George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
While other pirates looted towns for provisions and ammunition, George would return with several plastic bags full of pet goldfish.
“Aren’t they pretty?” he’d beam proudly, and then run back into the pet store for a fish tank.
Of course, he needed pebbles. And plants. And an aerator.
A treasure chest with a lid that flapped every time it released a bubble.
By the time he rolled the shopping cart back to the ship, his crewmates were drunk, and out of live goldfish to challenge each other to swallow.
George from one two ten
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
On a scale from one to ten, when asked how good of a pirate George is, most pirates would ask if zero is an option.
When you tell pirates that the lowest number on the scale is one, so zero isn’t available as an option, they get very angry, and will draw their cutlass and threaten to cut your throat.
George, on the other hand, would rate himself an eleven.
Once again don’t correct him on the numbers. He might draw his sword and drop it on your foot.
Happy George Day
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He had a good attitude, though.
When he saw people, he’d say “Happy Tuesday!” or “Happy Thursday, it’s almost Friday!”
And not in a sarcastic way, either. He was genuinely happy that it was Tuesday or Thursday.
And when it was Friday, man was he happy.
Not that it meant anything. Because being a pirate is a seven-days-a-week job.
There are no weekends off for pirates.
But it gave George something to say and be happy about.
Even if the truth was that everyone was miserable, frustrated, and exhausted.
Weekly Challenge #901 – PICK TWO Photograph, Buttery, Tramlines, Vast, Unit, Trying
The next topic is It’s a dirty job.
RICHARD
Railroad reflection
The mournful sounds of train horns filled the frigid air.
Blowing into my cupped hands had little effect on my numb fingers, and I longed for the warmth of a friendly flame and woollen mittens.
This was the reality of the hobo’s life.
Cold, unforgiving, and distinctly lacking the romance of the open road.
The winter sun, slowly dipped in the Western sky, glinting from the steel rails, bestowing a lustrous sheen of glowing golden light;
Buttery tramlines, leading my gaze towards the distant, unknown horizon:
My destination on the next passing outbound train.
The traveller’s dream; the vagrant’s curse
SERENDIPIDY
I found the photograph in his wallet: A happy, smiling child. His daughter.
It was old now, cracked and faded with time, but still he’d kept it, all these years.
And now, he lay dead at my feet; the knife in my hand, slick with his blood.
He deserved it.
And that’s all I have to say on the matter. You don’t need to know the details, you only need to know that he had it coming.
I trace the little girl’s smile with my bloody finger.
I was happy once.
I looked down at his lifeless form, “Goodbye, dad”.
TOM
VAST
During my undergrad degree in Photography our inter-circle of A-students got the university to give us a van for a road- trip to the Grand Canyon. This prompted a new university policy of no vans for field-trips. Proud of that legacy, I am. The Canyon is number two on the national go-to destination for an American youth, just behind the Happiest Place On Earth. Not your fine art major venue. But the Canyon fine arts written large. As hard as I tried my photos never captured the feel of the Canyon. In a word it is the soul of Vast.
LIZZIE
It was a trying endeavor. A man sitting on a beam, working up high. No ropes, an emptiness below him. Just sitting there and hammering away. But she took that photograph, plus the one with the buildings. Her father had told her that those two represented the company’s prestige. A man dangling, hammering away for a pittance, building the company’s prestige. The pride of the family. When her father died, she took those photographs and burned them. Yes, she got rid of the company’s prestige, and she got rid of her family. It was a trying endeavor. Freedom’s never easy.
NORVAL JOE
The woman struggled, trying to escape from the thorn bush. Sabrina took out her phone and took a photograph of the woman’s face.
“What are you doing?” Billbert asked.
“Evidence,” Sabrina said, putting her phone away. “Let’s get out of here before she gets out of the bush.”
They joined hands and lifted off in the buttery yellow light of morning, flying north across the Eel River delta and the South Humboldt Bay before landing just outside the Eureka city limits.
Sabrina scowled. “Why are we stopping here?”
Linoliamanda started walking. “That’s okay. My house is just up the road.”
PLANET Z
Back in the day, there was a streetcar on Main Street.
From City Hall to the College.
Along the way, there was the factory, the hospital, and the grocer’s.
The town got bigger, the streets got wider, and the streetcar tracks were torn up.
I collect postcards of the old days, women in big dresses and men in their top hats.
Mounted and framed at the old-timey bar by City Hall.
They were going to build it out of a pair of streetcars, but they weren’t big enough.
A toy streetcar goes around on a track near the ceiling, though.
George’s pajamas
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
After a long day of piracy, he’d change into his pajamas, make a cup of herbal tea, and read for a while.
Sometimes, the other pirates would steal his clothes while he slept, and George would have to go out in his pajamas.
Usually, he’d go shopping for new clothes, but sometimes he was woken up by a fight.
He fought well in them.
So well, other pirates began to wear pajamas while going into battle.
Not having pockets make it hard to carry ammunition for their flintlocks, though.
George eats a heart
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He didn’t really make a name for himself as a pirate.
As opposed to the pirate who ripped the heart out of a Spaniard and ate it.
“But what was his name?” asked the captain.
George tried to think of it. “I can’t remember. But he ate some guy’s heart, so…”
“But do you remember his name?”
“No.”
Later, George realized that he didn’t know the captain’s name, either.
George didn’t sleep that night. He stayed up, worried that the captain would rip out his heart and eat it.
George on the sofa
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He lay on his therapist’s couch, crying and rambling about all his problems.
Then, he realized that he’d looted the couch from his therapist’s office, and he was on the deck of his ship, rambling to the rain and the winds.
George shrugged. It wasn’t any less helpful that when he’d cried and rambled to his therapist.
He’d gotten pissed off at the waste of time and stolen the couch out of spite.
“And how does that make you feel?” George imagined the therapist saying.
“Good,” said George, smiling.
George’s farewell
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He kept a diary of all his misadventures.
And then he turned it into a series of books.
The books sold well, and George made a lot of money from them.
His old captain sent George a letter threatening to sue him if he didn’t get a share of the money.
George wrote back that suing him would not be a good idea.
The next day, the captain woke up with a can of gasoline and a pack of matches in his bunk.
Leave me alone, said George’s note.
George’s groceries
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
“When life hands you lemons, make lemonade,” he always said.
He never seemed to have any lemons, though.
George looked through the grocery delivery crate.
Apples… he could make applesauce.
Oranges… he could make orange juice.
Tomatoes… oh, the things he could do with tomatoes.
Tomato juice, tomato sauce, tomato paste.
Slice them up for a BLT?
But he didn’t have any lettuce or bacon.
Potatoes… maybe.
But he wasn’t very hungry at the moment.
So he pulled out his Mister Potato Head kit and played for a while.
Let’s all give George shit
George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
At first, it was the captain telling him that he wasn’t very good.
Then, the captain had the first mate harass George about it.
The quartermaster scolded George for wasting food and water.
And the sailing master criticized George’s navigation skills.
If that weren’t enough, the captain brought on boatswains who hounded George night and day for his mistakes.
Pretty soon, it as everybody’s job on the ship to give George shit.
“Who’s steering the ship?” asked George, seeing rocks up ahead.
Everyone shouted at George for questioning authority.