Virginia McClain: Freelance Writer, Novelist

Arrr... T'was a fine debacle I foun' meself in nought but a few days ago. Here I be with a handfull o' fabulous Piratey Essays an each an every one of 'em worthy o' a winnin' vote. What's a pirate to do? I ask ye. So, I says to meself, I says "Ye'll just 'ave to 'ave them fight to the death and determine the winner that way." Well, twas a right fine idea, I dare say. But, twas all fer nought. Fer the damned writer o' the piratey essays be all spread t'hell and gone over the United States and some o' the bastards be even in another country. So's gettin' 'em together would be a right pain me arse, not to mention it'd require a fair bit more booty than I've seen in the last few passin' o' this here bit o' dirt 'round this here ball o' fire. So, I says to meself I says "Well, 'oo said thar had t'be an outright winner?" "Why you did." I replied. "Well, that's a load of bullocks if ye ask me. Best t' be puttin' all the entries up, so's the world can read 'em and let THEM decide what's what."

So, here ye arrrr... I give ye all the entries what was sent t' me (in no particularrrr order) and YE can decide which one ye likes the best. So tharrrr... 

“Aaarrrrggghhhh,” the little guy with one eye, full black beard, and a month’s worth of grime on his weathered face growled like a she-cat losing her young.  He was furious with his comrades, who had just poured perfectly good rum all over him. 

“Faith and begorra, ye’ve done it one time t’many, me hearties!  Wastin’ good drink!  If it’s bathin’ me yer wants, bring ‘er on, ye bloody arses!” 

With that, he picked up a huge cask and flung it into the midst of the crowd of mates who were about to attack again---this time with soap and scrub brushes.  They weren’t the cleanest of men, either, but they had seen soap close up in the past week, and they were sick of living in close quarter with one who hadn’t.  The cask broke apart on their scruffy heads and sent them scurrying belowdecks, which amused their odoriferous mate enormously. 

“Runnin’ like scared wimmen, are ye?  Well, take a bit ‘o this with ye!”  He continued to fling cask after cask after them. 

As the casks continued to break apart on impact, the little, one-eyed pirate was evaluating the contents that spilled out: moldy bread, moldy cheese, rotten fruit, and WOAH!!! What’ this?  Gold???  Fat, shiny, gold nuggets, the size of a grown man’s thumb poured out of the last fragmented cask.   

“Who’s got the last laugh now, maties????  ‘Tis all mine.  Yer can all rot ‘n hell before ye’ll get a single nugget.”  He slammed down the hatch and locked them in. 

Still smiling, he set sail for home, thanking his lucky stars that it was a small craft, easily managed by one person, no matter how malodorous he might be.

Many thar be in this 'ere country who'd have ye think that stringin up some dumb bastard for 'is crimes is some kind 'o crime itself. Shiver me timbers, mateys, methinks them lily-livered poltroons 'd change their tunes right quick if ye put 'em out ter sea fer a few days wi' Capn' Jack n' his band 'o merry buccaneers. I ask ye, when rum is right scarce ter begin with, d' ye think a band 'o seafarin gen'lmen like meself 'd be willin ter share our rum with some scurvy dog the likes o' Mad Bill? Now ye might be askin' what it is 'e done s' bad as ter be worthy o' death. Ye'd be right ter ask, so you would, if'n ye doubt the pirate code 'r the wisdom of the cap'n, tho doin so 'd be a mite bad fer yer health. Mad Bill 'd lost the last o' 'is marbles and tried ter set off a few fireworks i' the hold 'n take all o' 'is mateys down t'Davy Jones Locker wi' 'im. Yarr, mateys, but that was a close 'n! Now I ask ye, what 'd ye 'ave us ter do? If we lock 'im up i' the hold, 'e might 'ave another go at it, 'n all th' time 'e's down there 'e's eatin up rations that 'd go ter the rest 'o us. One o' th' crew argued for keepin' 'im, 'Arvey wot used ter be a lawyer, sayin' e' deserved a fair trial 'n we were a tainted jury pool, what'er that means. Me mateys 'n meself  said avast with all the jawin', and keelhauled 'em both fer good measure. Ye can doubt th' wisdom o' this, but I can tell ye we swing easier in 'r hammocks knowin' that the keel 's safe below us 'n the rum ration 'll be a mite bigger for the rest 'o us. Thar be me reasonin', 'n any landlubber who thinks 'e knows better 'd best steer a course clear o' th' high seas, 'r 'e might run afoul 'o me.

Ahoy, n’along life to yee! Whereupon ye find yerself still a’breathin, full o’powder’n’spittle, and a-grippin these eer ‘nstrucktions, BEWARE me Hearty tht yee’ve got yer chest o’ metal toolery at the nearby – for though nearmost every shiver’n’skid o what yee’ll be needing tis fair enclosed in these four’n’ten sacks o plastick, it may well be tht’a grogged-out scallywag in th’bleedin Sweedish workshop did fail at th’inclusioning of each wee metalry. Now, by a-followin th’handscrawl picktur, and by a-readin these eer orders, ye should be able, gods’n’ghouls a-willin, t’get th’blasted Whyvar Shelf’o’Bookery™ t’stand right’n’proper gainst th’cabin wall of any junk, skiff, or piggedly galleon the seven seas o’er. 

T’begin yeer venture in lubberly woodmakery, lay upon th’deck slats A’n’B, each one at th’side o th’tother, a-bearin tords th’noreast.  Take a fierce grippin’ on th’tin flangery marked 1, then ‘tach them fast by laying beam C o’er th’facin. Make snug with a turn o th’screwymaker. Grasp upon th’sideboard plankins D’n’E, and watch careful they lie true’n’even longside yer alreddy lain slattery. Fitch th’two sideby n’tight with th’wee woodly pegs, namely number 2, who’ll seem t’fit fast in th’holery ye’ll find abeam. Th’wee pair’o twinboards F’n’G lie in next, t’th’top’n’bottom o th’ forelain boardery, ‘tachin them with th’wellforged number 3 tinbits, a’makin them so hardfast thatta Sargasso squall would nae pull th’weft from’er. Avast’n’take heart! Yee’re nearly rid out th’worst o’th’construcktin! 

Take leave n’root nimblequick through th’dregs o’plastick sackery, a-marking carefully a number of six’n’thirty wee gommets. Stack th’bunch by th’ready, and commence t’pokin them each in th’wee holes up’n’along th’sideboard plankery, mindin t’space’em sos yeer tomes’n’logs will fit fair’n’tight within. Once yee’ve alaid’em by, tis time t’hoist Whyvar aloft, standin’ her straight’n’proud, ready for t’affix th’final gallant bedeckin: th’shelfery. So fair she’ll be! Stab yer dirk threw th’shelfrappin, n’loose’em from th’styrofoamy briggery. Lay em by, all th’fair six bookboards. Now matey, tis nothing but t’settem each and th’tother upon th’gommetry of which yee’ve already but lain. A tap o’th’mallet pon each’o’th’shelferys, n’yeev up’n but finished yer quest’o’cheevin th’assemblery o’th’tall n’comely Whyvar Shelf’o’Bookery™. We wager yee’ll enjoy t’lay yeer collecktion o’loggery, tomery, treasure mappery, n’all manner o musty bookery upon th’bonny bookslats fer all yeer illiterate rabbly shipmate eejits t’slather o’er in jealousy.  Ahoy! 

Far from port's bar maids
Rolling seas, winter's harsh wind
Arr, me peg leg hurts

-Cap'n Arrr...

sailin' th'ocean blue
yarr, a lubber walks ther plank
me parrot calls me

 -Cap'n Jill