Disneyland and PirateFic
Off to Disneyland on the morrow to see gingersnapps. A good time will be had by all, no doubt. It's been a week, culminating with a day. I won't go into detail. Suffice it to say I need a Disneyland fix, and had to immerse myself in the writing of PirateFic tonight, besides.
Written for this week's pirates500 challenge: Sick.
Bloody Hellish
Unprecedented though it was, this fine morning First Mate Jack Sparrow reluctantly sat with the select group of crew who had been wounded in the latest of the Black Pearl’s raids.
The Lady Jane had succumbed easily enough, but through recklessness or simple bad luck, Jack had been surprised by the sword of his enemy counterpart. He’d incapacitated the man, and hadn’t even realized he’d been hit ‘til Bill had seen and exclaimed, “God’s teeth, you’re bleedin’ all over the deck, lad!” Bill had bound up the long cut, and the discomfort of this procedure left no doubt that it was bad. Lightheaded and hurting, Jack nonetheless donned his coat again and continued, ‘til his Captain had ordered him back to the Pearl with a sharp word (likely due to Bill’s interference, curse him).
Now, cooling his heels perforce and faced with the prospect of the callus and vastly experienced Mr. Grieves cleansing and stitching the cut, Jack was growing increasingly fidgety. And nauseous. Yes. His breakfast was definitely considering making a reappearance.
It was work to maintain his usual sangfroid, joining the others in nervous, ribald comments on the lamentable state of Geoff Bailey, who was having a groin wound treated. Poor Geoff, shielded from sight by a blanket hung to create a makeshift infirmary, nevertheless was much in evidence as the sounds that issued from behind the drape indicated a less than stoic attitude on the part of the patient. But then, who among them would’ve maintained silence in such a pass? At least the Bailey Jewels were intact, eh?
Eventually, Bailey was helped to a cot, white-faced but still conscious. McElroy was next, and went with a rueful smile and a roll of eyes.
“Bloody hell,” muttered Jenkins.
“Aye,” agreed Jack.
More waiting and distressing sounds. Conversation died. Jack leaned back, closing his eyes.
A nudge startled him.
“Sparrow!”
His eyes flew open. ‘Twas Grieves’s assistant.
“You’re next.”
Jack nodded and got up, and began to black out.
Steadying hands. “Easy there, sir!”
His vision cleared, but his stomach lurched. “’M all right,” he muttered.
“Sure you are.”
The blanket pushed aside, he was steered to the stained table, where Grieves sat with his instruments and a supply of blue thread. Blue?
He was helped to undress, and Bill’s blood-soaked handiwork removed.
“Won’t take but a dozen, Jack,” said Grieves cheerfully.
“Fucking wonderful, mate,” Jack drawled.
Grieves chuckled.
The table was hard, but they slipped a pillow of sorts under his head. He swallowed down bile and wished himself otherwhere as Grieves took hold.
Then the henchman said, “Wait. Turner’s comin’.”
Frowning, Jack turned his head. The drape was pushed aside, and Bill came in and sat down on a stool next to him. Jack scowled. “I don’t bloody need you to hold me hand, Bill.”
Bill’s eyes narrowed, fond amusement in them, and a touch of pity. “Shut up, Jack,” he said, and held Jack’s hand tight, anyway, and held the bucket for him, too, later.
Written for this week's pirates500 challenge: Sick.
Bloody Hellish
Unprecedented though it was, this fine morning First Mate Jack Sparrow reluctantly sat with the select group of crew who had been wounded in the latest of the Black Pearl’s raids.
The Lady Jane had succumbed easily enough, but through recklessness or simple bad luck, Jack had been surprised by the sword of his enemy counterpart. He’d incapacitated the man, and hadn’t even realized he’d been hit ‘til Bill had seen and exclaimed, “God’s teeth, you’re bleedin’ all over the deck, lad!” Bill had bound up the long cut, and the discomfort of this procedure left no doubt that it was bad. Lightheaded and hurting, Jack nonetheless donned his coat again and continued, ‘til his Captain had ordered him back to the Pearl with a sharp word (likely due to Bill’s interference, curse him).
Now, cooling his heels perforce and faced with the prospect of the callus and vastly experienced Mr. Grieves cleansing and stitching the cut, Jack was growing increasingly fidgety. And nauseous. Yes. His breakfast was definitely considering making a reappearance.
It was work to maintain his usual sangfroid, joining the others in nervous, ribald comments on the lamentable state of Geoff Bailey, who was having a groin wound treated. Poor Geoff, shielded from sight by a blanket hung to create a makeshift infirmary, nevertheless was much in evidence as the sounds that issued from behind the drape indicated a less than stoic attitude on the part of the patient. But then, who among them would’ve maintained silence in such a pass? At least the Bailey Jewels were intact, eh?
Eventually, Bailey was helped to a cot, white-faced but still conscious. McElroy was next, and went with a rueful smile and a roll of eyes.
“Bloody hell,” muttered Jenkins.
“Aye,” agreed Jack.
More waiting and distressing sounds. Conversation died. Jack leaned back, closing his eyes.
A nudge startled him.
“Sparrow!”
His eyes flew open. ‘Twas Grieves’s assistant.
“You’re next.”
Jack nodded and got up, and began to black out.
Steadying hands. “Easy there, sir!”
His vision cleared, but his stomach lurched. “’M all right,” he muttered.
“Sure you are.”
The blanket pushed aside, he was steered to the stained table, where Grieves sat with his instruments and a supply of blue thread. Blue?
He was helped to undress, and Bill’s blood-soaked handiwork removed.
“Won’t take but a dozen, Jack,” said Grieves cheerfully.
“Fucking wonderful, mate,” Jack drawled.
Grieves chuckled.
The table was hard, but they slipped a pillow of sorts under his head. He swallowed down bile and wished himself otherwhere as Grieves took hold.
Then the henchman said, “Wait. Turner’s comin’.”
Frowning, Jack turned his head. The drape was pushed aside, and Bill came in and sat down on a stool next to him. Jack scowled. “I don’t bloody need you to hold me hand, Bill.”
Bill’s eyes narrowed, fond amusement in them, and a touch of pity. “Shut up, Jack,” he said, and held Jack’s hand tight, anyway, and held the bucket for him, too, later.