¹POCKET FULL OF POSIES. p. jackson

𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈. rage-filled word vomit

pocket full of posies
❛ viii. rage-filled word vomit ❜

━━━━━ "YOU ARE IN so much trouble," Clarisse declared.

              They had just finished a ship tour ( that none of them really wanted ), going through dark rooms overcrowded with dead sailors. They'd seen the coal bunker, the boilers, and engine, which huffed and groaned like it would explode any minute ( not a promising sight that made Posie's stomach churn with anxiety ). They'd seen the pilot house and the powder magazine and gunnery deck ( Clarisse's favorite. No surprise there. ) with two Dahlgren smoothbore cannons on the port and starboard sides and a Brooke nine-inch rifled gun fore and aft—all specially refitted to fire celestial bronze cannonballs.

              So in other words, Michael would've loved this ship. And Lee would've hated it.

              Everywhere they went, dead Confederate sailors stared at them, their ghostly bearded faces shimmering over their skulls. They approved of Annabeth because she told them she was from Virginia. They were interested in Percy due to his last name being Jackson—like the Southern general—but then he ruined it by telling them he was from New York. And they didn't like Posie either, not after she mentioned being from Washington, D.C.—the Union capital in the Civil War. They all hissed and muttered curses about Yankees to Percy and Posie.

              "Warm welcome, huh?" Percy murmured to the daughter of Apollo.

              "Would it make it better if I told them I didn't like living in D.C.?" Posie whispered back.

              Onesimus snorted. That wouldn't do anything, Little Posie.

              Tyson was terrified of the dead Confederates. All through the tour, he insisted Posie would hold his hand for comfort. She thought he might've even tried to climb on her back, as she had back in the Chesapeake Bay, but they both knew she would crumple like a twig. Onesimus hissed warnings in Posie's head, but she shoved him away, telling him to, Shut up! Tyson's not anything bad.

              Normally, Posie would've cringed and had a prickle of anxiety create a pit in her stomach at the thought of holding someone's hand for so long ( especially after she found out her hands can glow green and rust Celestial bronze ), but Tyson was oddly sweet and kind. And Posie really did mean oddly. She had never met a pleasant Cyclops, especially one who had fears and enough empathy to have kindness for a daughter of Apollo scared of snakes. Tyson was like a younger sibling ... that just so happened to be a foot taller than her, and could crush her hand ( and her entire body ) at any given moment.

              Don't tell me, Onesimus groaned. You've grown soft for a Cyclops?

              Posie winced silently. She had. In a short amount of time, she had grown sympathy for a Cyclops. Well ... maybe the sympathy was always there for Tyson, after she saw him defend Percy and be treated so poorly, but she never wanted to feel for a Cyclops. It ... wasn't natural. She was a demigod; Cyclops kill and eat demigods; they were enemies.

              But for some reason, Tyson wasn't following in other Cyclopes' footsteps. Posie didn't know why, she was just glad he wasn't.

              Finally, they were escorted to dinner. The CSS Birmingham captain's quarters were about the size of a walk-in closet, but still much bigger than any other room on board. The table was set with white linen and china. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, potato chips, and Dr. Peppers were served by skeletal crewmen. Posie didn't want to eat anything served by ghosts, but Percy didn't seem to mind.