With thanks to
hereswith for the beta read, here are exactly 200 words for the current drabble challenge at
blackpearlsails.
~ Resurrection ~
The small eyes narrowed and lost focus on the here and now; the monstrous head tilted back, emanating power.
Jack looked to the sea and it seemed to simmer, then boil, and then, to his horror and wonder the tip of her mainmast appeared and climbed, then dripping spars and shredded sails; more spars as her foremast ascended, higher, higher; then her ornate taffrail, her bowsprit, and finally the deck, and then her whole hull, rising up, water gushing from her ports and scuppers.
And she was black. Every inch of her.
Jack’s heart bled the same color she’d once been, that rich, shining red, her gingerbread trim picked out in gold leaf. Gone. All gone. Red like the flames that had consumed and charred her old life, and his own, too. He felt a stinging behind his eyes for their lost innocence, and as he shifted uncomfortably, the pain of the half-healed cuts on his back reemphasized Beckett’s perfidy.
“Thirteen years, Sparrow,” said Jones, gloating. “You’ve thirteen years to sail your Wicked Wench. No more.”
But… “Not the Wench,” Jack said, his voice low but steady, to his relief. “She’s my pearl of great price, now.
My Black Pearl.”
~.~
~ Resurrection ~
The small eyes narrowed and lost focus on the here and now; the monstrous head tilted back, emanating power.
Jack looked to the sea and it seemed to simmer, then boil, and then, to his horror and wonder the tip of her mainmast appeared and climbed, then dripping spars and shredded sails; more spars as her foremast ascended, higher, higher; then her ornate taffrail, her bowsprit, and finally the deck, and then her whole hull, rising up, water gushing from her ports and scuppers.
And she was black. Every inch of her.
Jack’s heart bled the same color she’d once been, that rich, shining red, her gingerbread trim picked out in gold leaf. Gone. All gone. Red like the flames that had consumed and charred her old life, and his own, too. He felt a stinging behind his eyes for their lost innocence, and as he shifted uncomfortably, the pain of the half-healed cuts on his back reemphasized Beckett’s perfidy.
“Thirteen years, Sparrow,” said Jones, gloating. “You’ve thirteen years to sail your Wicked Wench. No more.”
But… “Not the Wench,” Jack said, his voice low but steady, to his relief. “She’s my pearl of great price, now.
My Black Pearl.”
~.~
no subject
Date: 2010-07-30 04:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-31 03:55 pm (UTC)