itself in defeat.

Last time he’d been on this very same beach, it had been a lot different. There had been no warm body on the other side of the fire. He looked over to Elizabeth, her head pillowed on her arms like a child, snoring like his meanest crewmember. The gently born girls always did let their walls down after a few drinks. For a moment he considered waking her up, but no, that could wait. Besides, if they ever got off this spit of sand, the liaison would mean a world of trouble, because the girls could never keep it quiet and it would ruin everything with Will.

Ah, Will. Jack smirked. He hoisted the bottle of wine into the air in silent salute and grinned at the horizon. He downed a swallow and clapped the cork back into the bottle, dropping it carelessly into the sand where it lay, the liquid rolling in its glass prison. The poor boy had been so flustered after that first kiss. It had followed their first duel, if Jack remembered correctly. The damn blacksmith’s boy had nearly killed him a dozen times that day. He’d had such a righteous indignation burning in his eyes while he was hacking to and fro with those plain, sharp blades!


Seriously. Where did that come from?

And then I found something that I bashed out after inspiration hit me. Some of that:

My girlfriend Christie gave me his number after she’d had the accident. She swore black and blue that he made the pain vanish. Disappear. She was walking again in weeks, after the doctors told her she’d be lucky to ever get out of bed. I saw her after his visit, she walked like she hadn’t since she was sixteen, with her shoulders thrown back and that lump missing from her shoulders. I’ve known Christie for years; she’s always had posture like she’s been punched in the stomach.

That was what finally convinced me to give him – the European, a try. I followed him down a corridor that smelled faintly of cats and vodka, into a tiny kitchen with barely enough room for a little table and one chair. He gestured me into it, busying himself over the teapot. I winced as I sunk into the chair, my back letting out an audible click. The European grimaced and flapped his hands, making soothing noises like one would to a panicked horse. He turned and he poured me some tea into a mug with a clown in it. It smelled delicious, of all kinds of spices and richness that I never got out of my Lipton tea bags. I looked around for milk and sugar, but he just gave me a smile, telling me to drink. I did, and it turns out that whatever he poured me was good enough without all of that.

I actually really like this. It isn't too bad for something that I just pulled out of the air...

Hmm. Now, back to work on what I was supposed to be writing...