More Drabbles
Two more PotC drabbles. First one was for the new MSN group, theme: Nature. Second one was for Black Pearl Sails on Yahoo: A 'deleted scene', no introspection allowed.
~ It's a Jungle Out There ~
“It’s a fine island, Jack! Lot’s of fruit trees, and fresh water, and there’ll likely be pigs! Just think of one o’ them squealers roastin’ over a nice bed o’ coals.”
“It’s thick jungle, Ana. Near down to the waterline!”
“Bloody hell. Who’d ever have thought Captain Jack Sparrow, Terror of the Spanish Main and possessed of as many lives as a damned cat would be afraid of a few snakes!”
“It’s not the snakes, luv. Snakes’re good eatin’, in time o’ need.”
“Well, what is it then, ye coward?”
“It’s the spiders. Give you me word: can’t abide ‘em.”
~ Pirate By Moonlight ~
“Sparrow!”
The pirate swung around, braids and beads flying, brows raised in inquiry. “Commodore?”
The reply was low but forceful: a warning. “You will kindly leave Miss Swann alone!”
A slight smile touched his lips, and he said gently, “No worries there, Commodore. As I was just tellin’ her, we’re too much alike.”
“Alike!” There was outrage, and denial in the word.
The shaggy head tilted. Black eyes watched the Commodore with amused sympathy. Watched him stare, up and down. Watched the subtle play of emotions cross the stoic countenance.
Bitter resistance.
Unwilling consideration.
Reluctant acknowledgement.
Acceptance.
And finally, despair.
~ It's a Jungle Out There ~
“It’s a fine island, Jack! Lot’s of fruit trees, and fresh water, and there’ll likely be pigs! Just think of one o’ them squealers roastin’ over a nice bed o’ coals.”
“It’s thick jungle, Ana. Near down to the waterline!”
“Bloody hell. Who’d ever have thought Captain Jack Sparrow, Terror of the Spanish Main and possessed of as many lives as a damned cat would be afraid of a few snakes!”
“It’s not the snakes, luv. Snakes’re good eatin’, in time o’ need.”
“Well, what is it then, ye coward?”
“It’s the spiders. Give you me word: can’t abide ‘em.”
~ Pirate By Moonlight ~
“Sparrow!”
The pirate swung around, braids and beads flying, brows raised in inquiry. “Commodore?”
The reply was low but forceful: a warning. “You will kindly leave Miss Swann alone!”
A slight smile touched his lips, and he said gently, “No worries there, Commodore. As I was just tellin’ her, we’re too much alike.”
“Alike!” There was outrage, and denial in the word.
The shaggy head tilted. Black eyes watched the Commodore with amused sympathy. Watched him stare, up and down. Watched the subtle play of emotions cross the stoic countenance.
Bitter resistance.
Unwilling consideration.
Reluctant acknowledgement.
Acceptance.
And finally, despair.