An orange-haired navigator sat on the front porch of her house, rocking her legs from side to side slowly. Her gaze trailed over the small tangerine farm stretched out before her, and shifted to the tiny speck of blue she could barely make out in the distance. Fixing her gaze to that dot of blue, she peeled a slice from the fresh tangerine resting in her palm and slid it into her mouth. She chewed slowly, fingering the tips of her greying hair. She wondered where all the time had gone.
A male stood at the edge of a cliff, overlooking the ocean. He perched one foot against a nearby rock and tugged at the tip of his long nose. Someone called for him and he turned, waving at the pale blond standing behind him. He straightened and turned, but not before peering down the side of the cliff, wondering when was it that he had stopped being afraid.
The chef smiled slightly at the fiery haired beauty sitting at the table as he served her the food. He let his gaze roll past her, staring out at the ocean, through a small round port window. The sea sparkled and glowed, and fishes, seemingly unafraid, dashed around close to the surface, scales glittering of any colour possible. The water hummed like it was alive, and it was all the seas combined. He let the smile hover on his face before letting it drop away cleanly. He kept his eyes on the waters of his dreams, and licked his lips. A thought drifted before him and he wondered why he had stopped smoking.
A reindeer grabbed the beaker before it fell to the floor, and wobbled dangerously on one hoof before recapturing his balance. Staring down at the beaker he held, and then to the smoking apparatus around him, he changed his mind and let the beaker he held drop. It shattered and he ignored it, tiptoeing to the window to stare out at the pink snow swirling gracefully down. Looking down on the country that he had saved with his medicine, the medicine that could cure any illness; he thought that he should be happy. Instead, he asked himself why he was still searching for a cure of something he now despised.
The raven haired female smiled and flipped through a book nonchalantly. Stretched out on a beach chair, she let the wind tug at the pages of her book. Adrift in a small ship, she spent most of her time on the deck, reading, listening to the sounds of the waves splashing against the hull. In the horizon, she could see about five to eight larger ships fast approaching. She kept her mouth curved into a smile and waited for the ships to come.
The island was overflowed with all sorts of fruits, and the beach glowed with pure white sand. Someone lay sprawled on the beach, his harsh breathing echoing through the trees, throughout the inhabited island. To his right, his three precious swords lay, looking almost abandoned. To his left, an enormous black sword, jewels encrusted in its hilt, pressed against the sand, but almost seemed like it was floating. A wound, running from his left shoulder to his right hip, hung open like a gaping mouth. Red oozed over his tanned skin and bubbled across the sand. He was drenched, and his feet still hung off the beach, into the ocean, where the waves rushed about him, threatening to bring him back into the sea. The salty sea water twinkled on his damp cheeks in silver streams, replacing the tears that he could not shed. He exhaled and his previously curled fingers loosened and a straw hat broke free from his grasp and escaped to the ocean.
The ships loomed over the small boat that the raven haired woman sat in. A few blasts from a canon and the all that was left were a few planks of splintered wood, sinking into the darkness.
The reindeer lay in his bed, surrounded by other doctors whom he had trained over the years. They poked and prodded at him and exclaimed with anguish. The reindeer peered at a tiny golden orb clutched in his hoof through the tears that flooded his vision. He died, and the doctors didn't know why because he wasn't even sick. He died, because there was no cure for death.
The chef retreated back into the kitchen, stumbling, coughs wreaking his body. He choked when he tried to bring air back into his lungs and coughed again, blood splattered across his palm. He collapsed, and inside him, his black lungs struggled against his ribs and finally stilled.
The long nosed man woke up. He watched the horizon and let out a shriek of mock horror. Leaping out of bed, he raced through the village screaming that the pirates were attacking. Children paused in their play to watch the middle aged man run and run, shouting and howling. He ran all the way to the cliff where he had began his adventure, where he had truly believed for a moment that he had been brave in stopping the pirates from destroying his village. He ran down the cliff, still screaming, his heart pounding with exertion, lying to himself, telling himself that it was fear he felt, instead of this reasonless hopelessness. He staggered and fell, his heart pounding to a stop, and he finally stopped lying, even to himself.
The navigator stood, dropping the peel of the tangerine to the ground. She entered her house, lapping the remains of the fruit off her fingers. Reaching into a chest that had lain unopened for years, she sneezed from the dust, the lid creaking as it opened. She unfolded a faded piece of black cloth where the outline of a skull wearing a straw hat and crossbones glowering behind it was still visible under a thick layer of grit. She held it to her chest and headed out of her house. She kept walking, until she arrived at the beach. She didn't stop but kept walking until her head vanished under the surface of the water. It was years later when a black piece of cloth got washed ashore, clinging to the blood stained sand, and its edges curling around rusted swords.
The crew was together again.