Row, bullies row!
Dec. 4th, 2006 08:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ellyssianI suppose it's an element of realism, all that heavy lifting on Friday feels as it did when I would row around Pocomoonshine.
Anyway, on theme as it were.
The call for the piratey stuff:
Fast Ships, Black Sails—PO Box 38190, Tallahassee FL 32315. Captains (aka editors): Ann and Jeff VanderMeer. "Fast Ships, Black Sails, to be published by Night Shade Books, wants exciting, bone-rattling pirate fiction set in the past, present, or future, covering the full spectrum of parrot-carrying, booty-taking, grappling-hook pirate adventure and fun."
3000–10,000 words; pays 5¢/word + 2 copies and share of royalties. "No simultaneous submissions. No boring stories. Electronic submissions in Word or RTF format." Snail mail subs can be sent to address above. peglegparrots at hotmail.com. Deadline: End of February, 2007.
I put together a little playlist I can run through while working on the story, to help set and keep the mood. Instant nautical mood, just add shuffle play:
(all are full albums except the last)
Anyway, enough preamble : here's a brief excerpt (that has nothing to do with A Jug of This):
... ... [Captain Ephraim] Mor had watched his crew as they departed - few looked at the ship and, perhaps coincidence, not one man of them walked past it, despite that being the quickest, most common route to reach the temporary oblivion of ale and wenches every one of them sought. Strange, also, that no others walked along the dock to study her closer - or to attempt to rob her of her golden ornament - and stranger still that none of her own crewmembers stood guard upon her deck, to prevent her from tempting a new master.
"Shouldn't the rats be leaving a boat such as that?" Mr. Cobb pointed out a thin, weasel-like man - dressed in a rather shabby suit - who walked up to the strange craft and, with no hesitation whatsoever, mounted the plank to board her.
Mor watched the man - a clerk, by all appearances, and not a very successful one - stop at the end of the plank, and reach his hand to a small box mounted on the rail.
"What the devil is he doing?"
"Looks like something in the box displeased him. Oh, he's reaching for it again."
"Something in his hand?" the mate asked as the captain lowered the glass. "What?"
"A hand."
~ ~ ~
Grimsley held the stump of a hand gingerly - as if afraid or disgusted, or both - at arms length and let it slip into the sour smelling harbor waters. ... ...
"They'll never learn," he tsked as he stepped aboard and saw the handless man, facedown on the deck not far from where he had managed to climb aboard - a good jump towards the bow from the gangway. His head had rolled about ten feet away.
~ ~ ~
"Hoy! Look! It's our friend from the Eel... why, if he doesn't have 'is very own b-buh-boat!"
Grimsley looked down in surprise at the laughing men in the jolly boat, and, quickly hung a board over the stern.
The men exchanged glances, and, with a nod from their ringleader, they began: "The Falcon, eh? She looks more like a Pigeon, iffen you ask me, eh, Mr. Jilkey?"
"Nay, Jacob... 'tho I knew the boat what bore that nameplate and that isn't she," the great bearded one said, eyes flashing with mirth and an undeniable menace.
"Oh, say it ain't so, John. I thought it was the very one, as it certainly doesn't look like that's a board what he picked off the waves or a beach... no more than the rest o' the Falcon 'ere looks more like the Flotsom or mayhaps Jetsam."
"Don't matter none. We're off the Bloodhawk, and I think we should sink our talons into this wee bird."
"I d-don't think you could. B-buh-but I need men to sail with me. I-i-if you're u-up to it." Grimsley reset his glasses again, and looked at them, so birdlike to John Jilkey's eyes that he half-thought the man might fly away.
"You," Jilkey said, pointing a grimy finger at the small man above him, "you don't think we could? Are you bloody daft, man?"
"No. S-s-send the most worthless layabout. If he can lay a hand on me, the boat is yu-yu-yours."
"And if he can't reach you?" The others bellowed at with laughter that John would even mention such a possibility.
Grimsley shrugged. "He'll be dead. Won't matter to him. The offer will still stand. I n-n-need a crew."
One of the men leaned towards Jilkey. "Should we send poor Owen, here?" he asked, his broad hand buffeting the head of the youngest looking of the lot.
"Nay, Samuel," Jilkey shook his head, then gestured towards Grimsley, "Jacob. Touch him."
"Touch him, I'll bloody well throw him arse over skull. Mind you, don't get your finery splashed, now, lads!"
With that, the first mate leapt back to the ropes and up to the wharf. He made quite a show of cracking his knuckles as he leered over at Grimsley, and then, in two large running steps he cleared the gangway and went over the rail.
... ... He was dead before he hit the water, before his legs and one arm skittered across the deck.
On the jolly boat, some faces turned pale; others livid red. Two shots rang out, one hitting the newly-placed nameplate, knocking it askew, the other narrowly missing Grimsley, who pushed his glasses back further upon his nose.
"The offer is still o-o-open," he said before turning away, ignoring the curses.
------------
The only bad news about this, is that it's shaping out to be somewhat larger than I had planned. About 5000 words, and they're just now heading out from Port Royal. Several names have already changed, most notably the mouse-rat-weasel. He retained his first name, but middle and surname shifted somewhat. The above was also modified for content and clarity after its first re-read last night.
The crew hasn't even realized the artist-formerly-known-as-Grimsley has a daughter on board. Although I'm not quite sure why he's passing his wife off as his daughter. Or if she is, in fact, his wife. That latter point may be of concern to some who seek the moral high ground, but it's of little use in a story of bloodthirsty combat and betrayal.
I suppose I will gloss over the year or two of combat and plunder - although I have to include at least one other sea battle - before Mr. El Name Changeo pulls out all the stops after being thrown overboard.
This is not the kind of pirate story where lead characters live extended lives. Adventures only continue for those who retain a significant portion of their blood and limbs.
Perhaps Jacob was the lucky one... or maybe Bill Pratt, who lent a hand in that brief walk-on part...
Anyway, on theme as it were.
The call for the piratey stuff:
Fast Ships, Black Sails—PO Box 38190, Tallahassee FL 32315. Captains (aka editors): Ann and Jeff VanderMeer. "Fast Ships, Black Sails, to be published by Night Shade Books, wants exciting, bone-rattling pirate fiction set in the past, present, or future, covering the full spectrum of parrot-carrying, booty-taking, grappling-hook pirate adventure and fun."
3000–10,000 words; pays 5¢/word + 2 copies and share of royalties. "No simultaneous submissions. No boring stories. Electronic submissions in Word or RTF format." Snail mail subs can be sent to address above. peglegparrots at hotmail.com. Deadline: End of February, 2007.
I put together a little playlist I can run through while working on the story, to help set and keep the mood. Instant nautical mood, just add shuffle play:
- Hans Zimmer - Pirates of the Caribbean 2: Dead Man's Chest soundtrack
- Men of the Robert Shaw Chorale - Sea Shanties
- Louis Killen - Sea Chanteys
- Cincinnati Pops Orchestra conducted by Erich Kunzel - Sailing
- Various Artists - Blow the Man Down
- The Dady Brothers - The Erie Canal Song (Low Bridge)
(all are full albums except the last)
Anyway, enough preamble : here's a brief excerpt (that has nothing to do with A Jug of This):
... ... [Captain Ephraim] Mor had watched his crew as they departed - few looked at the ship and, perhaps coincidence, not one man of them walked past it, despite that being the quickest, most common route to reach the temporary oblivion of ale and wenches every one of them sought. Strange, also, that no others walked along the dock to study her closer - or to attempt to rob her of her golden ornament - and stranger still that none of her own crewmembers stood guard upon her deck, to prevent her from tempting a new master.
"Shouldn't the rats be leaving a boat such as that?" Mr. Cobb pointed out a thin, weasel-like man - dressed in a rather shabby suit - who walked up to the strange craft and, with no hesitation whatsoever, mounted the plank to board her.
Mor watched the man - a clerk, by all appearances, and not a very successful one - stop at the end of the plank, and reach his hand to a small box mounted on the rail.
"What the devil is he doing?"
"Looks like something in the box displeased him. Oh, he's reaching for it again."
"Something in his hand?" the mate asked as the captain lowered the glass. "What?"
"A hand."
~ ~ ~
Grimsley held the stump of a hand gingerly - as if afraid or disgusted, or both - at arms length and let it slip into the sour smelling harbor waters. ... ...
"They'll never learn," he tsked as he stepped aboard and saw the handless man, facedown on the deck not far from where he had managed to climb aboard - a good jump towards the bow from the gangway. His head had rolled about ten feet away.
~ ~ ~
"Hoy! Look! It's our friend from the Eel... why, if he doesn't have 'is very own b-buh-boat!"
Grimsley looked down in surprise at the laughing men in the jolly boat, and, quickly hung a board over the stern.
The men exchanged glances, and, with a nod from their ringleader, they began: "The Falcon, eh? She looks more like a Pigeon, iffen you ask me, eh, Mr. Jilkey?"
"Nay, Jacob... 'tho I knew the boat what bore that nameplate and that isn't she," the great bearded one said, eyes flashing with mirth and an undeniable menace.
"Oh, say it ain't so, John. I thought it was the very one, as it certainly doesn't look like that's a board what he picked off the waves or a beach... no more than the rest o' the Falcon 'ere looks more like the Flotsom or mayhaps Jetsam."
"Don't matter none. We're off the Bloodhawk, and I think we should sink our talons into this wee bird."
"I d-don't think you could. B-buh-but I need men to sail with me. I-i-if you're u-up to it." Grimsley reset his glasses again, and looked at them, so birdlike to John Jilkey's eyes that he half-thought the man might fly away.
"You," Jilkey said, pointing a grimy finger at the small man above him, "you don't think we could? Are you bloody daft, man?"
"No. S-s-send the most worthless layabout. If he can lay a hand on me, the boat is yu-yu-yours."
"And if he can't reach you?" The others bellowed at with laughter that John would even mention such a possibility.
Grimsley shrugged. "He'll be dead. Won't matter to him. The offer will still stand. I n-n-need a crew."
One of the men leaned towards Jilkey. "Should we send poor Owen, here?" he asked, his broad hand buffeting the head of the youngest looking of the lot.
"Nay, Samuel," Jilkey shook his head, then gestured towards Grimsley, "Jacob. Touch him."
"Touch him, I'll bloody well throw him arse over skull. Mind you, don't get your finery splashed, now, lads!"
With that, the first mate leapt back to the ropes and up to the wharf. He made quite a show of cracking his knuckles as he leered over at Grimsley, and then, in two large running steps he cleared the gangway and went over the rail.
... ... He was dead before he hit the water, before his legs and one arm skittered across the deck.
On the jolly boat, some faces turned pale; others livid red. Two shots rang out, one hitting the newly-placed nameplate, knocking it askew, the other narrowly missing Grimsley, who pushed his glasses back further upon his nose.
"The offer is still o-o-open," he said before turning away, ignoring the curses.
------------
The only bad news about this, is that it's shaping out to be somewhat larger than I had planned. About 5000 words, and they're just now heading out from Port Royal. Several names have already changed, most notably the mouse-rat-weasel. He retained his first name, but middle and surname shifted somewhat. The above was also modified for content and clarity after its first re-read last night.
The crew hasn't even realized the artist-formerly-known-as-Grimsley has a daughter on board. Although I'm not quite sure why he's passing his wife off as his daughter. Or if she is, in fact, his wife. That latter point may be of concern to some who seek the moral high ground, but it's of little use in a story of bloodthirsty combat and betrayal.
I suppose I will gloss over the year or two of combat and plunder - although I have to include at least one other sea battle - before Mr. El Name Changeo pulls out all the stops after being thrown overboard.
This is not the kind of pirate story where lead characters live extended lives. Adventures only continue for those who retain a significant portion of their blood and limbs.
Perhaps Jacob was the lucky one... or maybe Bill Pratt, who lent a hand in that brief walk-on part...
