we are all in the gutter

Dubbayew Tee Eff

2007-06-16T04:48:02Z

So today I saw Paprika. And it was awesome, if totally incomprehensible. It was... like... Miyazaki does the Matrix. On lots and lots of acid.

I had no idea what the hell was going on but, much like dreaming, I supose it is best if one just surrenders one's brain and enjoys the ride.

More Spoilery fic!

2007-05-27T15:31:16Z

Title: True Colors
Characters: Barbossa, Jack, a bit of Murtogg and Mullroy
Word Count: 400-ish
Rating: G
Prompt: Colourless
A/N: I like to think that, if they don't finally agree to co-captaining her, which they never would, because both men are just that stubborn, Barbossa and Jack play catch-the-Pearl 'til the end of time and will continually steal it from out of the other's hands for ever and ever. I wrote it because I've always wondered what it is that Barbossa would put on his flag, 'cause I refuse to believe that the skull and crossed cutlasses is his because... well, it isn't. I'm so much a nerd that, right from CotB, when they raised that flag I was like "OMG, why are they showing Jack Rackham's flag?" 'Cause it is. Or maybe there's a fic behind that, too, I don't know.

The length of this little game had been going on for far too long, though in truth both men enjoyed it, though they daren’t say it aloud. The Pearl and her crew had changed hands half a dozen times so far. A week ago, they’d left Jack in Antigua, dead drunk. Asleep. In a stable. It was generally decided that it would have been best to let him rest, save by Gibbs who stood by his side, as he always would. Well, rather, was also utterly smashed.

The cry of “Hoist the colors!” had rang out like a shot, and soon enough Old Scratch was flying above the Pearl’s deck. Only… he was not alone.

“Master Murtogg! Master Mullroy! Step lively now, come here!” The ship’s two newest crew members, who had until this moment been swabbing the decks, stumbled forward and snapped off a sharp salute (old habits die hard) to Barbossa, who was glaring up at the flag. He pointed one gnarled finger up at it. “You will tell me, sirs, what it is me own to eyes are looking at. For if these eyes aren’t mistaken, these eyes what have seen near perfect me entire life, I do see a blight on poor ol’ Roger’s face.”

The two looked up, unsure whether to grimace or laugh. Next to the ever familiar skull was, like a brilliant splash of blood, a red sparrow. “’S a bird, sir” offered Murtogg.

“And why is it there?”

“Um… Cap’n Sparrow put it up last time he… uh, was here. Said the old colors were a bit dull, sir.” Mullroy supplied.

“Did he now?”

The two unfortunate sailors gulped. “Aye, sir.”

“Well,” his smile was the glint of a knife blade’s edge, “I’m thinking that perhaps he was on to something…”

Jack caught up to them three months later. The Pearl was gone in the dead of night, leaving Barbossa in Montserrat, in the arms of a gaggle of French whores.

The order to show their colors came soon enough. It was hoisted, and certainly not as Jack had seen it last.

“Mullroy, Murtogg!” Another scramble on the decks. Another salute.

“Sir?”

“What is that?” The captain gestured upward. His tone suggested some horrible indecency. It couldn’t have been worse if you’d written rude words in the margins of the Good Book itself. The two squinted upward. There was the skull, right enough, and the sparrow to its left, but now…

“Looks to me like a serpent, sir. ‘Round an apple.”

AWE Spoilers

2007-05-27T06:00:37Z

Title: A Force to be Reckoned With
Word Count: 482
Characters: Barbossa, Captain Teague
Prompt: Why?
Summary: In which we find that Barbossa respects the elder Sparrow considerably more than his son. And the prompt I picked was 'Why?' because this is an explanation of why Barbossa didn't do anything particularly harmful to Jack, though he had numerous occasions to do so. And the character of Teague is awesome, more than just because he was played by Keith Richards.

There’s more ways to come by immortality than just Aztec gold. One of them was sheer force of will. Or… well, too much need. You’ll live on and on and the universe will permit you to do so because, if you’re gone, there will be hole in its fabric just the right size and shape of you that it will not be able to repair.

Such was the case of Captain Teague. Who was now, with Barbossa, the only inhabitant left of the Conference Room. That’s what they’d called it, and that was what it had always been called, though there were a thousand rooms just like it in the improbably designed fortress at Shipwreck Cove.

Teague’s eyes were that of a raptor, a bird of prey who had espied a small mouse, and that gaze was currently affixed on Barbossa. A strange sensation to be sure for a man so unused to be likened to anything small. He crossed the room in a few long strides, and was suddenly face to face with the pirate lord. “Heard what you did to my boy.” Teague said, in a voice that had the roar of oceans in it, and the boom of storms. There was no question in it. It was fact. It was finite.

“I s’pose ye would’ve.” Barbossa, who could usually stare down anything short of his own reflection, looked away. “But that debt’s been paid already with my life.”

“And so it has. I’ll not hold it against you, because if my Jack was fool enough to have his ship taken out from under his nose, than that was his own fault.” A pause. “But leaving a man on a desert island is an awful cruel fate to be certain. And I’m telling you now,” he looked into Barbossa’s eyes. He could have lain hands on him them, or threatened him with blade or piece, but neither would have been so terrible as having to match his stare, “you’ll ne’er lay a hand on my son again.” A step closer. “Or I’ll see to it you pay your dues twice over and twice again.”

“What, some rule in the Code sayin’ I can’t? And don’t say yes, as I know it back to front to side ways. Almost as good as you, I haven’t a doubt.”

“That might be true.” Teague smiled a horrible, slow smile, all sharp yellow teeth. “But this ain’t the Code talking. This is me.”

Barbossa glared, but inclined his head slightly. It was the gesture of all weaker male animals recognizing the dominance of another, and it hurt more than just his neck to do. “As ye say.”

Teague nodded and made his exit without a glance back. Barbossa watched the older pirate’s retreating back.

Alone, he snarled to no one in particular “Like father like son my arse.”

More FF100 Fic

2007-05-14T02:54:33Z

Title: Ashes to Ashes
Word Count: 798
Characters: Barbossa, a few OCs
Rating: G
Prompt: Mother

It was cold the day they put Essie Tregowan in the ground. And it always was Tregowan wasn’t it? That’s what they called her, and even on her gravestone it was written, even though that was not her name. It wasn’t as if Cornwall was quite Jamaica climate-wise, but that day in particular there was a chill that bit through even the warmest of coats, and burrowed through the skin and spread out to the very center of you, freezing the bones and the breath and the heart.

Her entire family showed up: every thug, whore, thief, gambler, drinker, pickpocket, swindler and (the black sheep) one priest the Tregowan clan turned out. It was a big family, and the girl was well loved. And most of all by her husband and son. They provided a strange contrast, the two of them, flanking the grave like a guard of honor.

The man was huge and tall and dark, with black hair, a face that was knife-blade thin and eyes the dangerous blue of the sky before a storm. He was unmistakably foreign. The boy was lanky and stretched, not quite grown into his father’s stature though it could be seen coming in the broadness of his shoulders and his long limbs. His hair was rust red, skin slightly freckled, and his eyes too were blue. Never were the two’s resemblance made more apparent than now: both wore the same expression, the same resigned pain in their eyes.

There was a ceremony (‘Ashes to ashes’, and all that needed to be said before and after that) and a parade of family and family-friends and people who might have been family (or maybe just friends) got up and spoke. Women cried, and men comforted their women, and every sorry cliché meant to be said at funerals (‘Aye, she was too young.’ ‘There’ll never be another one like her, no, sir’) was said, though they meant very little to the man and boy Essie left behind.

There had been a wake before, and all the drinking and cracking jokes and reveling in both the misery and joy that Essie’s life and death had brought was done already. So the relatives departed, like ghosts on the moor, until it was only the deceased’s husband and son left.

“What now?” said the boy.

“Lisbon. Nothing for m—us here anymore.” His son heard the hesitation. Nothing for me left here. And that was true. The only thing keeping his Da from sailing back to his home across the ocean was the woman he loved, and now there wasn’t even that.

“Yeah, alright.”

Their conversation was short and simple. The elder was never particularly one for talking anyway, but today, with words too weighed down by pain and grief and the effort of speaking a trial, they said little.

“Vindo com mim.” The boy’s father said, unthinkingly slipping between English and native tongue, as he always did. He put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “We’ll go.”

“Ah… You go. I’ll be along after you.”

His father nodded, perhaps in understanding, and disappeared down the path, knowing full well that his son could take care of himself alone.

The boy, alone, knelt down in the wet grass in front of the grave, like a child at his mother’s feet, which was a close enough description anyway. “It’s going to be a long time until I see here again.” He said, in what was practically a whisper, unsure of the tone of voice one ought to use when addressing the dead. “But when I come back… I’ll be rich. Promise.” His tone carried the inarguable resolve of all children. “And you can get a proper headstone. Not two bits of wood stuck together. I saw Jim Penray nailing them together yesterday, don’t think I didn’t.”

And then, he stood up. There were wet, muddy stains on his trouser’s knees. He fished through the inside pockets of his long coat and pulled out, triumphantly, a daisy. The petals were slightly worn and falling off; the results of having to spend its afterlife in a child’s coat pocket. It had, over the past day, shared its residence with a frog, a few coins, a nicked apple, and an amusingly shaped rock. But it was still, for the most part, whole.

With dirty little boy’s hands, Essie’s son tossed the daisy onto the damp earth. “I’ll come back.”

And that was all that was needed. Hector Barbossa made his way toward the village, down the cemetery’s path. The beginnings of a swagger that would one day set men trembling (but for now just made him look a bit silly) could already be seen.

And Essie Tregowan, deep in the cold earth, or perhaps the celestial sphere of heaven, smiled.

2 Fic for FF100

2007-05-11T04:38:56Z

Title: If
Word Count: 262
Rating: G
Fandom: PotC
Prompt: If
Summary: Barbossa ponders on what life he might have lead.

There are days when Hector Barbossa likes to think what would have happened had he not led the illustrious career that he had.

He would not have marooned Jack Sparrow, that’s for sure. The sinking of what must have been several dozen ships would not be on his conscience, the blood of more than a hundred men would not be on his hands and the ravishing of a dozen score maidens would not be in his memory.

No, pirate he would not be, but wealthy to be certain. Married, probably. And a sailor too, so that while he would be unfortunately tied by the bonds of holy matrimony, there would be opportunity aplenty to get to know the Caribbean’s lovely girls. Only he would have long since stopped being a sailor, and instead settled on some island in a fine house. He’d own a fleet of ships but never board one himself- instead seeing fit to direct and manage matters of money and trade.

He would no doubt be soft and fat from a life of living well. He imagined himself smiling and happy surrounded by a dozen sons and grandchildren, pockets fit to burst with swag. Only it wouldn’t be swag, would it? Honest earned profit more like. And age would show: he’d be graying and probably walk with a cane…

And then he stops. Deep in the decaying, unbeating, bullet-riddled lump of flesh that is his heart, he knows he’d rather be damned for eternity and ocean-bound than to die peacefully in a warm bed at a ripe old age.

~~~~~~~~~~

Title: The Monster Slayer
Word Count: 1007
Rating: PG (for a spot of violence)
Fandom: PotC
Prompt: He
Summary: A bit of backstory and much purple prose and Barbossa's last thoughts.

Sentimentality came about as easily to Hector Barbossa as clumsiness to a cat. Nevertheless, there were certain aspects of his childhood that he looked back upon with fondness. It wasn’t even all that bad a childhood, all things considered. He was poor, but wasn’t everyone? He assumed that everybody in the world (which stretched only as far as the cliff overlooking the harbor to the village’s boundary) was also poor. Except for the occasional nob who passed through, and even then they were robbed blind to (a young Barbossa thought) restore the balance of things.

But of the many features that make up a child’s world he could remember distinctly, there was his mother. Or at least, the idea of his mother. He knew what the woman (a girl, really, and Barbossa had realized some time ago that he’d long since passed thrice her age) looked like because his father had a portrait of her and him on their wedding day. But in his mind, she as a living breathing person (not just a load of oils splotched on a canvas) could only be recalled as a flash of light on red curls or white hands soothing scraped needs and cut fingers or skirts swishing over dancing feet. Or her voice.

He remembered that more vividly than anything else. He remembered how it was lively and, it seemed, always on the verge of laughter. There was a smile in it. And he remembered how the occasional cockney word or rhyme would tell the lie of the languid Cornish drawl she was so very good at faking. He remembered her stories.

They were not particularly imaginative, but it was somewhat of a tradition. Every child heard them, and every child had heard them for perhaps the past century. They were giant stories. Let the Welsh have their Prince of Dyfed and Daughter of Llyr and the Irish their Salmon of knowledge and Sìdhichean but the Cornish would stick with their giants. And theirs were the only stories that were true, of course. Evidence abounded, you just had to know what you were looking at. Giants’ bones were scattered over the countryside, or sometimes a whole giant himself. Most of them, he was told, just forgot to wake up one day and let themselves turn to stone. Or (as the preacher liked saying) a ring of stones were several giants who were dancing on the Sabbath, so God torn them into rocks where they stood.They were good stories.

More than the Giants, of course, there was Jack. Clever Jack, who was giant killer and monster slayer and who could outwit any man who dared try harm him or his kin. Barbossa was taught through those stories that you can swing a sword or use your wits, and it was the latter which was more likely to see you through. A lesson, of course, that had been more useful than his mother intended it to be.And Barbossa, even after he got over the age when he and his mates were playing Jack and the Giants, still believed he existed. Always would.

And because he pestered his mother a tad too much, she had come up with her very own reasoning for why he was in Cornwall no more. Jack, looking over the land and seeing that there were no more adversaries to challenge him, boarded a ship one day and set sail for distant parts of the world, to weather new storms and kill new monsters. It was a good enough explanation for young Barbossa as ever he needed, and one he’d believed. Always had, though it was something buried deep in his cynical sailor’s soul, and one he’d never admit to.

He had looked for Jack, those first few years out at sea and away from home. Jack was an all too common name, and he found that most of the Jacks he’d known were idiots. Blowhards. Thugs. Prancing ponces, in the case of one Calico Jack Rackham, to whom Barbossa owed the flag that always flew above whatever ship he was on at the time (the poor bastard was dead; it’s not like he needed it anymore).

Then there was Jack Sparrow. Barbossa had dismissed him all too soon as nothing but an elf-touched nancy boy, unwise in the way of the world. For a long time, his death had been on the old pirate’s hands for slightly more than a decade. It had to be said that he didn’t particularly care—there was nary a peep from his conscience, though that had been long ago silenced, perhaps overwhelmed in the sea of misdeeds he committed on a daily basis.

And then, damn his eyeteeth, Sparrow came back. He’d seen him in the cave, bold as brass, smirking his smarmy grin that glittered an insult in Barbossa’s eyes. Well fine. Kill him again then, no trouble. Only it hadn’t quite gone that way, had it? Barbossa, in his arrogance, had allowed himself to be outwitted by an elf-touched nancy boy.

He’d searched all those years for the Jack he’d known well from his boyhood and had practically given up on his existence. And then, of course, Jack being clever as he was, he’d been right in front of Barbossa for years. Only… Jack, he was quite sure, was not supposed to have eyes smudged with kohl, tarted up as any tuppeny whore, or teeth that shone bright as the gold that damned him. But that was part of the deception, Barbossa supposed.

After the shot that shook the world rang harsh in his ears, he felt the blood run over his chest, a warm and alien feeling that was also strangely pleasant. He could feel himself dieing, everything coming to a slow but sure end. There was darkness that surrounded him, black and cold. He professed this sensation to his killer, who stared at him with eyes true and sure in their owner’s victory, in the rightness of the action. Clever Jack.

Giant Killer.

Monster slayer.

All the cool kids are doing it!

2007-04-28T15:57:15Z

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

kabuki_dream @ 2007-04-08T07:02:00

2007-04-08T02:03:19Z

I realize that since my friends list isn't very large, this is probably a useless plea. Nevertheless!

Just... you know.. check it out. Please? Still need quite a few characters!

kabuki_dream @ 2007-04-02T17:03:00

2007-04-03T00:09:50Z

April is National Poetry Month, so when you see this, post a poem you like on your LJ.

Reading the Entrails: A Rondel

They'll call it chance, or luck, or call it Fate--
The cards and stars that tumble as they will.
Tomorrow manifests and brings the bill
For every kiss and kill, the small and great.
You want to know the future, love? Then wait:
I'll answer your impatient questions. Still--
They'll call it chance or luck, or call it Fate,
the cards and stars that tumble as they will.

I'll come to you tonight, dear, when it's late,
You will not see me; you may feel a chill.
I'll wait until you sleep, then take my fill,
And that will be your future on a plate.
They'll call it chance, or luck, or call it fate.

-Neil Gaiman

kabuki_dream @ 2007-03-17T09:17:00

2007-03-17T16:22:22Z

'Tis St. Patrick's day. A day for all Americans to get drunk and watch parades and wear green and pinch everyone who isn't and eat corned-beef.

I for one will be wearing a little bit of green, and celebrating by listening all day to the Dropkick Murphys and Flogging Molly and settling down with some coffee to watch Father Ted.

Happy St. Patrick's day to all, and may your hangovers not be too vicious in the morning!

Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome!

2007-03-12T02:29:53Z

For anyone deciding to read my journal, this is an introduction-thingy for an activity at potc_dogwatch. I mention this so as not to weird out my flist and leave you wondering why I am, in fact, introducing myself.

So, expect to find on this journal random ramblings (you can just skip over those), fanfic, and icons. I attempted fanart, but I suck when using a tablet, so plz to be ignoring my sorry attempts.

I'm into Pirates of the Caribbean (as you expect, I'm sure), Lost, Harry Potter, reading practically anything, and a dozen other things that aren't coming to mind.

Cheers!

Because I've been neglecting it for far too long...

2007-03-09T02:23:44Z

Title: Brief Un-Lives
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean/Sandman
Characters: Barbossa, Various Endless
Prompt: Passing
Word Count: Aproximately 500
Rating: G
Summary: The damned crew of the Black Pearl, Barbossa especially, have caught the attention of the two Endless whose attention you'd probably want least.
Author's Notes: This is reposted from a challenge at whore4hector

There are shadows at the edges of his vision. Perhaps it is just another symptom of the curse, but Barbossa dares not ask his crew for fear they think him going mad. And he may well be. But madness is a weakness, as Jack Sparrow found out all too well.

At those twilight moments between sleep and waking, he thinks he can see those shadows clearly. There are two of them. One is small and squat, entirely naked but unabashed. There is something hopeless and utterly dismal in her appearance that brings thoughts of old, empty, forgotten rooms to mind.

The other is far worse. Barbossa must certainly be going mad, for when he sees her (or possibly him), the pain of his severed sensation doubles. He… She…It is more beautiful than anything he’s ever seen, would see. Pale skin, dark hair, elegant in stature. Its eyes are golden, and Barbossa has seen it looking at him with something that may have been amusement.

He thinks he may have felt its touch once or twice. Upon waking though, he is left only with the heady, tantilizing sent of summer peaches and the memory of what might have been its hands, gentle like the flutter of a moth’s wing.

He can hear them speak, sometimes, but can never remember exactly what it is they are saying.

Who do you think it was that enchanted these things in the first place, my twin? The taller one may have said. Its hands flutter through the air, and Barbossa, though he is far away from the cursed treasure, can see the shine of gold off death’s-head stamped coins running through its long fingers. I am in the gold.

And, in the cave when victory had been so close, the figures were becoming brighter and clearer and, for the first time in many years, the Captain was afraid.

The bullet had pierced his heart and the salvation so hoped for was delivered.

He woke up again, aware that something was cut, like the strings severed from a marionette. And he could see clearly for the first time what the two shadows are. And he knew them.

Desire and Despair smiled when they saw that he was watching, and vanished. Someone else stood in their place. She was pale and dressed in black, but seemed too cheery to be a mourner.

“That’s me, isn’t it?” Barbossa said, looking down and the corpse he had once been.

“I’m afraid so,” said the girl. “But you won't be here long." A pause. "Can I try on your hat?”

Barbossa had no time to ponder what she had meant, but took off the hat that had apparently traveled with him beyond the grave. She placed it on her head and ran a white hand over its feather.

“I like it.”

Barbossa thanked her politely. She returned it.

She put her hands on his shoulders. It seemed utterly natural for her to do so.

The girl, Death, smiled.

And there was a sound of great wings.

hyperventilates panics dead

2007-03-09T02:01:20Z

Oh. My. God.

MY ANKLE IS F*CKING BROKEN.

And of all the messed up ways to do it, I was just walking when it happened.

No softball. No PE. No softball. I can't even walk more than a couple of blocks on my cast. No softball.

ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Consolation, plz?

Photos

2007-02-10T21:51:24Z

I just recently got a digital camera, so here's the fruits of my playing around with it.

So that's my cat Sassy in the first one. In the second picture, there's a ceramic mask I made a couple of years ago and some little dolphins I got in Mexico last spring break. And the last one is most of my face. Looking vaguely stoned.

STOP. Meme Time!

2007-02-10T05:21:27Z

Ganked from the very lovely whoreoftortuga.

Hot Fictional Boys

1. The Emcee (Cabaret)

2. Jonathan Crane (as portrayed by Cillian Murphy in Batman Begins)

3. Valentine (Mirrormask)

4. Jack Sparrow (Pirates of the Caribbean)

5. Sayid Jarrah (Lost)

6. Octavian of the Julii (as portrayed by Max Pirkis in Rome)

7. Hannibal Lecter (Silence of the Lambs)

8. Tzekel-Kan (The Road to El Dorado)

9. Moby (SSX Tricky)

10. Destruction (The Sandman)

It must be something about villains that attracts me, 'Cause if I tried to make a move on about half those guys, I'd probably end up with my limbs missing. Or eaten, in the case of #7. Not that I'd get near any of them, if they existed, of course. More like admire them from afar; quite a few of them have absolutely abyssmal personalities. And the animated/pixelated two are more of a kiddie crush than anything else, really.

And when I said Hannibal Lecter, specifically the man who appears behind a crazy-hospital's glass wall in Silence of the Lambs: Not the Not-Very-Lecter-like cheesey slasher villain in Hannibal, nor the whiny emo boy in the considerably more recent (it came out today, I think) Hannibal Rising. And Jack Sparrow (nor any pirate, really) I wouldn't get near with a ten-foot pole. I mean, the guy is a walking STD.

And then there's Sayid, who is sweet and good looking but also extremely dangerous. I could go on and on, but instead I'll say that, speaking of Sayid, he's been signifcantly lacking in the latest Lost. 'Course there's always time to bring him back and there hasn't been much of anyone in these late episodes besides Jack and Kate and Sawyer and Others (with a capital, mind you). I think I might be the only one who feels any sort of liking towards Juliette, but I do.

And... that's about it.

PS
ZOMG, thinking of various Lost Boys has reminded me that Desmond is hot. That is all.

Life is a Cabaret, Old Chum!

2007-02-10T01:50:06Z

Cabaret was lovely, as I saw it for the first time yesterday. Bored as I was today, I decided to draw the awesome emcee in all his sleazy, androgynous glory. Only I missed the mark a bit- got the androgyny part down but need to work on the sleaziness. And he definitely doesn't look like Joel Grey. I'm afraid that he looks rather more like Desire from the Sandman than I'd intended. And his cane looks like a two-dimensional object, which is really bugging me. But it's a lot better than that last pic I posted. Um... 'K, ramble over.

3 FF100 Fics

2007-01-16T03:00:47Z

Title: An Honest Girl, Sailor's Warning, Unwanted Salvation
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Characters: Barbossa, Jack Sparrow, Tia Dalma
Prompt: Water, Sunrise, Death
Word Count: 163, 210, 263

Rating: On the whole? PG-13ish, I'd say.

Summary: 3 Drabble-type-things for Fanfic100

~An Honest Girl~
The sea he used to know was an altogether different creature from the waters around the Caribbean.

The sea he remembers from his boyhood is a bottle-green, moody bitch; spiteful and all too likely to maim or kill soon as look at you. And she’s lustful too; in love with all men. Why else would she so eagerly pull them down into her depths to riddle her bed with their bones?

The waters he’s gotten to know so intimately. Caribbean days can pass in a lazy warmth under a hazy blue sky. She’s blue and serene and aloof. There’s nothing so beautiful as watching the turquoise waters sparkle bright as any jewel under the sun. Paradise.

But there’s something deceiving about her. She’ll whip up a storm without provocation, and on a day that started out quiet and peaceful as anything, you’ve got an entire ship and her whole crew sent to meet Davy Jones.

At least the sea ‘round Cornwall was honest.

~Sailor's Warning~

The sea is glass-smooth and the dawn stains the sky a bright crimson, washes over the Pearl and turns her decks bloody.

A storm is coming. Jack Sparrow can taste it on the wind. But, unfortunately, it’s not a storm of wind and water- no, those he can handle.

The crew holds their watch in solemn silence. He can feel their eyes on him the entire time- a pack of carnivores sizing up their prey. And all too like a pack of slathering dogs they are; too cowardly for any one of their number to go up against him alone. No, they would ambush and outnumber. Worst of all, he knows they’re at the beck and call of somebody, but it sure as damnation isn’t their captain.

As if with a mind of its own, he feels his hand rest on the cool reassuring hilt of his cutlass. Jack steps back and isn’t particularly surprised when he bumps into somebody behind him.

He turns around on the spot and finds himself under the scalpel-sharp gaze of his first mate. Barbossa smiles. Or at least, he bares his teeth.

“Jack,” and he can hear the careful enunciation: Jack he is, not Captain, “me and the lads’d like a word with you.”

~Unwanted Salvation~

It was rather like being saved from a death at sea.

You’ve just resigned yourself to an eternity in the chilly, dark depths and your head is getting lighter and lighter because the air in your lungs is going and you’re sure it’ll be the beat from your heart and the warmth from your blood to go next.

Your eyes close but it doesn’t matter because the soft blue of the ocean’s surface is getting farther and farther away. You’re acutely aware of the spiraling down, down into the dark and not minding at all.

But then, mercilessly you’re yanked back up into the world, and to draw breath above water, sharp and painful like a knife between your ribs, is far more excruciating than the cool peace you were expecting in the blackness beneath the waves.

And it was a little of the pain of that first breath Barbossa was feeling now, hacking and coughing as if the improbable age he’d lived to was finally catching up with him.

He felt a hand stroke his cheek. His eyes snapped open and caught sight of a dark face with a smile so rotten as to make his own look positively sparkling.

Neurons fired in a brain that had only been a lump of so much soggy tissue for nigh a year, and he realized the face was indeed connected to a name. And the name revealed yet more memories.

“You remember me, Captain?” said Tia Dalma.

Upon further reflection, he realized later that it probably wasn’t with the best of karma that he started his new life with a string of curses so foul the air was left with a tangible blue tint.

FanFic Table-y Goodness

2007-01-15T17:06:12Z

001.	Beginnings.	002.	Middles.	003.	Ends.	004.	Insides.	005.	Outsides.
006.	Hours.	007.	Days.	008.	Weeks.	009.	Months.	010.	Years.
011.	Red.	012.	Orange.	013.	Yellow.	014.	Green.	015.	Blue.
016.	Purple.	017.	Brown.	018.	Black.	019.	White.	020.	Colourless.
021.	Friends.	022.	Enemies.	023.	Lovers.	024.	Family.	025.	Strangers.
026.	Teammates.	027.	Parents.	028.	Children.	029.	Birth.	030.	Death.
031.	Sunrise.	032.	Sunset.	033.	Too Much.	034.	Not Enough.	035.	Sixth Sense.
036.	Smell.	037.	Sound.	038.	Touch.	039.	Taste.	040.	Sight.
041.	Shapes.	042.	Triangle.	043.	Square.	044.	Circle.	045.	Moon.
046.	Star.	047.	Heart.	048.	Diamond.	049.	Club.	050.	Spade.
051.	Water.	052.	Fire.	053.	Earth.	054.	Air.	055.	Spirit.
056.	Breakfast.	057.	Lunch.	058.	Dinner.	059.	Food.	060.	Drink.
061.	Winter.	062.	Spring.	063.	Summer.	064.	Fall.	065.	Passing.
066.	Rain.	067.	Snow.	068.	Lightening.	069.	Thunder.	070.	Storm.
071.	Broken.	072.	Fixed.	073.	Light.	074.	Dark.	075.	Shade.
076.	Who?	077.	What?	078.	Where?	079.	When?	080.	Why?
081.	How?	082.	If.	083.	And.	084.	He.	085.	She.
086.	Choices.	087.	Life.	088.	School.	089.	Work.	090.	Home.
091.	Birthday.	092.	Christmas.	093.	Thanksgiving.	094.	Independence.	095.	New Year.
096.	Writer‘s Choice.	097.	Writer‘s Choice.	098.	Writer‘s Choice.	099.	Writer‘s Choice.	100.	Hat

I should have said it yesterday-

2007-01-01T21:50:49Z

But I was ~~sleeping~~ out partying.

Happy New Year and stuff!!!

And here is a picture of fireworks over the bay ~~from '03~~ to pretty up your flist. Or possibly mess it up (please don't kill me if that's the case!)

POTC Icons

2007-01-01T01:01:47Z

1. 2. 3. 4.
5. 6. 7. 8.
9. 10. 11. 12.
13. 14. 15. 16.
17. 18. 19. 20.

Um...

Modify or whatever you want; I'm a firm believer that people shouldn't have to be so up-tight about their icons, but comments would indeed be love, and as would crediting them to me.

On a random note, I have no idea where the quote from #6 came from, but I know I've seen it somewhere. And those are Bob Dylan lyrics in #4 and a quote from Marlowe's Faust in #10, not that you can read it.

Look! POTC fic!

2006-12-27T01:45:08Z

The hat was a fine thing, with an actual velvet hatband and a real ostrich feather in said hatband, not like some of the fake ones James had seen. In Kyrie’s Lane, he’d once seen a rat-faced man trying to sell off pigeon feathers as real, honest-to-god ostrich feathers. And that was wrong because, unlike some, James could say he had seen a real ostrich, let alone the feathers. And he thought the hat made him look dashing.

His companion did not. Theodore Groves was sniggering something fierce as the two walked back into the glaring heat of the Caribbean sun. They were a handsome pair of seasoned sailors striding down St. John’s main street. Well, alright, they were two dirty-faced midshipmen (and the youngest on the Bountiful) enlisted in His Majesty’s Royal Navy taking a look around their first West Indian city, but damned if they would call themselves such.

“Norrington, if anything made you look any more of a prick, I’d pay good money to see it.”

The hat fell over James’s ears and he had to give it a ridiculous upward tilt to keep it out of his eyes, but he held up his head like it was a crown as he and Groves made their way into a promising pub with the appropriate sailors’ swagger.

There was no sudden silence that befell the tavern’s patrons. There was no sharp intake of breath from anyone, or a sudden murmur that rose like angry bees as the people watched. The questions ‘Who were these devastatingly handsome young men come to quench their thirst in this humble hovel?’ and ‘We shan’t be trifling with these two, eh?’ were never asked.

In fact, no one had seemed to notice. It took several tries to get the attention of the bar maid, who was not coquettish and rosy-cheeked, as James had always imagined all tavern wenches to be, but old and tired, with rings under her eyes.

He pushed his new hat out of his eyes, and took in his surroundings. The rank smell of stale rum and the dim light was all new to him. As were the number of ladies in lots of makeup. Groves was distracted, giddily waving at a woman in a blue dress with an alarming number of pockmarks on her face.

James watched a rust-haired young man who might have been half a dozen years older than him playing cards and, to the frustration of his opponents, winning.

The boy carefully crept over to the table, catching a few snatches of conversation as he went- “By the powers, gentleman, seems I’ve won again. Not very Christian of me to not give ye a fighting chance though, now, eh? Shall we play again? Jacobs, you’re going to want to get your ring back. Darling missus won’t be pleased at all”, “Awful run of bad luck you’re having, Smith, ain’t ye just? Let me supply ye another drink on account.” Most of it seemed to be coming from the game’s winner. The words James would hear from the other players usually went something along the lines of “Damn you to the deepest pit of hell, you fox-faced bastard. That’s the second straight in a row!”

James peeked over the shoulder of the wordy braggart. The corner of something white poked out from the man’s cuff.

The older man winked and smiled with teeth so yellow, it made James flinch. “Watch closely now, boy, this is how the game is won.”

James, always an observant and thoughtful boy who believed in honesty and fairness to the last, wrinkled his brow. The expression was strange on a face so young. “With extra cards up your sleeve?”

The silence he had so hoped for dropped like a guillotine’s blade in the small gathering of sailors. Had looks been able to maim, the one he was getting from the man who had been so happily chatty before would have caused Groves to carry James back to the ship in a matchbox.

“Knew you was cheatin’ from the start!”

The men descended on the unfortunate swindler and James managed to wriggle out of the chaos without any damage, clinging to his hat like as if it would shield him from all blows. He grabbed Groves by the collar and dragged him back into the street.

“Did you see that pretty lady in the blue dress? She was smiling at me and said we were handsome!”

“Groves, she had the clap. Did you see what was on her face? And besides, the first cut of swag earned from our first prize and you’re going to waste it on that?”

“They were freckles. And besides, better than spending it on some hat that makes you look like a ponce, anyway.”

Before James could answer with a sufficiently scathing retort, a large man heaved someone out the doors. The young man whose colleagues James had informed of their being cheated picked himself up from the street and dusted off his coat. He was now sporting a bruise around his left eye, and a gash on the right side of his face; the result of a smashed bottle, no doubt.

He spat the blood that ran from his face and into his short beard onto the dirt and groaned. Before James could run, he saw the man’s blue eyes turn on him. He staggered to his feet and moved with speed that a person in his condition should not have had.

James was wrenched off his feet with an unbecoming yelp and he was suddenly aware of how very tall his aggressor was.

“Little piece of bilge rat shite! I’ll have your hide.”

There was the click of a pistol being cocked and he felt the cold barrel of a gun against his throat. He swallowed.

“Please-- sir! I didn’t mean to-”

“I’ll bet. By God, I’ll-”

And then there was a moment of pure divine intervention. That’s what it must have been. Years later, of course, James would tell how he fought off the brute single-handedly while Groves cowered in the corner somewhere, but at that moment, he thanked whatever angel had decided he wasn’t worth wiping off the face of the earth.

“Barbossa! Bleeding Christ, what are you doing?”

James was dropped suddenly. He felt his hat tumble off his head, but did not catch it. Instead, it was in the hands of the nearly-murderous Barbossa, who turned it over, examining it, before looking up. “This thing’s too good for the likes of a whoreson guttersnipe.” He turned to the man who’d spoken, as if noticing him for the first time.

“Bill. Leave me be, I need to finish th-”

Once again, he was cut off. “If you do anything to draw attention to us, murder of small children in broad daylight included, you’ll get the cat. Then disemboweled, and probably strung up as an example. And doubtfully in that order.”

Barbossa snarled and jammed James’s hat on his head. Without another word, he turned to follow his friend. The two headed toward the docks and disappeared in a crowd of chattering Frenchmen.

Groves helped James up.

“I just bought that hat. And he took it.”

“You’re lucky that was all he did. Dunno what I’d do if you got your head blown off. You think I’d enjoy it if Brightly suddenly decided to start beating on me? I need you as brute-fodder, mate.”

James carefully smoothed down his hair. “I should tell someone about that, him stealing my hat.” On further reflection he added, “What kind of man would want a beast like that on his ship?”

“Not an honest one. He’s a pirate, I’m sure.” Groves paused to reflect on Barbossa’s name and nastiness. “Or maybe a Spaniard.”

James sighed in the most world-weary manner he could manage. “It was a new hat. And a whole shilling it cost me, too.”

The walked slowly back to the Bountiful.

“Forget about the hat, would you? Did you a favor, he did, taking that hat away from you before you caused yourself any serious humiliation. And it looks a good deal better on him than you, anyway.”

A sushi in a history!!!

2006-12-18T02:50:32Z

On the twelfth day of Christmas, kabuki_dream sent to me...

Twelve mary-sues drumming

Eleven musicals writing

Ten computers a-reading

Nine animals drawing

Eight sporks a-sporking

Seven books a-traveling

Six icons a-roleplaying

Five cla-a-a-assic movies

Four video games

Three goldfish crackers

Two mel brooks

...and a sushi in a history.

Worse than Ghosts

2006-11-15T05:35:17Z

Author:kabuki_dreamSubject: Ragetti
Theme Set/Prompt: 2.59 (young)
Rating: PG-ish
Summary: a short summary of your fic

Jack Sparrow, if Rag can remember right, is about the same age as he is. Perhaps that was why the man had always grated on Rag’s nerves. Sparrow was the captain of a beautiful, fine ship and Rag was swabbing the decks of the same. It wasn’t fair. Rag was just as skilled a seaman, he could navigate and chart just as well.

He just didn’t have kohl smudged around two perfectly functioning eyes like a tuppence whore or beads in his hair. He didn’t have gold teeth or the sort of dashing smile that draws women like flies to honey, nor did he have the cocky air that made men follow him and gladly call him ‘Captain’. Providence, Rag knew, was not kind.

And Sparrow should have been dead these past ten years. His reappearance, Rag would say, was like seeing a ghost, but Rag knows of ghosts and their manifestation has never been half so frightening.

Despite the smudging of kohl, Rag can see the tiny crows’ feet around Sparrow’s eyes, incongruous on the man’s otherwise youthful face. However indiscernibly, Sparrow has aged.

He’s changed, these past ten years. Rag hasn’t.

Cultural Learnings and Some Funny Shit too

2006-11-06T03:04:21Z

Borat is one of those movies that you feel really bad about laughing at. It was insulting to just about everyone and disgusting and vulgar and un-PC but it was a funny-as-hell movie. You know, actually, I'm not gonna care what the critics say. I'm laughing my ass of and waiting for the DVD to come out so I can buy it. Sacha Baron Cohen is a brilliant, hilarious actor. If you didn't know before hand, you'd never be able to tell that the French guy in Talladega Nights and Ali G were the same person. Not to mention, out of character, Cohen's pretty hot.

And, oh God, that movie. I am embarrassed to be an American now. I had no idea that people were that Anti-Semitic and so willing to display their prejudice.

BTW, that screaming you hear is the slow death of my faith in humanity.

Remembrance of my Death

2006-11-03T21:31:38Z

This is way too much fun.

Remembrance of My Death
Around, all around, the angels gather.
My dread grows as an avenging sword falls against my naked soul.
It severs me, and darkly my
essence drips
to the thirsty earth.
In agony I dance
while oblivion takes me.
Now alone, my blood falls upon darkened eyes.

This is your love

*appropriate emo tear*

Big Damn Icon Dump

2006-11-02T20:21:14Z

Angels-

1. 2. 3.
4. 5. 6.
7. 8. 9.
10. 11. 12.
13. 14. 15.
16. 17. 16.
17. 18. 19.
20. 21. 22.
23. 24. 25.
26. 27. 28.
29. 30.

Rome-

1. 2. 3.
4. 5. 6.
7. 8. 9.
10. 11. 12.
13. 14. 15.

Misc-

1. 2. 3.
4. 5. 6.
7. 8. 9.
10. 11. 12.
13. 14. 15.
16. 17. 18.
19. 20. 21.
22.

Please Comment and credit if taking.