Ficlet - Old One From The Pit
A short little something that I wrote for a contest hosted by ff.net user 'Fly Like A Blueberry Pie'. It placed third, though it wasn't an especially big contest. ^.^ It's the only fic I've ever submited to a contest.
So I thus present my take on the "Will Lashing Scene" from DMC. It's slightly editted from the original version (since I've always tended to mutilate sentences by removing verbs that really should be there), but not revised. The content is the original content from when it was posted on the First of October, 2006. The italics at the beginning are also the original, containing my old penname. This was, one could say, the beginning of my Will obsession.
Five Lashes
By Cheorl, dedicated to Fly Like A Blueberry Pie who convinced me to write a Will-lashing story.
One, heat and pain marring the virgin surface
He left when I was one year of age. A hug and a kiss and a promise to write letters was all he left behind. Mama couldn't read, but Mr. Lawrence next door could.
Two, flash and stroke down, hard and fast
Two years he was gone, before he was home again. Even then he only stayed long enough to give me two memories of him. His hands which were warm, strong, and callused; his laugh, that was soft, gentle, and quick.
Three, stripes will turn to scars
Instead of one man to model myself after, I had three. Mr. Lawrence, who taught me too read and love books; Mr. Stone, the goldsmith who taught me too work hard and be honest; and Old Mr. Peel, who first told me about the sea.
Four, blood calls to blood
Mama died when I was 7 and I went to sea. Two years after Mama's death, Mr. Lawrence recieved a letter from my father. It was the first in 3 years. In that letter there was a gold medallion. A Spanish goldsmith told me it was Aztec gold, from the Caribbean. The fourth year after Mama's death, I headed for the Caribbean.
Five, cold and slime and darkness
After 5 years, I had given hope. He was dead. He was gone. There was no way he was still alive. It must have been a storm or it could have been pirates... Captain Norrington had heard nothing of him, nor had anyone else. He was dead, gone, nothing but memory. But no, it seemed, for here he was now. Betraying me. Whipping me.
So I thus present my take on the "Will Lashing Scene" from DMC. It's slightly editted from the original version (since I've always tended to mutilate sentences by removing verbs that really should be there), but not revised. The content is the original content from when it was posted on the First of October, 2006. The italics at the beginning are also the original, containing my old penname. This was, one could say, the beginning of my Will obsession.
Five Lashes
By Cheorl, dedicated to Fly Like A Blueberry Pie who convinced me to write a Will-lashing story.
One, heat and pain marring the virgin surface
He left when I was one year of age. A hug and a kiss and a promise to write letters was all he left behind. Mama couldn't read, but Mr. Lawrence next door could.
Two, flash and stroke down, hard and fast
Two years he was gone, before he was home again. Even then he only stayed long enough to give me two memories of him. His hands which were warm, strong, and callused; his laugh, that was soft, gentle, and quick.
Three, stripes will turn to scars
Instead of one man to model myself after, I had three. Mr. Lawrence, who taught me too read and love books; Mr. Stone, the goldsmith who taught me too work hard and be honest; and Old Mr. Peel, who first told me about the sea.
Four, blood calls to blood
Mama died when I was 7 and I went to sea. Two years after Mama's death, Mr. Lawrence recieved a letter from my father. It was the first in 3 years. In that letter there was a gold medallion. A Spanish goldsmith told me it was Aztec gold, from the Caribbean. The fourth year after Mama's death, I headed for the Caribbean.
Five, cold and slime and darkness
After 5 years, I had given hope. He was dead. He was gone. There was no way he was still alive. It must have been a storm or it could have been pirates... Captain Norrington had heard nothing of him, nor had anyone else. He was dead, gone, nothing but memory. But no, it seemed, for here he was now. Betraying me. Whipping me.