Aargh! Well ye have stopped looking at my pages as of late, so I’ve decided to return to my pirate persona. It seems to generate an ample amount of hearties!
So for today, I’d like to share a personal recollection from my captain’s log. I encourage all of ye to do so as well… lest ye walk the plank! I’ll do it too, make ye walk out into the frigid depths of the sea! Tis not a good time of year to be sleeping with the fishes!
Yaarrgh!
Anyway, I just wanted to share a bit of me own writing with you today. Enjoy. Let me know what ye think or post some of your own writing!
I’ve even deicided to stay in the pirate persona for my submission!
The captain is by no conventional definitions a captain, nor is he a spatula. This rules out possibilities of the captain making his abode in a ship at sea or the utensil drawer of a kitchen. His name is Chris, he is the self-proclaimed Captain Spatula of the Beloit Roof pirates, and he has no home.
When I met Chris he was a stout man in his early 20’s working in dirty arcade downtown Lake Geneva, WI. The decrepit games were almost as old as the slimy old man that ran the place. Business was always on hiatus and hundreds of new types of fungi were forming in the dark moist corners of the establishment. It’s no wonder Chris became Captain Spatula, pirate extraordinaire, and decided to wander the country aimlessly, looting and plundering his way through life.
I suppose it must have been hard for him to sleep at first, with nothing familiar surrounding him save what he carried on his back in an old Jansport book bag with frayed ends and broken zippers, but I’m sure all of the rum and scotch swilling eased his tension. Clan McGregor is his favorite brand of brew.
If home is where your heart is, then the Captain had no heart. If home is where you lay your head at night, then the Captain had the largest heart of anyone I had ever known. Regardless, he is a formidable character. He carries few things with him from his old life. His book bag containing naught much else than a few ragged t-shirts, some torn up shorts, assorted toiletries, a notebook and a glass pipe. These are the only comforts he requires to make him feel at home wherever he winds up.
More than frequently you can find him curled up on a patch of tile or carpet in some rundown flophouse with twenty other lost souls. The walls covered in grime and crumbling, asking for the sweet sleep of a condemnation notice. Poor lighting fixtures full of dead bugs and bad plumbing are a few of the benefits to the upper-class hovels. Running water is a precious commodity that is savored when available, which isn’t often. Pirates and Bohemians tend to be a stinky bunch. The floors filthy, unkempt, covered in mashed food remnants and footprints amidst the sleeping bodies lazily sprawled across the floor covered in dirty blankets which are stained with refuse and love. His head snuggled on his book bag in a restless sleep, dreaming his bohemian dreams with all of the other nameless faces living their lives according to bohemian ideals.
He is a restless spirit, traveling the country as he sees fit. The captain doesn’t stay in one place more than a few weeks because he fears stability and would rather answer the call of the wind. So, he hitchhikes in his tattered Grateful Dead t-shirt and ratty camo shorts. Sticks his thumb out and gets into whichever vehicle stops, each time taking the risk of being killed, each time setting out on a new adventure. But then again, that’s what Pirates do. The good Captain takes no prisoners and travels alone, making friends along the way and every so often, he will come back to the beginning. Every so often, he will tell his tales. Every so often, he is Chris.
