The monkey perched on the sill is rather dashing. Jean listens to it chitter-chatter as he scratches his lessons out on the parchment, slips it slices of orange from the plate Maman left him.
It dances for him, bright eyes full of laughter. He wonders if it has traveled far, seen the wilds of Africa, the shores of India. If it had lessons, too.
He wonders that even as it bites into his throat.
He watches it slip away with Maman's pearls and a small bag of coins.
Note: Pre-retrieval, but you know what's going to happen.
"What’s this?"
Rosanna sneers, pinning red hair off the back of her neck; salt lingers in the air of the shabby inn-room. "A young fellow gave me that; just off his first voyage, he said." She is older, skin sagging careworn around crowsfeet at her eyes, her thin dress has seen better days. "Real sweet he was."
"Didn’t think you’d turn out for a gold piece like that, love," her companion says, reaching for the dirk at his belt.
Ragetti stands outside and squints up at the candlelit windowpanes, guilt nagging at his heart. She used to be so pretty.
Jeb can’t count proper, and he’s afraid to mention this to any of his crewmates.
Every time Barbossa calls ’em all together he tries a headcount. If there’re this many souls on board, equal share o’ the treasure, how many pieces of Aztec gold did that mean for him?
He knows he had a full purse and a tankard or twelve of ale. Stumbled back aboard at dawn, purse considerably lighter.
Jeb can’t recall how many pieces he’s supposed to drop back in the chest. But he reckons that if he asks real nice, maybe someone in Cadiz will help ’im out.
Note: Post-retrieval, origins drabble fo Jack The Monkey
The organ-grinder is dead in the alley, his throat slit by bandits, the tool of his trade battered and broken against the cobblestones near his head. Blood pools around his shoulders in a silent black tide.
It’s the guards from the barracks who find him, cold and stiff the next morning, a ghastly second grin stretched ear to ear. His purse is cut, his pockets turned out, anything of value taken from him by the robbers.
They never find his charge, the dancing monkey who captivated the organ-grinder’s audience with his spirited capering. They fear he was carried clean away.
Comments 816
The monkey perched on the sill is rather dashing. Jean listens to it chitter-chatter as he scratches his lessons out on the parchment, slips it slices of orange from the plate Maman left him.
It dances for him, bright eyes full of laughter. He wonders if it has traveled far, seen the wilds of Africa, the shores of India. If it had lessons, too.
He wonders that even as it bites into his throat.
He watches it slip away with Maman's pearls and a small bag of coins.
He still thinks it's quite dashing.
And then he begins to shake.
Reply
"What’s this?"
Rosanna sneers, pinning red hair off the back of her neck; salt lingers in the air of the shabby inn-room. "A young fellow gave me that; just off his first voyage, he said." She is older, skin sagging careworn around crowsfeet at her eyes, her thin dress has seen better days. "Real sweet he was."
"Didn’t think you’d turn out for a gold piece like that, love," her companion says, reaching for the dirk at his belt.
Ragetti stands outside and squints up at the candlelit windowpanes, guilt nagging at his heart. She used to be so pretty.
Reply
Every time Barbossa calls ’em all together he tries a headcount. If there’re this many souls on board, equal share o’ the treasure, how many pieces of Aztec gold did that mean for him?
He knows he had a full purse and a tankard or twelve of ale. Stumbled back aboard at dawn, purse considerably lighter.
Jeb can’t recall how many pieces he’s supposed to drop back in the chest. But he reckons that if he asks real nice, maybe someone in Cadiz will help ’im out.
Reply
The organ-grinder is dead in the alley, his throat slit by bandits, the tool of his trade battered and broken against the cobblestones near his head. Blood pools around his shoulders in a silent black tide.
It’s the guards from the barracks who find him, cold and stiff the next morning, a ghastly second grin stretched ear to ear. His purse is cut, his pockets turned out, anything of value taken from him by the robbers.
They never find his charge, the dancing monkey who captivated the organ-grinder’s audience with his spirited capering. They fear he was carried clean away.
Reply
"No!" The little girl stamps her foot, her curls shaking on her tiny head.
"Luv, I'm not asking, I'm telling." He is gentle; she is not crying, and for that he is grateful. And surprised.
She does not feel brave without her brother. She tentatively hands over her cloth doll.
"There's a good girl," his voice slithers. She yelps as he tears off the doll's head. Something shiny falls to the ground.
"Pretty," she whispers.
"'Tis."
His movement is swift. In his hands is a broken neck. Curls lay still on his arms.
Reply
Leave a comment