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Time and Tide [Feb. 13th, 2008|08:10 pm]
sparrbecuecook
[mood |coldcold]
[music |E.Morricone: once upon a time in the West - l'uomo dell'armonica]

Title: Time and Tide

Author: Sparrbecuecook

Characters: Elizabeth, Calypso, Norrington

Rating: PG 13

Pairing: Calypso/Norrington

Summary: For prompt #34 at potcfest2: Norrington, Elizabeth, Calypso post AWE, "what the tide washed in"

Warning: character death

Disclaimer: Authoress: Well! I’m actually feeling rather good about this. I think we've all arrived at a very special place, eh? Spiritually, economically, grammatically? [to Walt Disney] I want you to know that I disclaim and make no money from this, mate. Know that. Mr. Rossio, Mr Elliott …it would never have turned out the same had I written it, darlings. I’m sorry. Mr Depp …nice hat. Girls! This is the day that you will always remember as the day that you – [drops rumbottle on keyboard and falls from chair]


Time and tide wait for no man, but some swim through them unaffectedly, while others age and get washed away. Old age seems so far away when you are young and in love. There are freedom, adventure and fame out there, a world to travel and rules to break. Some may live forever this way - take what you can, give nothing back. But for us mortals comes the time when your husband of thirty years returns and greets you with: "Your hair is grey." Looking back I can't recall most battles any more, lost count of prizes and forgot good crewmen who died long ago for petty spoils. I don't care any more what people think of me either, not like back then when I did what needed to be done when becalmed off Borneo, all surrounded by the sultan's proas, and luckily I was still pretty. Since then, most teeth were lost to rot or scurvy, one eye to the sun, and I filled out quite a bit. I remember my first grandchild being born, what joy! When she died of the smallpox, I was away raiding some measly smalltown somewhere. I wasn't there either when they hanged my son, when all he wanted was to switch sides and become an honourable merchant sailor. Life has been lonely since my daughter moved to China with her husband. Oddly, I miss Hector most. For all his schemes and vices he was a kindred soul and a shoulder to cry on, sometimes. I did not go down in a storm, oh no. Gangrene it was, from a battle-wound. Grapeshot. Gods, how that hurt - and the smell. One could say I was happy to get it over with. Husband did not come for me; all the better, in a way. What would we have had to say to each other in any case? He shall live on, ferry souls and grow tentacles for all I care.

I had half suspected Calypso to see me and she did. The real surprise was to see James at her side. He looked really handsome and incredibly young, long brown hair floating in the currents, the gleaming fish-tail perfectly matching his eyes. He seemed happy, too; both in his alliance to the goddess, and to see me. I wonder what will become of him when she desires a new consort. Well, Odysseus was fine; I suppose James should manage, too. There were no hard words, triumphant smirks, not even a raised eyebrow. Actually, he said he would die for me again, because it was the right thing to do, and this way he'd found true happiness. It then occured to me that somehow I had managed to cause death somehow to all men who ever had been after me. Not something I would welcome as an epitaph. Calypso could apparently read my thoughts. "Dere be no curse widoud a blessin', and no blessin' widoud a curse. Barbossa, him be blessed wid immortality, but him be cursed wid no joy. You mortals, if youse be blessed to be wid your loved ones, you worry all der time will dem be well. Youse be blessed wid a long life, youse be cursed to watch them die. Such is life." One would expect a goddess to do something about those things, instead of stating the obvious. Now comes the afterlife they all are waiting for. After my life's experience with the dead and deities, I'm not so keen on it. Someone would claim me, Calypso said. Someone who wanders the worlds and has a say concerning the dead; she also mumbled something about birds.

Ah, I can see someone there on the shore, but ... No, that can't be. That's an insult. I am the pirate king, won countless battles, made the fiercest cutthroats follow my orders. I do not derserve to be welcomed into the afterlife by a gold-toothed grin and a "Look what the tide washed in." I will not be claimed by that man. Somehow I will get out of here, even if I have to swim through the stream. Maybe there is a ferry to commandeer (nautical term)? Wouldn't husband be surprised to see me once again? There should be no shortage of crew in this place. Now I'll only need that compass. World, I'll be back.

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Witching hour challenge: Beckett [Oct. 30th, 2007|04:38 am]
sparrbecuecook
[mood |gloomygloomy]
[music |Queen: I want it all]

Title: The Prince

Characters: Beckett, Sparrow

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Lord Cutler Beckett's worst nightmare, written for the Halloween challenge at pirategasm.

Disclaimer:

Walt Disney makes sure no money's to be had;

we're shaken to our bones.

The film is not ours

and by the powers

he's who this all owns.

Yo ho, hoist disclaimers

and avoid the fine!

Read ho, thieving writers,

never say "It's mine".


Squidface put to his place and the Swann sen. problem delegated, Lord Cutler Beckett retired to his (formerly the captain's) cabin and relaxed at his desk with some quality port and a leather-bound volume of Machiavelli's works. Reading the well-worn pages all over again calmed his nerves, and reassured him that he'd made the right decisions. If you cannot be loved, then be feared. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Eliminate competitors. It was all about the business after all. But drowsy from the oft-read words, Beckett's wine-fogged mind drifted in an unusual direction. Had Machiavelli not spent quite some time in gaol, and died friend- and pennyless? After a mediocre clerk career, brought to an end by a real principe from the old and noble family di Medici? And that made him an expert how? What if it all, what if it all, was ...


Cold. Gloomy, dark; and fog-tendrils retreating down towards the river Thames. Marching bootsteps on the black, glistening cobblestones, flushing up the ravens from the Tower's greens; and the iron manacles on Cutler's wrists were heavy. Hoarsely croaking, the carrion birds flew off into the night, but one dropped in passing from its beak a shiny piece of eight, which spun lazily towards the ground, where it danced jangling on the trodden pavement like a spindle of fate come loose. Woodlice scrambled to safety in the cracks. A sepulchral bell was ringing far away. In the Tower yard, the hangman's axe stuck in the block, rusty from old bloodstains, and the wolves were howling in their cages, joined by whining from the inmates in the dungeon, who stretched their bony, rag-clad claws out through the bars.

From somewhere off, a bodyless towncryer's voice was to be heard: "Habeas corpus - suspended. The right to legal counsel - suspended. Jury of peers - suspended."


The audience room was gloomy too, but had a fire crackling in the fireplace. Cutler felt quite naked and rooted standing there before the king, who droned on and on about some disappointment, EITC tax fraud, and the late Weatherby Swann. What really captured his attention was the figure lounging in the other armchair to the king's right, that smirking scoundrel with his gold-toothed grin, his hair finely combed out like in the old days back in Oxford, and the pirate garb exchanged for some of those tight-fitting clothes in midnight-black that were the fashion at the Spanish court. The reprobate had one leg slung lascivously over the armrest, and his right hand was resting suggestively close to ... but, there was a noose dangling from the index finger, with a little toy figure tied into it, swinging back and forth.

"In ahdition to zat, you shall be relieved of all your titles."

Mentally, Cutler went: "What?"

"You haff met here our new ally, the right honourable Diego Cortez. We vill support his claim to ze Mexicanisan crown. He hass altso brought to our attention ze amount off your betrayal: your conspiracy to detrone us and obtain world domination."

Caught.

Two servants carried in the portrait of Lord Cutler Beckett he'd commissioned only recently, which showed him tall and muscular, wearing a cloak of ermine, holding a sceptre and the world in his hands.

"Ant zat iss not all. We haff vritten record off all your proceedinks here at hand. Agent 008!"

From somewhere in the back, Mercer appeared, presenting stoic-facedly a stack of maps, scrolls and documents. That Mercer of all people would betray him, the man whose loyalty had always seemed beyond question! Of course, if his loyalty had been with someone else in the first place, all bets were off.

As dreams went, this was the time for Cutler to notice that he was dressed in ladies' undergarments, a bodice, and straps with thigh-high stockings. "Still the ladies' man, aren't you, 'Becky'?" his all-time rival's low voice whispered in his ear, oh, and how it hurt. Ever since that shameful night at Magdalen's College, Beckett had never dared so much as look at a corset openly again. He tried to say something in his defense, but did not produce a single sound, while drowning in those enigmatic eyes, the littley toy figure swinging in its noose between them like a hypnotist's pendulum.

"Ant all your titles and belongings are forfeit and shall be seized by ze crown."

Two officers hauled him away, to run the gauntlet between ladies of the court, who were giggling, pointing fingers at him, patting on his head and indicating a very small size between thumb and index finger, while shamelessly flounting their cleavage at the two larger males who were pushing him forward. The womenfolk finally left behind, Cutler was seized firmly by his arms, and recognized through tear-filled eyes officers Groves and Greitzer, of all people. "After all I did for you, no longer half-pay rear lieutenant Theo? Tu quoque, Adrian? It wasn't personal that I promoted others before you, I needed Norrington's support, you see, what with the heart and all he'd learned about high magic."

They pushed him into a dark, dank cell, illuminated only by one ray of moonlight from the barred window high up in the wall. With a floor-shaking clang, the cell-door was flung shut behind him, and the key turning in the lock resounded like the grim clockmaker winding up a poor sod's measurement of life one final time. In the ensueing silence, wet sucking noises sounded from the far corner of the cell. Tentacles crept into the moonlight, glistening with slime, pulsating, curling, seeking contact. Cutler turned around, not wanting to face the monstrous captain who was out for revenge, for he had heard enough about what even ordinary human prisoners would do to one another if the guards were out of earshot, and seen the evidence thereof (and used this inclination of more depraved souls to interrogate others, on occasion) - and bumped into the towering figure of James Norrington, the filthy, rum-soaked fugutive right out of Tortuga, where he'd likely rutted with the most diseased whores this side of the Atlantic. The wrecked man gave him a nasty grin, took him into a near-backbreaking hug, and descended his mouth on him, muddy beard and unbrushed teeth and all.

Cutler jerked awake squealing through tightly clenched lips and rushed up from the desk, accidentally knocking over the inkwell. He was bathed in cold sweat; his neck ached from sleeping on the hard surface of the accursed tome. Frantically and still caught up in his nightmare, he pulled out all drawers and started leafing through the papers, searching for anything inciminating. Then his eye caught the picture on the wall. Sure, it was not as explicit as in his dream, but what would others truely see in it? Better not to take a risk. The letter-opener firmly grasped, lord Beckett cautiously approached his own portrait, when the steward knocked to announce dinner.

It was like the breaking of a trance, as if he'd fully woken up only then, and Beckett felt silly for having been so scared. Back to business. Close the drawers, straighten up appearance, wash hands, change into an ink-free coat. And only (!) tea with dinner.

Later, after dinner, lieutenant Groves (who had apparently acquired Greitzer's grog ration again - really, the lad was not cut out for a career, good-looking though he was) leaned in and asked, his rum-breath tingling Beckett's nose: "Gee, lord Beckett, what do you want to do tomorrow?"

"The same thing we do every day in the EITC - try to take over the world.", Beckett answered. He felt quite like himself again.


 

-----

Credit for Greitzer's personal name goes to ecchipiro if I remember correctly.

So, run out the guns, load them with pumpkins, light the fudge, and let me know what you think.

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The Rumrunners' Cache [Oct. 1st, 2007|06:35 am]
sparrbecuecook
[mood |creative]
[music |PotC 1 soundtrack: Barbossa is hungry]

Title: The Rumrunners' Cache
Author: sparrbecuecook
Pairing/characters: Elizabeth Swann, Weatherby Swann, Jack Sparrow
Rating: Gen
Summary: just slightly AU during CotBP: on the rumrunners' and rumburner's island
Author's notes: My original assignment is long finished, but today I turned around and found this cute white plotbunny with a black eyepatch, which promptly bit me. For some reason I can't see the claims post any more, and I don't remember the number, but this was written for Penknife's prompt: Jack/Elizabeth, cross-dressing by Jack, over at potcfest. Written from both Swanns' point of view.
Disclaimer:

Barbossa: Gentlemen, the time has come! Fanfiction is nigh! Our torment is here at hand.

Will: The authoress!

Barbossa: For all but ten years we’ve been Disney's by rights and each man-jack of you here has earned his mettle a hundred times over and a hundred times again!

Ragetti: Copyrighted I am.

Barbossa: Down to the eyeballs. The lot of us - disproportionate to our crime. Here it is …the cursed LJ of the fangirl herself. Every last piece that she wrote is dislcaimed and pennyless - so is this.


"Welcome to the Caribbean, luv" my rear side. Had I not filled up the scallywag with rum or turpentine or whatever that ghastly stuff was which he guzzled down like a funnel, he would have been all over me by now, and we both know it. That's a pirate - a male pirate - after all, and so full of himself ... Men! How he smoothed out his moustache, as if that'd make him irresistible, despite the smell. Well, the smell was not too bad after the swim, and he does look ... exciting ... Yes, exciting it was being held so close to a man's body (other than daddy) back then on the docks ... an excited male body ... So I'm not too skinny as Lord Shrewsbury claimed, hah! Best not to think about all that. At least he's out cold now, or is he? Yes. Lying on his back and snoring the night away, the great and ever-scheming Captain Jack Sparrow who filled two books of his own and a stack of newspapers and wanted posters. None of my friends would believe me if I told them. Which I won't. Makes no sense, diminishing my "I was out with the legendary pirate captain" story, really.

Now, what have we here? Oh, a lantern, splendid! Rum bottles and casks, yes, and that? Goodness, these rumrunners smuggle all kinds. The vanilla and cocoa beans, alright, those are from the Spanish colonies and highly taxed, but women's clothes? And what a style! Like ... like ... like those strumpets down at the docks where Will sometimes works on anchor chains. Can only hope he'd never look at them. Poor Will, I'll get you, promise. You only wait, rescue is nigh. What, soap? Incredible. Imagine the story of the kidnapped lady and the fierce and scary smugglers of lavender-scented soap. Next, I'll find a hairbrush, or pin curlers.

Hah! That's actually an idea. And I could shave him with his bootknife. Poor captain Sparrow shall not hang when they rescue us.


Helen, dear, I now concede: our daughter does take after your part of the family, not mine - a fighter, fierce, and no sense of propriety. You won our bet, and I shall stay true to my word, and let her marry whom she wants. Yes, and I'll stop eating black pudding. And I won't drink beer or wine for an entire month. Happy? I miss you so, my dear. You would have seen through them all from the beginning, what I failed to recognise: That our little Elizabeth really is in love with that blacksmith boy, come what may; and that the commodore, whom I still highly appraise, looked at our daughter the most fondly when she was dressed like a midshipman. I dare say he will get over 'Lizabeth's rejection very soon, at least. Since we left the little island, he's been warming up to that other person we rescued from there: supposedly one lady Maria Magdalena de los Suenos, but, in truth, I am quite sure it is that uncouth Sparrow character who by some unexpected fortune escaped his just fate in Port Royal. Heavens, I can only hope he was the gentleman (unlikely), or else that marriage to Turner can be arranged in a timely manner - no doubt you will remember our troubles after that night in the haystack ... Those were the days.

Helen, dear, I miss you so. We are facing battle now. The commodore had his plans laid out by the three times daily shaving Spanish lady, who, admittedly, has good reason to hate those other pirates, so should be on our side. You will forgive me that I had to lock up Elizabeth, but there really was no choice, for she would join the fighting otherwise. This is all quite adventurous, my dear, and you would have been excited. I must quit now, the ship's bell is ringing.

Yours,

Weath..

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And Then They Made Him Their King. [Sep. 22nd, 2007|12:09 am]
sparrbecuecook
[Current Location |here]
[mood |anxiousanxious]
[music |Achim Reichel: Aloha Heya He]

Title: And then they made him their king.
Author: sparrbecuecook
Pairing/characters: Jack Sparrow
Rating: Gen
Summary: Modern day AU: fictitious encyclopaedia entry on a fictitious kingdom
Warnings: If you are Hawaiian and/or a history geek, this might make you pull your hair out and gnaw on the desk.
Author's notes: written for prompt #69 at potcfest: Jack Sparrow's post-AWE adventures. I may have missed the point by a few leagues. Trying to make up for that by length.
Disclaimer:
Will : She's taken them. She's taken the characters!
Norrington: Mr. Murtogg , remove this man.
Will: We have to hunt her down, must protect Disney's copyright!
Governor Swann: And where do you propose we start? If you have any information concerning that fangirl, please, share it.
Murtogg: That Jack Sparrow. They are mostly after him.
Mullroy: On LJ, is what I read.
Will: Ask him where that is. Make a deal with him - he could lead us to it.
Norrington: No…having the fangirls who misuse the PotC characters locked in a cell would make us bullies. Governor, the authoress disclaimes and makes no money.
Will: That’s not good enough!
Norrington: Mr. Turner , you are not a lawyer, you are not Walt Disney. You are a blacksmith and this is not the moment for rash actions. Do not make the mistake of thinking all of us were averse to fanfiction.

Disclaimer II: I'm not Hawaiian, do not speak Hawaiian, and have never been to Hawaii. All false information included herein that is not intentional stems from poor research on my part.

-----

Hawai'i
from AUpedia, the free encyclopedia

This article is about the Kingdom of Hawai'i. For other uses of the term, such as the archipelago or the archipelago's main island, see Hawaii (disambiguation).

The kingdom of Hawai'i (Aupuni mo'i o Hawai'i) spans the volcanic archipelago of the Hawai'i islands in the mid-Pacific, which comprises hundreds of islands and atolls extending across a distance of 2400 km. Of these, the eight largest islands are considered the main islands; these are, in order from the northwest to southeast, Niihau, Kauai, Oahu, Molokai, Lanai, Kahoolawe, Maui and Hawaii island.

Kingdom of Hawai'i
Flag: skull and crossed sabers, white, with red bandana, on black
Anthem: A pirate's life for me
Motto: We're in the market, as it were.
Official languages: Hawaiian, English
Government: constitutional monarchy
Currency: cowry shells
Capital: Lahaina (on Maui)
Largest city: Honolulu (on Oahu)
Head of state: Queen Manu II Sparrow
Chief of government: Quartermaster Filimoeika Gibbs

History
ancient times











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(no subject) [Jul. 15th, 2007|08:29 am]
sparrbecuecook
[mood |tiredtired]
[music |Black Sabbath - Valhalla]

Title: Boat on the River

Rating: G

Characters: mostly Beckett, with supporting Turner and Norrington

Warnings: post-AWE, spoily

Summary: The ferry brings those dead who don't know the way to their respective places in the afterlife.

(Written in exchange for another icon, for

ariei_delmonte.)

 

Disclaimer:

Walt Disney: So you expect me to stand by a copyright breach, with nothing but your word that no money is made, and I'd watch you write away with my characters?

Authoress: No. I expect you to allow me this breach that makes absolutely no cash at all, watching me write away on my story, and then I’ll shout 'disclaim' back to you. Savvy?

Walt Disney: But that still leaves us with the problem of me tolerating some copyright breach with naught but all money and your word you don't make any indeed.

Authoress: Of the two of us I am the only one who doesn't own a big company, therefore my word is the one we'll be trusting.


Lord Cutler Beckett was most assuredly dead, resulting in an unfamiliar lack of purpose. For an unfelt stretch of time he drifted calmly in a cool, black void, that may or may not have been a feature of his deep, watery grave. By sheer habit he still seemed to have a body, even unharmed and impeccably dressed, which however he could neither see nor feel, nor put to any use whatsoever, be it twirling his cane, scratch the stubbles on his chin, or dance a jolly little jig. It was increasingly annoying. Something had apparently gone terribly wrong, for was he not destined by providence to go to heaven straight away like all rich and successful people? (Their earthly riches outward proof of their pre-destination.) As always, it was likely Sparrow's fault. The mongrel fooled around with the supernatural on a regular basis, turning upside down what should have been well-ordered and under control.

At long last a stately ship passed by and carried Beckett in its wake up to a waveless surface of dark water under a moonless sky of unfamiliar-angled constellations. A vaguely familiar looking older sailor threw a rope-ladder that passed through him, causing him to effortlessly glide onboard. Before he could take in his new surroundings, none other than that mole of little use, Will Turner, blocked his view.

"Mister Beckett."

"It's Lord Beckett. I thought you had perished. Oh, so you have, or you wouldn't be here."

"You are onboard the Flying Dutchman...", Turner opened his shirt, revealing a fresh and nasty scar, "and I am her captain now."

That ceratinly changed everything. "Of course!" Cutler patted his coatpockets. "Rest assured I have the coin for the ferryman somewhere on my person..."

"Coin?" Turner made that face again, like a mule having Hamlet read to it. Or a carp.

"The coin. For the passage. The ferryman's fee. It is a venerable old tradition, dating all the way back to the Greek of yore, when they buried their dead with a coin under the tongue, to pay Charon on the river Styx. Some scholars believe that the pirates' habit of wearing earrings - supposedly for the same purpose - dates back to those same ancient times, you see, the Argonautes being the first gentlemen of fortune in recorded history, and ..." Still the same blank look. Good grieves, what did the church-run poors' schools teach the commoners these days? "Greek, related to Latin. Inventors of the alphabet." Just barely did he swallow 'You do know the alphabet, don't you'. Then the uninmaginable struck. "Captain Turner, with all due respect, am I correct in understanding that you do not, in fact, charge your late passengers any fee?" And with the self-assured smile of someone who knew nothing of good business and was proud of it, the captain in unique monopoly position answered: "Yes!", and denied all subsequent applications for the position of a purser.

For the rest of his last voyage on this plane, Lord Beckett was confined to the hold, in the company of many a sailor, pirate and marine, all perished in battle and mostly in a dreamlike state of indifference. The noteworthy exception being one admiral Norrington who would make snide remarks about earthly ranks and riches that turn worthless once you pass beyond, and how staging a naval war mainly to prove to your ex-mate who was on top this time was not the same as 'good business'. He sincerely wished for Mercer and the riding crop.

Eventually, the ship docked at those various places of the passengers' apparent final destinations. Everybody was allowed on deck, and things turned mildly interesting.

Quite a lot of mariners from the navy and EITC, and some pirates as well, descened at a Mediterranean-looking island, where a Greek-dressed lady touched them with a wand and turned them into dolphins, which then happily swam off. (Circe, his education supplied. So that was what the wand was for, what Odysseus' ragtag bunch had rudely interrupted.)

Next, an elder black pirate lord of stately demeanor disembarked, shed his shoes, rinsed face, hands and feet with the not-water of the otherworld, and walked a narrow bridge towards a garden where a flock of women were coyly lifting their veils.

A medley crowd of his majesty's highland marines, hordes of Irish sailors, and some Dutch and French pirates were issued an oar each, which they shouldered, and followed a fiddle-playing leprechaun towards green hills, where the breeze smelled of whiskey and hay and carried women's laughter.

Some pirates of Indian origin were handed over to a multi-armed black goddess who wore a skull necklace - not quite a fate Lord Beckett envisioned for himself, thank you very much.

He had nearly convinced himself that he would be welcomed at Pluto's, the Roman god of wealth and underworld, when they docked near an enormous hall built all of spears, with a roof of golden shields. A giant tree and the beginning of a rainbow bridge were to be seen in the background, and blond women on horseback bringing in souls from other directions through the air. Some odd spectators had gathered to welcome the new arrivals, and cheered marines and pirates equally. Many were unquestionably from the old times, sporting long, braided hair and beard, shields and axes and other antiquities. Others resembled styles Cutler knew from portraits of Sir Francis Drake's or Henry Morgan's times. There were even some familiar faces: lieutenant Greitzer, who had apparently been surer of his final destination; Lord Beckett senior, who had foolishly enganged the maharadja of Punjab in battle years ago - and that self-same maharadja also; some elder chaps he vaguely recognized from portraits at the familiy's manor; and one face that Cutler loathed to see, the bully of his Oxford class, whom Sparrow had thankfully removed back then in a duel at pistols over the absent honour of some serving wench. (The one good thing one could say about Sparrow was that he had true aim with anything. The other good thing about him was of course not a topic for mixed company.)

Beside him at the rail, Norrington looked positively thrilled. The former admiral had his eyes locked upon a group of mostly tall, dark-haired soldiers, gentlemen and knights in armour who were beckoning to him. When captain Turner indicated it was time for them to disembark, Norrington eagerly strode to the gangplank, but was intercepted.

"No, not you!" Turner said, and, to both their horror, motioned to Cutler Beckett.

"Captain Turner, I must protest. This is a place for warriors like the admiral here, not for a humble accountant. I'm not even armed.", and to emphasize this point, he presented his cane, which proved most uncooperative, in that the cane-like sheath accidentally got loose and thunked down on the deck, leaving Cutler with the naked rapier blade in hand.

Thank the powers for small mercies, Turner at least kept his face straight. "Lord Beckett, you match the requirements perfectly: slain in battle, English and a noble - this is the place for you. Leave now, have fun!" To the raucous laughter of vikings, the Warwickshire Rugby Association, and other hairy barbarians, Cutler was ushered down the gangplank and deposited ashore. Someone handed him a drinking-horn of lukewarm mead, triggering a swarm of plans how to establish a trade in rum, tea and good wines between the otherworlds. Instantly, Cutler felt better, and after downing half the sticky-sweet brew, he only dimly heard retreating voices: "But what about me?" "I'm sorry, admiral, you do not qualify. Your death was not in battle, you did not even fight. But you have influential friends - or enemies, James. You are to return to the upper side - to the living."


 

Authoress: "DISCLAIM!"

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(no subject) [Jul. 7th, 2007|03:40 am]
sparrbecuecook
[music |Die Ärzte: 3-Tage-Bart]

Title: regretting intently

Pairing: Beckabeth


Rating: PG or so


Summary: A "missing scene" from DMC, written for

ariei_delmonte

 

in exchange for a custom-made icon.

Disclaimer:


Pintel: We know you are writing, poppet.


Ragetti: Poppet.


Pintel: Disclaim, and we promise we won’t hurt you. He will find you, poppet. He's got all of ours and he calls to us. The mouse calls to us.


Ragetti: Mouse calls…


Pintel: Hello, poppet.


Authoress: I disclaim!


Ragetti: What?


Authoress: Disclaim. I claim no copyright. All rights are owned by the owners: the irate rodent and the acting crew; you have to believe I make no money.


Pintel: I know the code.


Authoress: If a fangirl makes no money you can do them no harm.


Ragetti: To blazes with the code.


Pintel: She wants to keep to the rules. And she’ll do without a fuss. We must honor the code.




Regretting Intently


"Consider into your calculations that you robbed me of my wedding night.", the spoiled shrew had said. So he'd done. A marriage interrupted, fate intervened. He was still of the opinion that old Swann would have embraced him as son-in-law with outmost joy, and would have supported his career henceforth (not to mention handed over estates and plantations as a dowry), just out of gratitude for Cutler making his daughter an honest woman (as opposed to a wanted criminal) and ending this unseemly blacksmith affair. Seriously, what was the trouble with the female kind? Were their smaller brains and unbalanced fluids reason enough to be so mentally unsound and exciteable? Or was it only loose women who could not bear to be reminded of their faults - as in: "Now really. Before leaving, please do tell me for whom of your three ... suitors these papers are really meant. Would that be the longest ... tallest, the iron-hard, or the best shot?"

Once again, Cutler tried to shift a little, and failed for the two-scoreth time or so. And for the umpteenth time that night, he silently avowed three things: firstly, to always fold away his silken cravats in a locked drawer like an orderly good boy; secondly, never to use musk&patchouli-scented wig-powder again, since the taste was ghastly; and thirdly, not to order a whole cucumber again for dinner. At least not such a large one.

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(no subject) [Jul. 2nd, 2007|06:38 am]
sparrbecuecook

Title: P for Property

Pairing: Speckett

Rating: PG13 for now, aiming at NC17 in later chapters

Spoilers: nothing major (prequel)

Summary: Jack and Cutler last met about ten years ago near Bombay, and each left his mark on the other.

Inspiration: the "Gaol" photomanip by Justawench

Disclaimer:

Official: …for your willful commission of crimes against the mouse. Said crimes being numerous in quantity and sinister in nature. The most grievous of these to be cited herewith: plagiarism, babbling…

Elizabeth: This is wrong.

Governor Swann: The authoress claimes no copyright. Makes no money at all.

Official: …impersonating a pirate at Halloween, ridiculing a Disney official, ...

Jack (grinning): Oh, yes.

Official: …writing under a nickname, kidnapping and poaching the characters, pilfering, rum abuse, depravity, bad grammar and general tastelessness. And for these crimes you have been sentenced to be on this day largely ignored and hardly read. May the fandom have mercy on your story.

 

"P" for "Property"

 

"How the mighty have fallen..."the gnomish man smirked, while the charred remnants of the Wicked Wench went under, groaning. "Or should I say: the esteemed, the much-sought, the ... overestimated? Look at you: From the honourable Diego Cortez-Huitzitzilin - honestly, you couldn't pick anything more ridiculous, could you? - through the somewhat less ambitious FitzTeague (But, my, weren't the ladies after the youngest son of legendary Richard Teague, only survivor of both Drake's and Morgan's crews, who found the fountain of youth?), captain of your own ship at no more than twenty-one, and now, what has become of you? A common thief who tried to cheat the company, and not even a particularly crafty one at that. Dandy Jack, the star of London society, now a convicted criminal, bested by a lowly clerk. Those chains suit you, they do. They compliment those rags most perfectly and set off the bloodstains on your shirt." Twirling his cane, the vertically challenged miscreant ordered two guards, who pulled their barely conscious prisoner up from the deck and dragged him back towards the brig. "Take him away, men! See that his wounds get treated - he shall replace what he misappropriated."


 

To be continued.


 

(Humble request: Would some helpful person make me an icon? I feel so naked without one but can't work out how to do them. I'd try to pay with a drabble or some such.)

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Marine Iguana [Jun. 26th, 2007|04:15 am]
sparrbecuecook
[mood |anxiousanxious]
[music |ASP - Tiefenrausch]

Title: Marine Iguana

Author: Sparrbecuecook

Pairing: PotC x Master&Commander

Rating: PG to R

Spoilers: none (AU, pre-CotBP-ish)

Summary: Out of control drabble on Galapagos island inhabitants, inspired by a gorgeous picture created by

</a></b></a>justawench.

 

Disclaimer:

Ragetti: Well I say it was divine providence what distracted the mouse.

Pintel: And I say... it was the authoress disclaiming. Ain't that right, poochie?

Ragetti: Well how'dya know it weren't divine providence what inspired her to disclaim? Anyways, she ain't makin' no money.

Pintel: She ain't stealin'. She's savaging! And since when did you care?

Ragetti: Since fanfiction's immoral no more. We gotta take care of our piratey roles.

Pintel: You know she can't write.

Ragetti: It's PotC. You get credit for trying.


Marine Iguana


The little, arm-long iguanas jumped boldly into the water and slithered out towards their feeding grounds of algae on the rocks, tails twitching, fore- and hindlegs pressed in streamline to the body. Others remained sitting on the shore of dark volcanic rock, warming up after a numbing coldwater swim. They did not flee, not even move out of the way, when Dr Maturin carefully stepped over them, although they'd scamper for the nearest crevice any time a buzzard would be flying overhead, as quickly as their cooled-down bodies would allow. The buzzards in turn would perch upon a rock and allow the human naturalist to approach to nearly arm's length before so much as sparing him a glance. These guileless creatures obviously did not know that humans posed a threat. Stephen hadn't yet made up his mind about Lamarck's theory of inheritable adaptation, but it was obvious to him that these islands' inhabitants were somehow akin to those of the mainland, while differring slightly or sometimes considerably in feeding patterns, behaviour, or built. Or all of those. Closely examining crabs and mussels, the doctor rounded a largish boulder, when suddenly he saw the most extraordinary sight he could ever have imagined, which could well promote him onto the board of the Royal Society if he'd collect it and bring it to Britain. The creature's upper body was human-like, with long dark hair streaming down the back, held back by a sort of bandana of faded red dulse, partly braided, and intervoven with all kinds of shells. The lower half however was more like a fish-tail, shiny, scaly and sleek. The creature was standing propped up on its tail, supporting itself whith human-like arms on a boulder and looking out to sea, where captain Norrington's ship, the Intrepid lay, waiting for the meeting with Aubrey and the Surprise. When Groves, walking behind him, uttered "That must be the most beautiful creature I have ever seen", the being in question looked over its shoulder towards them and graced them with a charming smile of pearly teeth.


"You will remove that from my deck immediately." Captain Norrington wore his stonemost face again while addressing Dr Maturin. The 'it' in question had meanwhile extricated itself from the net they had used to haul it aboard, was grinning happily at sailors giving cat-calls, and taking in its new surroundings with outright curiosity. It was young, Dr Maturin estimated from the beardless face. "It's bad luck having merfolk on board, mark my words" uttered able seaman Gibbs somewhere in the background, nervously glancing around if any more of the sort would pop up. "One kiss she gives you, and you follow her into your watery grave." "Mr Gibbs, that's enough." Norrington snapped, while most of the sailors retreated a step or two, muttering uneasily. "Captain, Sir, I believe it is male." the doctor observed drily, for, while practically crawling into a prettily blushing lieutenant Groves' breeches, the merperson showed definitely male signs of arousal in its nether regions. "That is, of course, if they have clearly distinct genders at all and are not hermaphrodites like many gastropods." Being met with blank looks, he explained: "That would be slugs." Wiping his glasses, the doctor added: "I should very much like to investiga...", stopping dead when he saw that the captain had drawn his sword and was pointing it at the precious creature. "Hands off there! On your feet... tail."

The merperson smiled like a child that had been handed a new toy, poking the shiny sword with a fingertip, yelping when blood welled up and sticking the cut fingertip into its mouth. It seemed to be pouting. Groves gasped. Captain Norrington genuinely melted.


Two days later the doctor was sitting in his cabin, drawing the newly discovered species from his memory. "Our first and foremost goal is hunting pirates - French pirates -, not taking in odd and weird creatures that may cause unease amongst the crew. This specimen will leave at dawn." Hell yes, and all night, the captain had 'investigated' said specimen, aided only by lieutenant Groves and noone else. The moans ... If only Aubrey were here. Mostly lost in thought, shuffling paper, the doctor noticed that his earlier sketches were missing, including those of "the captain and the merman" he had drawn during the night to take his mind off the background noises from the great cabin and the racket of that little monkey, Hector, which he'd picked up in the Caribbean, and which that night had discovered his stored coca leaves. Or whoever else might have opened the leather pouch with the stimulating drug.


On the beach, one sleek and scaled creature was frantically trying to preserve the unscrolled drawings, but its well-meant dousings of sea-water, brushings, and artificial respiration did not help at all. When the ink had run and the paper was dissolving, he decided to try algae for eye-green, coral-chalk for whig-white, octopus-ink for the coat. He became quite good at it. What he really would have loved was that the newly-drift-ins would return.

 
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(no subject) [Dec. 21st, 2006|03:45 am]
sparrbecuecook
[mood |exhaustedexhausted]
[music |Schelmish: Rabenballade / twa corbies]

Title: We wish you a merry Christmas a lot of plunder
Fandom: PotC
Author: Sparrbecuecook
Warning: bad poetry
Disclaimer: PotC characters still belong to Disney although I did ask Father Christmas for them repeatedly.

We wish you a lot of plunder,
we wish you a lot of plunder,
we wish you a lot of plunder: swag for many a year.
Fair winds and tides bring the gold of the king
to pirates for Christmas, oh never you fear.

Oh let Jamie chase the Spanish,
Oh let Jamie chase the Spanish,
Oh let Jamie chase the Spanish , don't let him near here.

We won't go until we get rum.
We won't go until we get rum,
We won't go until we get rum; wine won't do, nor beer.
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(no subject) [Dec. 18th, 2006|05:53 am]
sparrbecuecook
[mood |pensivepensive]
[music |Die toten Hosen: Frohes Fest]

Commodore Norrington's Christmas carol

Silent night. Future: bright.
Pirate swings by first light.
Watch, you citizen, mother and child,
how he dances, the brigand so wild.
Port Royal live in peace!
Port Royal live in peace!
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