Disclaimer: PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN:THE CURSE OF THE BLACK PEARL, JACK SPARROW, and all related characters are copyright ( © ) The Disney Company, and as such, I hereby state that no profit is or shall be made from the distribution of this fanfiction. All characters not © the Disney Compant are © to me, Aryana Finnegan, and shall not be used under any circumstances without written permission my me. ARR.
~Aryana Finnegan
http://www.geocities.com/ooRunRabbitRunoo:for selected sketches and story art
To Bring A Woman Aboard
Part 1: For Those Who Have Not Yet Earned Their Sea Legs
PROLOGUE
Freedom. One word, so many defenitions. To some, freedom is the nonconfinement of single living. To others, freedom is nothing more than release from a cell, or a breakaway from parental structure. To each soul, a unique defentiton of freedom is given, and many spend the majority of their lives searching aimlessly for the release we internally know can only be achieved once this freedom is ours,. Like snowflakes, no two defenitions of 'freedom', are completley symmetrical. Some similar, but none so matched in all actuality, that the two are identical. Remember this always.
His hand shook steadily at the edge of the helm, the horizon being a steady bouncing line afront his vision. The everpresent slosh of the salty sea seemed as if it were nothing but the buzz of silence that one can hear when it is perfectly silent-he had grown accustomed to the sounds of the liquid beating against the edges of the vessell. Tapping a large, black boot against the less-than-regulation-quality wood of the deck, the man let out a sigh. His preturbed state was as obvious as the sun in the sky, and even behind the cloud he hid behind known as his stern lips, it was pointless to hide. He knew this, but he was the headstrong type.
It's presumptuous to think that a ship's captain doesn't. . .well. . .think to themselves at sea. Besides, isn't it they, who spend hours steering, have nothing more they can do buy stay attentive to a horizon which wraps around every direction? What more can one do whilst faced with so tedious a task? It's that that causes the occasional captain to be driven mad. Too much time to contemplate. Contemplate life. Contemplate why the sky is blue, and contemplate the everpopular question, "WHY AM I HERE?", and "How did I end up like this?"
The captain of the ship lifted a hand off the grooved wood he grasped and ran his palm against a coarse lock of dreaded hair, feeling his fingers run involuntarily across a small bead or two.
His eyes shifted downward, the hand in which was just upon his skull reaching down to his belt. Hanging from the tawdry strap of leather whihc held his pants in place was an array of tattered rags, varying in size, shape, patterns and colours. He drew his attention to a small cotton strip of white, donning red and black stripes. Fingers pinched together, he clamped the fabric inbetween them, as if searchign for something in a frantic way, trying to remain calm. He soon found what he was looking for, a pale yellowish stain, a dribble, if you may, grafted to the ruddy fibers in an even less charming way than the standard putrid stain would.
Judging by our captain's face, the stain preturbed him in a deep, deep way, as if it was remnant of a lost moment, a painful moment clung to the rag, giving it a life of its own, a life that the captain hated yet could not bring himself to look away from.
"Damnit. I think too much."
His coarse, yet affeminate voice echos softly in the silence of the empty deck. There's no one afoot to hear him think, no, too early in the morning for any of that riffraff to be trudging about. Besides, their destination was approaching and he knew the way all too well. It was only a matter of time, he told himself. A matter of mere hours until he and the crew reached their destination-the island of Tortuga. Their safe haven. Their home.
Just a few more miles. A few more hours.
~Aryana Finnegan
http://www.geocities.com/ooRunRabbitRunoo:for selected sketches and story art
To Bring A Woman Aboard
Part 1: For Those Who Have Not Yet Earned Their Sea Legs
PROLOGUE
Freedom. One word, so many defenitions. To some, freedom is the nonconfinement of single living. To others, freedom is nothing more than release from a cell, or a breakaway from parental structure. To each soul, a unique defentiton of freedom is given, and many spend the majority of their lives searching aimlessly for the release we internally know can only be achieved once this freedom is ours,. Like snowflakes, no two defenitions of 'freedom', are completley symmetrical. Some similar, but none so matched in all actuality, that the two are identical. Remember this always.
His hand shook steadily at the edge of the helm, the horizon being a steady bouncing line afront his vision. The everpresent slosh of the salty sea seemed as if it were nothing but the buzz of silence that one can hear when it is perfectly silent-he had grown accustomed to the sounds of the liquid beating against the edges of the vessell. Tapping a large, black boot against the less-than-regulation-quality wood of the deck, the man let out a sigh. His preturbed state was as obvious as the sun in the sky, and even behind the cloud he hid behind known as his stern lips, it was pointless to hide. He knew this, but he was the headstrong type.
It's presumptuous to think that a ship's captain doesn't. . .well. . .think to themselves at sea. Besides, isn't it they, who spend hours steering, have nothing more they can do buy stay attentive to a horizon which wraps around every direction? What more can one do whilst faced with so tedious a task? It's that that causes the occasional captain to be driven mad. Too much time to contemplate. Contemplate life. Contemplate why the sky is blue, and contemplate the everpopular question, "WHY AM I HERE?", and "How did I end up like this?"
The captain of the ship lifted a hand off the grooved wood he grasped and ran his palm against a coarse lock of dreaded hair, feeling his fingers run involuntarily across a small bead or two.
His eyes shifted downward, the hand in which was just upon his skull reaching down to his belt. Hanging from the tawdry strap of leather whihc held his pants in place was an array of tattered rags, varying in size, shape, patterns and colours. He drew his attention to a small cotton strip of white, donning red and black stripes. Fingers pinched together, he clamped the fabric inbetween them, as if searchign for something in a frantic way, trying to remain calm. He soon found what he was looking for, a pale yellowish stain, a dribble, if you may, grafted to the ruddy fibers in an even less charming way than the standard putrid stain would.
Judging by our captain's face, the stain preturbed him in a deep, deep way, as if it was remnant of a lost moment, a painful moment clung to the rag, giving it a life of its own, a life that the captain hated yet could not bring himself to look away from.
"Damnit. I think too much."
His coarse, yet affeminate voice echos softly in the silence of the empty deck. There's no one afoot to hear him think, no, too early in the morning for any of that riffraff to be trudging about. Besides, their destination was approaching and he knew the way all too well. It was only a matter of time, he told himself. A matter of mere hours until he and the crew reached their destination-the island of Tortuga. Their safe haven. Their home.
Just a few more miles. A few more hours.