“Another intriguing Sunday Photo Fiction prompt, by Al. Thanks,” she expressed
“I thought of several incredibly brilliant, riveting, funny, heart-warming, thought-provoking tales, but well ended up with … I’ll let you decide,” she said with an epigamic look on her face.
My extremely bratty little brother was really into the restored 17th to 19th century sailing ships at the Londonderry Dock. We snuck away from our watchdogs (listening to a costumed tour guide), leaving them upstairs, oops, I mean on deck. At Herbert’s urging, we went into the gun/cannon thingie place with the windows cut out of the walls.
“So, we got rich as pirates,” my little brother said making swashbuckling motions with his arm, “swaging our booty in the Islands. Cap’t Jack Sparrow and all.” No.
I rolled my eyes as H took another cannon-brother selfie. He eyed up the cannon and the masonry of the dock, “Admirals then, rewarded by a grateful public and ruling class. You know Russell Crowe Master and all that.” No.
“Ship’s captains – whalers! Like “In the Heart of the Sea.” – NONONONONNONO!
You little s**t! We were slavers. Ya know “12 Years a Slave.” We’re living off human flesh, not whale blubber.
At which point, the little s**t started to wail and blubber, alerting the watchdogs who sniffed us out.
Tonight, I’ll find the North Star. I’ll follow the Drinking Gourd.