Disclaimer: I don't own it. Everything you recognise belongs to Disney.
No infringement
is intended and I'm certainly not making any money from these drabbles.
Summary: Another collection of PotC drabbles.
Author's note: All the drabbles have been written for The Black Pearl
Sails FanFiction
group's drabble challenges (the rules are: write exactly 100 words about a certain
theme).
Home
Home was the place to which he could never go back. Not the mangroves and the
palm trees, but the oaks and the beeches and the bluebells nodding in the wind.
The
snowflakes melting on his cheeks. His mother's voice, when she sang him
to sleep.
"My Jack," she always whispered. "My sweet little bird."
But he had spread his wings. Had flown far and wide, away from English soil.
His
mother had died, by the time he was eight.
He had no home, now, on land or sea, but the Pearl. And most days,
most nights,
he was content.
Conversation Without Words
He looked up. Barbossa was standing in the doorway, plumed hat on his head,
belt
buckle shining. Jack frowned; thinking there was something he had missed. Some
small,
inconsequential fact, that kept the world from falling apart.
Barbossa smiled, the corners of his lips lifted, ever so slowly and Jack's
eyes narrowed,
in response. It was a familiar smile. Death always followed. Jack reached for
his pistol,
but Barbossa stepped forward, gaze clear and steady, no hint of hesitation in
his face.
Cold fingers danced down the length of Jack's spine. He knew, before
his first mate
started to speak.
All Dialogue Drabble (Governor of the Isle)
"Now now, Jack, that there's a fine little isle."
"Fine it may be, mate, but I'd much rather not take a closer look, if you don't mind."
"Oh, but I do mind. We all mind. Ye see, Jack, the crew voted for a keelhaulin',
but
I'm prepared to be generous. I'll make ye a settler, no, better,
I'll make ye governor
of that isle. Governor Jack Sparrow!"
"Not bloody likely, Barbossa. I'm still Captain of this ship. Savvy?"
"Jack—I thought ye'd realised. I'm Captain now. Am I not, Mr. Pintel?"
"Aye, Captain!"
"Captain Barbossa, at yer service, governor. Apple?"
Freedom
This was not freedom, though death could not touch him. Though men could not
harm
him and nature not wound. This was a prison and his body, his treacherous, traitorous
body, made up the walls of his cell. The bars were not metal, but bone. He rattled
them
all, shinbone and breastbone and skull. They did not give way.
At first, he had thought himself free. Ten years ago, he had welcomed such
power. But
he would give anything, now, to shed it, to have back his past and the uncertainty,
the
frailty and the bright, bright intensity of life.
Jack Drabble (Retribution)
So close, he was close enough to touch it, at last. Years of waiting that came
to an
end, on this island of death. The moment seemed to stretch out, distort beyond
reason
and hope of repair, he could not see past it. This was all that there was and
the future:
an uncharted sea.
He cocked the pistol, he never doubted his aim would be true. He knew where
the
whelp was, and the sweet bonnie rum burning lass, but he didn't look at
either one
of them, now.
Just you and me, mate. And he fired the shot.