Author Topic: Book for DesertT  (Read 307 times)


  • Posts: 246
Book for DesertT
« on: December 04, 2020, 05:39:53 PM »
I fucking hate the Black Company. It's boring and DesertT gave me the book for Secret Santa last year. I don't like fantasy books. I tried it, I didn't like it. I have a plethora of reasons. And I'm sick of him bringing it up. So, I've decided to write him a different book. Here. I guess. I'll upload more whenever I feel like. I dunno. This is a good little practice for me.


The ocean has never been clear. The bay, the reefs, lapping around the bordering wood of the piers, maybe. But true crystal clear? That’s not the ocean or the sea. That’s a lick of the salt that no one wants to swallow. The true depths are green, deep and emerald with a black resting on the bottom. The spectacles of the bits of plant and meat float like specks on your eyes when you look at the sun for too long. Then you closed your lids, that respite that’s supposed to be there is bright red, skin. Skin with specks of black and the bright fuzzed imprint of the sun left behind. That’s what the ocean is, an imprint of what was left behind.
The ship splits the whiteheads of the barely born waves and steamrolls itself to barren open waters. The flags above whap and sling to the winds, staying rigid and folding at the sides. No matter how many ropes are pulled, secured, strapped, the wind will always win. And ultimately, the ship, the crew, the violence, the plunder, it’s all decided by the wind and moon in silence above and wistfully nowhere.

 Wearing the crew colors, covered in true outerwear, Mino blends in with the sepia of the ship and those around him. The azure that once stood out on the wrap around his wrist is sweat-stained and faded to being a near brown. His eyes have lost the eagerness and now are just for seeing. Seeing that this trip, this journey, this opportunity for riches, was becoming a career. And there’s no retirement. There’s only the bespeckled black down below, and there his wrap will no longer be blue, but threads of bleached and treated white. There will be no crew on the floor of the sea.


  • Posts: 246
Re: Book for DesertT
« Reply #1 on: December 17, 2020, 03:12:14 PM »
Sky above and sea below, the world was casting it's cool orange gaze on the glaze of the water, reflecting the coming night. Waking up at this time, an optimistic would say dawn, but the stars grow bright and the clouds darker and darker till you wonder if it's a patch of true darkness or have the stars extinguished and given themselves to the endless cold of the heavens above. Mino is old enough to longer care, dawn, night, afternoon, closed-eye unconsciousness, it all meant nothing when the rocking of the ship continues and swirls. The insides of his ears sting when they reach land, they ring and prick and send every nerve to scream, cut off your land legs and return to the stern.

But, there's no land in sight, there's no birds above, searching, giving their last caws before the sun does set. His hands reach to pull at the fray of a rope braided around his wrist, comforting, salt-blasted, and ho-hummed regularity.

Scuffing of wood behind the young man announces the presence of another. Mino doesn't turn. He can hear the jingle of a key and knows it's the first mate.

"You haven't been doing your job, Mino. We've talked about this. No free rides, get your ass to the galley and start the prep work for dinner."

Eyes narrowed, Mino just hunches, his body is swaying and trying to dip itself below the collar of the wood. A plank or ten down and he can eat as much salt as he likes.

"The onions make me cry."

"Well, good thing we ran out."

"Peeling potatoes makes my fingers raw."

"And swabbing the decks will turn them to bone. Am I the type for sympathy or are you looking to die?"

The silence grows and finally Mino turns, small of his back perching against the lip of wood he was peering over. His expression is twisted, vulnerable, and emptier than the depths below.

"There's a better job for me somewhere, Tillar, I used to--"

"You used to be more helpful, Mino. Get your head out of your ass and prove your worth again and maybe, maybe we can put you on deck. Till then, get used to the light of fire and shove your head between a barrel of radishes. The ocean doesn't want to see your miserable mug."

The addiction stole everything from Mino. It took his reputation, his skill, and gave a tremor to his hand. The vice squeezing his heart still made drool pool under his tongue. Waiting, crouching, waiting till another sign of his sweet white dust appeared. The snuff boxes were all empty and Mino became empty too. The Captain had him hooked, a finger behind his collar and tugging him back. Once he was skilled, but now he was just hungry. Tillar didn't understand, the man didn't get addicted to anything besides pain. And the head cook-- he would just keep bringing it up, the lack of cocaine up. The lack of food up. The abundance of time up.

With a salute, the young man turned, slinking his way down the grained floor to the galley, the empty, echoing galley. The kitchen crew consisted of three men to feed up to forty others. The course was simple. One meat, one vegetable and a bit of wine mixed with water. The meat was so heavily salted though, the water could have been pulled out from the side of the boat. Never quenched, the crew had chapped lips and the sound constant sound of clicking was heard when crewmates sucked their bottom lip, collecting whatever moisture they could.