Nasty Conjugation

Hello, everyone! Gosh, a whole lot of stuff is going on right now. We just bought a house! Whoah! I start summer school next week! I have to take a class to learn how to teach Public Speaking. Perhaps it won’t be horribly boring? Also we have a kitten named Chippy! It’s an exciting time to be alive.

You may recall the little dialogue game I posted about here. Well, here is the result! I actually finished it weeks ago, but I wasn’t crazy about it so I’ve been loathe to put it online. However, my word is my bond. I can’t leave an obligation unfulfilled! So here you go. It’s about seafaring folk, if that helps things.

The storm had blown up out of nothing, falling upon the unsuspecting seas like a whipcrack. Thick ropes of sea foam lash the already soaked deck of the Chipley Raider. The howling winds drive huge waves over the side of the ship, nearly claiming two members of the crew as they try to tie off the yardarm. Stretching taut against the gale, the mainsail threatens to snap the mast. Amid the lightning and chaos the First Mate shoves two hatchets in his belt and begins to scale the mast, gripping the massive wooden shaft with his whole body as the ship careens through the crests and valleys of the storm waves.

Nearing the top, he holds on with one arm and pulls a hatchet from his belt. The whole ship rocks from the impact of a particularly huge wave, and he drops the tool, sacrificing it to the churning sea. He draws the other one from his belt and starts slashing wildly at the rigging, trying to cut down the sails before the wind capsizes the ship. One by one the ropes snap and the sails are whipped away into the maelstrom. Taking hold of the last line, he uses the hatchet as a handle and slides down the rigging to the relative safety of the deck.

Lightning strikes the ocean to the ship’s starboard side, illuminating the scene in an explosion of light and thunder. At the helm, the Captain is struggling to keep their course through the squall. Her rain cloak whips violently in the wind, blonde hair plastering her face as she braces against the deck and tries to pull the rudder into place. Her First Mate runs up the stairs and grabs one side of the wheel, adding his strength to the struggle. Together they force the wheel over.

“I get emotional all the time lately,” he yells over the storm. “Anything will set me off!”

The Captain attaches a loop of rope to the wheel and together they manage to tie it to the railing.

“Like, I heard a story earlier about a man who was getting executed,” he continues, squinting hard against the driving rain. “For his last meal he wanted a vegetarian pizza delivered to a homeless person, but they told him no. They wouldn’t do it.”

“Yeah?” the Captain asks, swiping a strand of wet hair out of her eyes. Lightning strikes again, but further away now. The storm seems to be tapering off.

“Well, somehow word got out, and people started donating vegetarian pizzas to homeless shelters all over the place!” says the Mate, knotting another strand of rope to the wheel. “I started to get choked up, for real.”

Captain and Mate share a moment of silence, standing side by side at the helm and surveying the aftermath of the storm.

“Wow,” she says. He nods and spits off the side.

“Yeah.”

The storm having passed, they busy themselves about the ship helping to bind wounds, seal leaks, and put things back in order. From the crow’s nest they direct the efforts to re-rig the mainsail.

“Well, I guess it’s kind of an emotional story, you know? I can understand how that might touch a nerve somewhere,” the Captain says, tightening the knot she’s working on. The First Mate shouts some orders at the workers below and then leans against the mast.

“Yeah, but that’s not an isolated incident. It happened yesterday, too.”

Down below the crew forms two lines and starts to pull the sail back up the mast. The Captain idly watches it rising upwards.

“Really?” she asks.

“Really. I was driving and listening to this great funk group from Texas. It was a live performance, and they just tore it apart,” he says as they climb down the ladder from the crow’s nest. “It was amazing. Right at the end, when the audience started applauding, I got all misty. See what I mean? That’s weird.”

They go and stand at the side of the ship, watching the sun set over the open ocean.

“Yeah, but if it was such an intense performance then I can see why the end might be some kind of release,” she says, watching a seagull fly lazily overhead. He looks over and sees that she’s smirking.

“You’re bullshitting me, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little,” she says.

“Thanks.”

The crew finishes the last of the clean-up efforts, and the Captain and First Mate check their bearing to make sure the storm hasn’t blown them too far off course. With nothing left to do for the day, the cook brings dinner out on the deck and they all eat by the fading glow of twilight. As the sun finally dips beneath the horizon, someone sets up lanterns and one of the crew brings out his melodeon. Beers are passed around, and everyone sits on the deck to enjoy a free evening.

“You’re just wound up a little tight right now, that’s all. Don’t worry about it,” says the Captain, leaning against a crate. Together they share a bottle of whiskey from the Mate’s personal stash. He thumbs tobacco into his pipe and lights it with a match.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. But what if I break down and cry at some totally inappropriate moment? That would be terrible.”

“Now you’re just being silly,” she says. He raises an eyebrow at her but doesn’t say anything.

Another round of beer is passed out, and then another. Someone falls overboard and is fished up by his ankle, much to the enjoyment of everyone on deck. The First Mate starts blowing smoke rings.

“What if I just start bawling when we’re at dinner with your parents? Like, inconsolably crying my eyes out because the potatoes are so delicious,” he says. Noting that his glass is empty, he takes a pull of whiskey straight from the bottle.

“Yeah? Still talking about this, huh?” the Captain says.

“And then I’m crying so hard that I start puking all over the place.”

“Are you done yet? I think you’re done,” she says, reaching over and smacking the back of his head. He leans towards her and starts making awful vomit noises.

“Bleurrrrrgh! Bleurrrrrgh!”

One of the crew, noting the First Mate’s distress, hurries over and throws a bucket of water in his face. Laughing, the Captain raises her glass to him.

“Yeah, you’re done.”

This entry was posted on Sunday, June 17th, 2007 at 9:10 pm and is filed under Entropy, Short shorts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.