Shipwrecked - A Short Story

Shipwrecked

The cool wind whips through the treetops, making the thin trunks bend and sway. The white sand begins to glow with the early morning sun, illuminating from the east onward, from whence our subjects had sailed...

The storm was faster than Her Majesty ever could have sailed. Her canvas was torn, her masts broken like the brittle bones of a cadaver. The intense winds and rain were unlike any ever experienced by Her Majesty's captain. It was as if the storm were wielded by the sea god Posiden himself. All efforts to save the vessel were futile, as nothing could have prevented the outcome. The ship's brave crew did try, no doubt.

The grand mahogany hull had creaked and groaned like the agonized cries of a thousand sea sirens. The magnificent sails had caught brutal crosswinds, pulling the ship in every direction but her intended course.

"Run out the oars you filthy scallywags! Quickly!" The captain had bravely bellowed.

The painful stinging wind and salty rain did not phase the captain, as orders ran smooth, carrying over the howling winds.

A chorus of voices obeyed. "Aye!" Requests were followed frantically. 9 wooden oars extended from the hull of Her Majesty, but the very moment they touched the sea, they were devoured by the ravenous waves.

The men looked to their captain in desperation. Despite all fear, uncertainty, and pain, the orders come smooth. "Secure the canvas, men! Get us the upper hand!"

The crew heaved and pulled with everything they had, to no avail. The sails were torn from the masts as the wind pushed harder. It tore Her Majesty off her westward course and to a lonely island - a place meant only for pirates damned to The Locker and mutineers alike.

Her Majesty stands beached upright in the sand, completely out of the water. Her crew - or what is left of it - are sprawled sporadically across the deck and along the beach, sun-burned and water-logged, choking the sea from their lungs.

"I knew it was bad luck to sail under a woman!" One pirate wheezes from the deck.

Just as suddenly as the storm had come, the subject of his complaint appears, standing above him with a halo of sun surrounding her face. A black-heeled boot is slammed into his chest, hard.

"I will not stand for those mutinous comments aboard my ship, sir."

The man scrambles to his feet to face the captain. There is no evidence that she was ever in a shipwreck. Only the pearls of water dripping from her fair blonde hair. The woman grabs a wad of the pirate's shirt, tugging his face to hers.

"Be sure to let your co conspirators know of my warning or you'll all be walking the bloody plank! Savvy?"

"Aye!"

Captain Amelia Swann stands upon the guardrail at the bow of the ship, gripping onto what is left of the rigging.

The bright sun beats down on the island, exposing the island for the Hell it is. Pieces of the ship lie broken and splintered in the waterline, swaying to and fro from the gentle waves. The cargo lay scattered over the deck and the sand below, rendered completely useless. The captain lets out a sigh that she didn't know she was holding. Everything she had fought so hard to keep, gone in an instant...

Amelia hops down onto the deck with a thud, leather coat slashing around her like a deadly scythe. She ignores the pained cries of her injured and dying crew as she makes her way to the sand.

Slowly, she stalks her way around the battered hull of Her Majesty.

Frustrated, she then makes her way to the treeline, searching for salvageable parts of the vessel and any a man who had been tossed overboard at the mercy of Posiden's fury.

Here among the tropical plants is an entirely new walk of life that she had been unaware of before. There are colorful insects that blend with their surroundings upon noticing her, and florescent reptiles that scurry over the brush when they sense any movement. How peaceful it must be...

Underneath a thicket of fallen palm leaves, something unusual and out of place catches Amelia's eye. She draw her sword, using it to flip over the limbs. Underneath lies a small piece of parchment, rolled rightly. The captain excitedly retrieves and unrolls it. Scrawled on the limp parchment is a faded and barely visible map, but a map nonetheless. It twists and writhes around what looks like... An island! This very island!

She turns to her ship and disheveled crew with a grin so wide that it hurts her cheeks.

"Men!" she exclaims, "We have our heading!"