George the Author

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He know a lot of good pirates, though.
So, he talked to them, wrote a book, and claimed to be the utmost authority on pirates.
Except that his book was a complete fabrication.
Well, okay, the dates and events were real.
But George substituted his own name for each of the heroic pirates involved.
With each edition, George grew more bold, daring, wealthy, and famous.
Thankfully, nobody bought George’s book.
He’d appear at bookstores for signings, but nobody showed up.
Eventually, George gave up writing, and took up bowling.

George Turkel

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Instead of raiding and pillaging, he would sit back and observe his shipmates.
Sometimes, he took out a tape deck and interviewed them about their life.
Or he’d interview the villagers that they’d just attacked and looted.
Sometimes, he’d talk to slaves. Or plantation owners.
Progressive and left-wing radio stations would play his interviews.
His books weren’t best-sellers, but they were popular among the disenfranchised and the marginal.
A champion of the common man, they called him.
Or was that Studs Terkel?
I get the two of them confused.

Weekly Challenge #750: PICK TWO: a new beginning, library, Ireland, storyteller, friends, home

Basket case

LIZZIE

The deal included shipping the stuff across the ocean and delivering it safely.
But the stuff wasn’t delivered.
“What’s going on? You don’t know where Hong Kong is?”
He got off the phone and… there it was, the ship. Empty.
“Where’s the stuff? It’s worth millions.”
No one knew.
Well, the source did. They were testing everyone’s loyalty.
Hong Kong didn’t like it.
Updated offer. “Incoming delivery. Free.”
A new crew had to be hired because heads were removed from their respective bodies and shipped back.
“Now, send us the stuff. Hong Kong has more brilliant ideas. Yes, we do.”

RICHARD

The Storyteller

The storyteller gazed at us in the firelight, smiled, and eased himself into a more comfortable position.

We waited expectantly, hoping that – just for once – he’d give us something decent, something with a different ending that didn’t have the dragon being defeated, the hero marrying the girl, and everybody living happily ever after.

But, as always, it wasn’t to be.

You see, our storyteller would simply recycle the same old tale, with the same characters and the same outcomes, time after time.

He would never give us a surprise ending…

Always the same old story, but with a new beginning.

SERENDIPIDY

My circle of friends like to get together for the occasional evening of board games, and being somewhat obsessive, we like to dress up and make things as realistic as possible.

So, for snakes and ladders, everyone brought candy snakes and wore laddered tights; for Monopoly, we all got blinged-up, smoked cigars and drank champagne; and for mousetrap, we ate cheese and played using sugar mice instead of counters.

This week, we’re playing Cluedo.

I won’t tell you who the victim’s going to be, but I’ve already prepared a hefty length of lead pipe, safely stashed in the library!

NORVAL JOE

Billbert realized, he didn’t like the old man. “What do you mean, Linoliamanda’s not important? She’s my only friend.”
The man didn’t gain any points when he said, “Consider it a chance to start over. Make new friends.”
Billbert headed toward the car and super villains.
“Where are you going?” his mother asked.
“I’m getting Linoliamanda and taking her home.”
Billbert dove forward and flew, skimming, inches above the asphalt of the parking lot. He circled around behind the villains, shot forward and scooped up Linoliamanda, carrying her quickly up into the air.
She hugged Billbert tightly and kissed him.

TOM

An Ireland Tale

I went to visit my ancestral home in Ireland. Story goes my Irish forefather were doctor to the Munster Kings. Not the TV family, the kickass warriors of central Ireland. It is so far south in Cork, you danm near fall off the island. Which is just what the structure was moving toward. What the home lacked in roof it made up in walls. Stone laced with thicket of berries. The berries were wining. Folk in the village said no had live on the land for nearly a century. Still is where I came from, but not likely where I will end.

RICK THOMAS

Ridin’ The Pine

98 years old, born in Hughesville … and would die here soon enough. Never really left.

Small town … mostly farmers …
back then … and now.

At 98 … friends, neighbors, most everyone you knew … dead and gone …

Life gets lonely.

Harry liked to sit in the park, and talk with whoever would stop to listen. And Harry’s stories made it worthwhile. Harry had a story for every street, store, and vacant lot in town … New most everyone’s grandparents …

… WHEN THEY WERE LITTLE KIDS!

Born for this …
Sitting on this wooden bench …
Telling these stories had always been his destiny.

A valued community treasure!

CALEDONIA

Seanchai Sunday
by Caledonia Skytower

Something rustled in the trees like an incantation – a voice pregnant with speech. “Who’s there,” I thought, rather than asked aloud.

“I’m here.” murmured a reply, “The news has reached me. It’s in the wind.”

I marveled at the instinct that triggered this message. “What news?”

“‘Not all those who wander are lost’ the poem says. Well, we have a place for you. Come home, and be welcomed.”

The storytellers speak of fresh starts. Library volumes add to their veracity. It was time.

So we did, and thanks to a friend, a new beginning rose on the dawn horizon.

PLANET Z

I remember my first library card.
It was paper with a metal piece with some kind code they’d crimp into the book slip.
Over time, they got barcodes and a magnetic strip and those RFID chips like credit cards.
In college, I used my student ID for that and my meal plan. More for my meal plan than the library, to be honest.
Now, I just sign in from home, and download a temporary digital book or movie.
I don’t even know where the library is anymore.
They need to keep some real books or computers or stuff somewhere, right?

George the Addict

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He did an awful lot of drugs.
This affected his balance, his judgment, and fine-motor skills.
Instead of helping with battles and plundering, he spent a lot of time sitting in his bunk and giggling.
Or he’d walk up to someone and say “Did you know that God spelled backwards is dog?”
And then he’d sit down and giggle some more.
The captain sent George to rehab a few times, but George would go back on the drugs again.
At least he knew where to score the best deals.

George the Greeting Card Writer

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He wrote himself encouraging Post-It Notes, such as:
“BE THE BEST PIRATE YOU CAN BE!”
“THE SCURVY DOG GETS THE BONE!”
“A PIECE OF EIGHT IS NOTHING WITHOUT THE OTHER SEVEN PIECES!”
He stood at the mirror, practicing his menacing leers, and telling himself that he was a good pirate.
This didn’t change anything.
But George did get a side job of writing pirate greeting cards.
With every amputation and newly-installed peg leg, his shipmates also got one of his renowned Get Well Soon cards.
How nice of him.

George’s Website

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Not that you could tell that from his website: georgethepirate.net
It had a lot of animated GIFs and flashing text. Very 1996, if you ask me.
He wanted georgethepirate.com, but a domain squatter had snatched it up before he could buy it.
The Twitter account was gone, too. And the best he could get on Facebook was georgethepirate47.
Not that George had much use for social media.
He was out at sea a lot, and satellite Internet can be very expensive.
And pirate taverns rarely double as Internet cafes.

Shufflegeorge

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Instead of swabbing the deck, he resurfaced it and painted it to create a regulation shuffleboard court.
“That’s very impressive,” said the captain. “Care to play a game?”
Unfortunately, George hadn’t thought to buy a set of pucks or cues.
“Perhaps we can make do with plates and cutlasses and other objects?” he said.
After several matches, their cutlasses they used as cues and the metal plates they used as pucks had scratched up the deck considerably.
“That’s too bad,” said the captain. “How about you swab it now?”

George the Pirate Radio King

George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
His crew looted a town with a low-power radio station, and George rigged up the equipment to start his own pirate radio station.
He broadcasted music that other stations wouldn’t play.
Sea shanties, hornpipes, and other pirate tunes.
George became the most beloved radio personality among pirates across the world.
When the authorities tried to shut him down, the captain would raise anchor and sail the ship back to international waters.
One night, lightning struck the antenna and fried the broadcasting equipment.
George shrugged, and started a Spotify station.

Live a little

I picked up a shit-ton of deli at Kenny & Ziggy’s.
Going to drop it all on the table at lunch, chow down, and anybody who walks by who says that looks good, sit, eat, join us, nosh a little.
Because, fuck, what’s life about?
What’s a hundred bucks worth when you’re dead in the ground?
Stack that pastrami and tongue and corned beef and chopped liver high on the challah, slap on some mustard, cut up a pickle, and live a little.
Because that’s all you get to do… live just a little.
And don’t you fucking forget it.

Not an artist

I don’t call myself an artist.
Others do, but I don’t.
I write. I photograph. I arrange things.
I look at the world, take a step to the side, and look again.
I cover one eye, and then the other.
I dream. I set my imagination free.
And when it comes back, I listen.
I listen a lot, picking out things that inspire me.
I frustrate myself and throw tantrums.
I challenge myself to do better.
But I don’t call myself an artist.
I just do what I do.
And when I am done, I do it all over again.