Fic: Tortuga Table
Title:Tortuga Table
Author: meowbooks
Rating: PG
Total Word Count: 328
Summary: Everything has a story. Objects and the less well known characters should be no exception.
Another one from my overlooked series I have yet to post here:
Tortuga Table
Ah, I can still smell the foul breath of them. Hear the jeering, shouting, teasing jocularity, revelry or ominous threats swung back and forth, the slapping, the pounding of fists, the blissful unawareness of snorers and those too soaked in spirits--liquid and lore.
The tension pulled tight in the air, bent until it shattered, flying everywhere, the last straw flung, as the imminent duel, fight, whatever it happened to be became known.
I can see it-the Tortuga regulars hurrying out of the room, jumping out windows, seizing the chance to flee without so much as a coin lost on their part-managing to bash one more bottle on someone’s head before slithering their slippery selves out. The tavern keeper sliding down- into what he prays is the safety of under the counter.
The two jump, dodge, swerve, overturn tables, slide, and bash, shatter bottles, send barrels rolling and otherwise redecorate the area. I remember- the spectators outside peering through windows, chattering, bets being made, taunts, laughter.
Truly the privilege, honor and prestige of having been there was all mine! Yes, I remember, the countless times I was home to many a card game, present for singing loud and wrong, dancing, mugs, dirty boots and sea salted hats resting on my tabletop, rumors, tales that had been newly stitched, sewed into others, cut up destroyed and reinvented.
I recall a time when the name Captain Jack Sparrow was uttered in the same breath as Blackbeard , a time when science, logic, and reason were beginning to take hold, but old superstitions were still held and followed, when there were so many things left to discover, to find, to imagine.
Now, I do not stand in a tavern listening to the ramblings and chatter of pirates and the poor. I sit in a museum, telling all those who can hear-who are willing-of times forgotten, overlooked, of people and places-letting them know everything has a story and a voice.
Even a rickety…old…table.
Author: meowbooks
Rating: PG
Total Word Count: 328
Summary: Everything has a story. Objects and the less well known characters should be no exception.
Another one from my overlooked series I have yet to post here:
Tortuga Table
Ah, I can still smell the foul breath of them. Hear the jeering, shouting, teasing jocularity, revelry or ominous threats swung back and forth, the slapping, the pounding of fists, the blissful unawareness of snorers and those too soaked in spirits--liquid and lore.
The tension pulled tight in the air, bent until it shattered, flying everywhere, the last straw flung, as the imminent duel, fight, whatever it happened to be became known.
I can see it-the Tortuga regulars hurrying out of the room, jumping out windows, seizing the chance to flee without so much as a coin lost on their part-managing to bash one more bottle on someone’s head before slithering their slippery selves out. The tavern keeper sliding down- into what he prays is the safety of under the counter.
The two jump, dodge, swerve, overturn tables, slide, and bash, shatter bottles, send barrels rolling and otherwise redecorate the area. I remember- the spectators outside peering through windows, chattering, bets being made, taunts, laughter.
Truly the privilege, honor and prestige of having been there was all mine! Yes, I remember, the countless times I was home to many a card game, present for singing loud and wrong, dancing, mugs, dirty boots and sea salted hats resting on my tabletop, rumors, tales that had been newly stitched, sewed into others, cut up destroyed and reinvented.
I recall a time when the name Captain Jack Sparrow was uttered in the same breath as Blackbeard , a time when science, logic, and reason were beginning to take hold, but old superstitions were still held and followed, when there were so many things left to discover, to find, to imagine.
Now, I do not stand in a tavern listening to the ramblings and chatter of pirates and the poor. I sit in a museum, telling all those who can hear-who are willing-of times forgotten, overlooked, of people and places-letting them know everything has a story and a voice.
Even a rickety…old…table.