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- Middle spoon
- Me, Myself, and I
- Blue doesn't live here anymore.
There is a magical place that you won't find on any maps whose name is whispered in hushed silences between the breaths of newborn babies. Somewhere between your imagination, your dreams and the womb lies a kingdom of such enchantment and whimsy that bluebirds shed rainbow tears when they think upon it.
Lions and lambs frolic merrily in verdant meadows underneath a vermilion sky and the rivers run golden with liquid sunlight.
Is it safe?
- Once again, Sam as one of the yoof hooked me up with what's going on in the world of music. Plus I recently bought a copy of NME so I'm wiffit, innit and whatever. Foals, Friendly Fires and Spiritualized are what my ears most crave at the minute.
- Scared Of
- Flying pirhana.
- Happiest When
- On smack. In Chester. Being pushed around in a shopping trolley on a Friday afternoon.
- In Short
- A riddle wrapped in an enigma deciphered by an imbecile.
- The Other Half Of Me
My happy thought. Lost, lost...
After over four weeks of sailing, Blind Bill our navigator finally confessed his complete incompetence, having veered us so far off course that we are now in uncharted waters. I first became suspicious that he was having difficulties when I spied him drunkenly cursing the ship compass one starless night. I became ever more concerned when he dropped the sextant overboard, lost several maps, and generally the fact that he was all but blind gave me some cause for silent alarm.
The Captain being a reasonably merciful man had Bill flogged until barely alive, but alive nontheless. Unfortunately for Bill the crew being less merciful beat him to death shortly afterwards with an assortment of his own maps and charts. At least he died doing what he loved; cowering beneath the violent blows of an angry mob.
The incident led to two grim realisations. Firstly, we were now without a navigator (more on this shortly). Secondly we were now some thirty or more days off our original heading. This was serious.
It was decided that these problems would best be solved through the casting of lots. Fate was to decide on whom would fall the awesome responsibilty of remedying the situation. Naturally it fell on me. Of course it fell on me, who else could be this unlucky? I am sure I've been cursed. Anyway, fortunately for me I hold a rudimentary knowledge of basic navigation (port is left, starboard is right and so forth) thanks to a brief and ill advised stint in His Majesty's navy. (A dishonourable discharge went hand in hand with the decision to turn to piracy.)
My first order of business was trying to determine just where Bill had left us before he was "relieved" of his duty. Without any of the necessary implements, maps or charts, I decided that the best course of action would be to lie through my teeth, and reassure the crew that not only did I know what I was doing, but that in no time we would be right back on course. A second dilemma is that the ship compass refuses to point north, but instead rather curiously seems inclined to follow the captain whenever he's on deck and otherwise simply remain motionless. This is really giving me the creeps. I do plan to enquire about this at some stage, but right now the captain's love of the cat o' nine tails is putting me off. Perhaps I will gain his confidence through a display of ingenuity, dependability, courage, valour and some mild to serious boot licking. Then again perhaps he will have me keelhauled when he realises I'm equally as incompetent as poor old Bill.
I would have been much more concerned about my new appointment had I not been able to procure a little opium from another crewman. Shortly after ingestion, my fears and apprehensions lessened considerably. It was around this time that I had a vision in which Blind Bill riding on the back of a giant hermit crab showed me our course on a chart made of fire. The devil himself then stepped from a playing card which had been held aloft by a two headed woman, and proceeded to play a tune on the panflute. The next thing I remember, I was standing half naked in the ship stores and had eaten around three pounds of black powder. I will definitely regret this last meal.
All in all I had a rather restful evening...until nightfall. It was during this particularly black night that yet another of the deckhands met with a grisly end. Young Master Mandrake climbed to the crow's nest to take his watch, and while there a fog descended upon the vessel. When it lifted, he had simply vanished. The more superstitious crew members claimed the work of a sinister curse, but only I know the true nature of events. This was the work of the supposedly mythical Moonstalker. Only by the light of the full moon does this creature descend to sate it's awful bloodlust. I was sure I could hear it's unholy howls shortly after dusk. The unmistakable flapping of it's heavy leather wings fell on the deaf ears of the sleeping crew, but I was wide awake, and gripped b
1 Comment 305 weeks
The journey to Algiers (a frankly questionable haven for buccaneers, scoundrels and thieves) has begun. Weather conditions are spirit crushingly harsh, and a mutinous crew are threatening to keelhaul me. I wouldn't mind so much if I were captain, but I just woke up on board having fallen asleep under a stool in a local tavern. Have I already pushed them too far with my incessant singing of sea shanties?
The first mate has thrice tried to "run me through" with his barnacle encrusted cutlass, which he drunkenly proclaims he procured from a wild-eyed Moor somewhere about the Ivory Coast. He has for reasons known only to himself, become obsessed with the notion that I am trying to relieve him of his treasure map (another rich tapestry of a story surrounds the acquisition of this relic, but that will wait until a future entry as I have been assured that 'dead men tell no tales'). His fetid rum-laden breath thick about the air, he spews the coarsest profanities ever to pierce the swell of the seven seas and greedily clutches his precious booty close to his chest, all the while following my every move with his one grey eye.
I love every windswept grog filled second. I have learned fourteen new words of curse, have been branded with the pirating mark (which wenches love, by all accounts) and am assured of more doubloons than I could ever possibly spend in a thousand lifetimes. Camaraderie abounds and I have been placed in charge of the safety of our ten scurvy young deckhands. I must admit to feeling somewhat older and a little awkward with the young lads, but apparently I am the most likely not to sell/mutilate/worse the poor swabs, and besides they look up to me and respect my sage (though mostly useless) advice.
Each one a pressgang victim, the lads have quickly and wisely learned not to speak out of turn. The trip began two days ago with a compliment of seventeen of these plucky young blighters, but so far six have met with various suspicious ends (two "test" plank walkings, three accidental shootings and one frankly brutal fatal horseplay incident) while one poor sod stuffed himself on grain infused with rat urine. On the upside we now know: our plank is in full working order, our guns are trusty, at least one sack of grain is inedible, and that a twelve year old can only swim for three minutes in shark infested water after his ears have been cut off. Alas poor Jim, we hardly knew ye. Still, the sharks seemed satisfied. They really looked hungry.
The light is fading fast, and supplies of oil are low. The captain has some crazy notions of hunting whales for blubber to supplement our meagre rations, but until such times we must all conserve. Fortunately we have wisely brought more rum and brandy than food. A drunk sailor is a happy sailor, and a happy sailor hardly ever eats.
Until I get another chance to write I go now to fulfil my duties of beating the children and taking my turn at lookout in the crow's nest. If anyone is reading this I'm probably dead.
1 Comment 312 weeks
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