Still here, not dead, bring drabbles
Suffering an excess of things to do and lack of time in which to do them. But am here, lurking.
Found these old drabbles which were for a theme 'challenge', June 2006. (Ah, another time England got dumped out of the World Cup...)
Working
Watch the men turn the capstan; stomp and go, stomp and go.
Drill the gun crews - sponge, load, aim, fire, start again.
Take a reef in, let a reef out, add a sail, lose a sail.
Holystones and swabs; decks gleaming like a bride's smile.
Beat to quarters, out and down, splice the mainbrace, commit the body to the deep.
The men work - the ship lives. Like your heart and lungs work and your body lives, even when the mind has gone.
Captain's mind has gone.
First lieutenant's worse than useless.
Head down - work to be done.
Worried
Horatio sits by the bed, watching and waiting; willing the wound to heal. Hoping that by sheer force of mind he can make the tissues knit, the bleeding stop.
Archie turns in his sleep, whispers a name. The same name he always speaks.
Horatio hears the desperation in his friend's voice, how his own appellation sounds like a prayer, a plea for help.
He reaches out his hand, places it as close to the pale, clammy fingers as he can risk.
Perhaps if he can make contact, his strength will pass into Archie.
And still the bloody wound won't heal.
Weird
"The surgeon told you to take how much?" Matthews held Oldroyd upright.
"A spoonful. When the pain gets bad."
"And you took?"
"Three spoons. Thought it'd do me three times the good." Oldroyd smiled beatifically despite the nasty burn he'd had from the cannon.
"How many fingers am I holding up?"
Oldroyd counted. Three times. "Fifteen, I think, but they're swimming around a bit. So are you, come to think of it. So's the deck..."
Matthews shook his head. Laudanum. The surgeon must have been mad to trust this lad to dose himself properly; that required brains. Not bloody sawdust.
Uncomfortable
Matthews reckons it's not enough green stuff, leads to a bit of a strenuous time at the head he told me. Guess he should know.
Finch says it's too much running up the rigging.
Oldroyd - that boy's an idiot, so why I listen I don't know - believes it was because my mum got frightened by a goat when she was carrying me. That one came all the way out of his own soft head.
My old dad used to put it down to sitting on cold stones.
Surgeon called it haemorrhoids - I call it bloody painful.
Touched
Saw you today in your new uniform - you look like a real lieutenant in that coat. Can't believe you're the same chap that spewed up in the middies' mess. Been a long time, hasn't it - since Spithead and the old ship.
Your face has hardened - not a soft boy anymore. Simpson, the Med, a week in the hole did that for you, as well as the years.
Hard times we've seen, haven't we? And yet you still make sure that I'm the first person you say 'Good day' to and the last one you wish 'Good night'.
Found these old drabbles which were for a theme 'challenge', June 2006. (Ah, another time England got dumped out of the World Cup...)
Working
Watch the men turn the capstan; stomp and go, stomp and go.
Drill the gun crews - sponge, load, aim, fire, start again.
Take a reef in, let a reef out, add a sail, lose a sail.
Holystones and swabs; decks gleaming like a bride's smile.
Beat to quarters, out and down, splice the mainbrace, commit the body to the deep.
The men work - the ship lives. Like your heart and lungs work and your body lives, even when the mind has gone.
Captain's mind has gone.
First lieutenant's worse than useless.
Head down - work to be done.
Worried
Horatio sits by the bed, watching and waiting; willing the wound to heal. Hoping that by sheer force of mind he can make the tissues knit, the bleeding stop.
Archie turns in his sleep, whispers a name. The same name he always speaks.
Horatio hears the desperation in his friend's voice, how his own appellation sounds like a prayer, a plea for help.
He reaches out his hand, places it as close to the pale, clammy fingers as he can risk.
Perhaps if he can make contact, his strength will pass into Archie.
And still the bloody wound won't heal.
Weird
"The surgeon told you to take how much?" Matthews held Oldroyd upright.
"A spoonful. When the pain gets bad."
"And you took?"
"Three spoons. Thought it'd do me three times the good." Oldroyd smiled beatifically despite the nasty burn he'd had from the cannon.
"How many fingers am I holding up?"
Oldroyd counted. Three times. "Fifteen, I think, but they're swimming around a bit. So are you, come to think of it. So's the deck..."
Matthews shook his head. Laudanum. The surgeon must have been mad to trust this lad to dose himself properly; that required brains. Not bloody sawdust.
Uncomfortable
Matthews reckons it's not enough green stuff, leads to a bit of a strenuous time at the head he told me. Guess he should know.
Finch says it's too much running up the rigging.
Oldroyd - that boy's an idiot, so why I listen I don't know - believes it was because my mum got frightened by a goat when she was carrying me. That one came all the way out of his own soft head.
My old dad used to put it down to sitting on cold stones.
Surgeon called it haemorrhoids - I call it bloody painful.
Touched
Saw you today in your new uniform - you look like a real lieutenant in that coat. Can't believe you're the same chap that spewed up in the middies' mess. Been a long time, hasn't it - since Spithead and the old ship.
Your face has hardened - not a soft boy anymore. Simpson, the Med, a week in the hole did that for you, as well as the years.
Hard times we've seen, haven't we? And yet you still make sure that I'm the first person you say 'Good day' to and the last one you wish 'Good night'.