Author's note: This is my first attempt at fanfic, so please let me know
how I'm doing. ( By the way, the boredom in this first scene is based on
fact: I really was once so bored that I started singing and sparrow-
walking, but I wasn't on a deserted island. I was in the middle of a
crowded airport.
Yeah.
I endured many odd stares and security checks.
Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean or any of the characters, so please don't sue me. **************************************************************************** ****************
The Caribbean was a lovely place to be. The palm trees swayed in the
tropical breeze, the waves lapped gently against the shore, and the sunsets were
better than anywhere else in the world.
And I was bored. Insanely, out-of-my-mind bored.
I lay on my bed, my arms and legs outstretched, staring blankly at the
ceiling. I blinked. I took a breath. I blinked again. A fly buzzed in lazy circles
above my head, then settled on the windowsill, as if my gaze had somehow
infected it with my boredom. My parents had taken the boat to the mainland to
do some grocery shopping and other miscellaneous errands. They had left five
hours ago. Technically there were things to do on the island, but I was in one of
those states of mind where anything I did was excruciatingly boring and/or
frustrating, and lying on my back gazing off into space was only slightly less so.
All of a sudden I stood up, resolved to do something, anything. Then I sat
back down; fell, actually, as all the blood rushed to my head. After a moment I
stood up again, slowly and carefully this time, and walked over to my messy
suitcase where I pulled out my bikini bottom. At least if I lay outside on the
beach I would get tan while being bored.
I spent ten minutes looking for my bikini top and finally found it stuffed
behind the headboard of the bed. I put it on and meandered outside, singing
"What do you do with a drunken sailor" under my breath. Since there was no
one else on my tiny little island, I decided that now was the perfect time to
practice my Jack Sparrow walk. As I swaggered and swished along the beach,
my ennui began to ebb. Of all the places to be bored stiff, this island was really
one of the better ones. The sand on the beach was so soft between my toes, the
sky was a perfect shade of blue, the water was a brilliant red.
I stopped suddenly, trying to get my brain to work. Water.red. What's
wrong with this picture? Then I saw the sodden lump that was the man, and the
world snapped back into place. I rushed over to his side, grabbed his shirt, and
hauled him out of the water before the next wave hit. When we reached dry sand
I pushed him onto his back, and literally squeaked with surprise. His face, the
sash, the beads, the bandanna.the man didn't just look like Jack Sparrow: he
was Jack Sparrow. As if to confirm this, he opened his eyes blearily; then,
catching sight of me, grinned ear to ear and closed his eyes again.
"Ha! I was right, I did make it to heaven.Gibbs owes me five shillings."
He lapsed back into unconsciousness, and it was only then that I noticed the
disturbingly large, red gash across his chest. For a moment I stood overcome by
the cruel irony of finally meeting my favorite character ever, only to have him
die ten seconds after we met. Then I pulled myself together; he was not going to
die, god damn it, or I'd have to go back to contemplating ceiling tiles. Leaving
him on the beach, I ran back to my cabin and frantically raided my mother's
TravelSmart first aid kit for antiseptic and a roll of bandages.
As I raced back to the shore, I half expected him to have vanished while I
was gone; I mean, honestly, how likely was it that a fictional 17th century pirate
would just happen to wash up like flotsam on the beach? But he was still lying
there, looking for all the world like some weird tourist trying to get a tan with his
clothes still on. I knelt beside him, and was trying to figure out a way to clean his
wound without tearing his gorgeous shirt when he woke up again.
"So love, what's an angel like you doing in a place like this?" he
murmured, reaching towards me with his long brown fingers. Then he gave a
yelp and jerked back his arm as his cut reopened and began to bleed again.
"You're hurt," I said, trying to get him to lie still, "but you're not dead.
Now sit back and let me help you." He looked at me with narrowed eyes, then
his gaze moved over the island and finally rested on the wound on his chest.
"Not dead?" he asked hopefully. When I shook my head he grinned.
"Spiffywell. In that case, love, have you got any rum?" I couldn't help myself; I
began laughing hysterically. Jack beamed winningly up at me all the while, a
begging puppy-dog expression on his face. When I finally regained control of
myself, I had to squash his hopes.
"Sorry, no rum," his face fell, "but I'm sure there's some on the
mainland," his eyes lit up, "I'll see what I can do later. Right now we have to
look at this cut." After examining the slash closely, I sadly concluded that there
was no way to save the shirt. Jack protested loudly when I ripped it, but after I
convinced him of the necessity he contented himself with grumbling under his
breath. When the shirt was off, I was relieved to see that the cut was not very
deep at all. I unscrewed the cap from the bottle of antiseptic and rubbed some on
his chest. Jack wasn't happy.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're dong?!" he yelled, clutching
protectively at his chest.
"We have to clean it out or it'll get infected," I explained.
"Like hell! I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, I don't get inflected!" In the end, I
had to give up with the antiseptic, and just wrapped the bandages around his
chest instead.
Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean or any of the characters, so please don't sue me. **************************************************************************** ****************
The Caribbean was a lovely place to be. The palm trees swayed in the
tropical breeze, the waves lapped gently against the shore, and the sunsets were
better than anywhere else in the world.
And I was bored. Insanely, out-of-my-mind bored.
I lay on my bed, my arms and legs outstretched, staring blankly at the
ceiling. I blinked. I took a breath. I blinked again. A fly buzzed in lazy circles
above my head, then settled on the windowsill, as if my gaze had somehow
infected it with my boredom. My parents had taken the boat to the mainland to
do some grocery shopping and other miscellaneous errands. They had left five
hours ago. Technically there were things to do on the island, but I was in one of
those states of mind where anything I did was excruciatingly boring and/or
frustrating, and lying on my back gazing off into space was only slightly less so.
All of a sudden I stood up, resolved to do something, anything. Then I sat
back down; fell, actually, as all the blood rushed to my head. After a moment I
stood up again, slowly and carefully this time, and walked over to my messy
suitcase where I pulled out my bikini bottom. At least if I lay outside on the
beach I would get tan while being bored.
I spent ten minutes looking for my bikini top and finally found it stuffed
behind the headboard of the bed. I put it on and meandered outside, singing
"What do you do with a drunken sailor" under my breath. Since there was no
one else on my tiny little island, I decided that now was the perfect time to
practice my Jack Sparrow walk. As I swaggered and swished along the beach,
my ennui began to ebb. Of all the places to be bored stiff, this island was really
one of the better ones. The sand on the beach was so soft between my toes, the
sky was a perfect shade of blue, the water was a brilliant red.
I stopped suddenly, trying to get my brain to work. Water.red. What's
wrong with this picture? Then I saw the sodden lump that was the man, and the
world snapped back into place. I rushed over to his side, grabbed his shirt, and
hauled him out of the water before the next wave hit. When we reached dry sand
I pushed him onto his back, and literally squeaked with surprise. His face, the
sash, the beads, the bandanna.the man didn't just look like Jack Sparrow: he
was Jack Sparrow. As if to confirm this, he opened his eyes blearily; then,
catching sight of me, grinned ear to ear and closed his eyes again.
"Ha! I was right, I did make it to heaven.Gibbs owes me five shillings."
He lapsed back into unconsciousness, and it was only then that I noticed the
disturbingly large, red gash across his chest. For a moment I stood overcome by
the cruel irony of finally meeting my favorite character ever, only to have him
die ten seconds after we met. Then I pulled myself together; he was not going to
die, god damn it, or I'd have to go back to contemplating ceiling tiles. Leaving
him on the beach, I ran back to my cabin and frantically raided my mother's
TravelSmart first aid kit for antiseptic and a roll of bandages.
As I raced back to the shore, I half expected him to have vanished while I
was gone; I mean, honestly, how likely was it that a fictional 17th century pirate
would just happen to wash up like flotsam on the beach? But he was still lying
there, looking for all the world like some weird tourist trying to get a tan with his
clothes still on. I knelt beside him, and was trying to figure out a way to clean his
wound without tearing his gorgeous shirt when he woke up again.
"So love, what's an angel like you doing in a place like this?" he
murmured, reaching towards me with his long brown fingers. Then he gave a
yelp and jerked back his arm as his cut reopened and began to bleed again.
"You're hurt," I said, trying to get him to lie still, "but you're not dead.
Now sit back and let me help you." He looked at me with narrowed eyes, then
his gaze moved over the island and finally rested on the wound on his chest.
"Not dead?" he asked hopefully. When I shook my head he grinned.
"Spiffywell. In that case, love, have you got any rum?" I couldn't help myself; I
began laughing hysterically. Jack beamed winningly up at me all the while, a
begging puppy-dog expression on his face. When I finally regained control of
myself, I had to squash his hopes.
"Sorry, no rum," his face fell, "but I'm sure there's some on the
mainland," his eyes lit up, "I'll see what I can do later. Right now we have to
look at this cut." After examining the slash closely, I sadly concluded that there
was no way to save the shirt. Jack protested loudly when I ripped it, but after I
convinced him of the necessity he contented himself with grumbling under his
breath. When the shirt was off, I was relieved to see that the cut was not very
deep at all. I unscrewed the cap from the bottle of antiseptic and rubbed some on
his chest. Jack wasn't happy.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're dong?!" he yelled, clutching
protectively at his chest.
"We have to clean it out or it'll get infected," I explained.
"Like hell! I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, I don't get inflected!" In the end, I
had to give up with the antiseptic, and just wrapped the bandages around his
chest instead.