Defy the Odds

It was only inevitable I enter this XD Even with a pretty darn cruddy entry. This is the first time I've done a picture prompt, so if there are any experts out there, please tell me if I'm doing this right. I'm aware someone's already used this Title, and i'm sorry, but I really can't think of a better title. The other one I had in mind gave away the story XD Again, very sorreh! D:
***CONTENT WARNING: I couldn't make this in anyway child-friendly. We are talking about 18th century ship-bound, cut-throats that almost never shower here, so here's what this has: Violence, brutal behaviour and abhorrent language. And maybe some racial prejudices, gender prejudices, etc. I haven't decided yet XD
***EDIT: Alright, changed the title. Is everyone happy?
***FINAL EDIT: My word count - 1998 words XD

8Likes
26Comments
1251Views

2. -

“He’s waking.”

“Mm, he’ll be in for a right headache.”
 

Matt put a hand to his head and groaned. He sat up, flashes behind his eyes distorting his vision.

Where…? he thought to himself.

He saw the glistening sand sweep like a ribbon across the land, the ocean bordering it on one side, and then it disappeared into clusters of exotic trees. Perhaps he would have thought it Paradise, had there not been the scattered corpses of shipmates strewn across the glorious land along with the flotsam and debris of their ship. The ship, lucky bastard, wasn’t in as bad a shape as one would think it. It was actually quite in-tact – save the gaping, ragged hole in its hull. The sea must have washed all of them ashore.

 

Matt turned to see to two live men walking about, occasionally glancing at him, but mainly marveling at the island.

“You’re awake, then?” one of them asked.

“What happened…? Urgh…” Matt clenched his teeth and put a hand to his head once more.
“Christ, what d’ye think happens t’pirates?” he replied, “Took what they could an’ then disappeared. An’ don’t count yer chickens jus’ yet – there might jus’ be more on this blissful shithole.”
Matt got to his feet. His jacket had been stripped off and his doublet was greying in tatters. His pale breeches were in-tact and his boots also – they were dry, but the survivors hadn’t noticed. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked amid the dead bodies and found a belt and a sheath. He cursed when he found no sword. He kept looking, kicking the corpses and rolling them over, searching for things to salvage. He found a flask of rum, a sword, and two flintlock pistols. He tore a man’s doublet and wrapped the fabric around his waist tucking it in to secure it. He kept sheathed his pistols and flask there.

 

The two men began to give shouts, “Life! There’re people here!” at first they sounded overjoyed.

Matt looked behind him. He noticed their shouts of joy become shouts of alarm. He heard the sharp scrape of sword being drawn out of scabbard. Eight or nine burly men burst out of the trees like a pack of wolves, their swords drawn. Matt and the survivors drew their own. There was only a moment to note the heavy footfall of running before the pirates threw their well-aimed blows. The ringing of swords filled Matt’s ears. He ducked under the swing of a giant-of-a-man’s curved sword and slid between his legs before coming up and stabbing him through the back. The pirate growled, but fell and lay there writhing in agony, his blood tainting the glistening sand. He was still in moments. The sword stuck in his back, however, and Matt couldn’t free it. Cursing, he pulled out the pistols and found the triggers stiff.

The two survivors weren’t performing any better. He saw a pirate dive onto one with a dagger. He stabbed it straight into his face, again and again, the vulgar sounds threatening to bring up whatever food was left in Matt’s stomach.

 

Matt was a man who knew when he was beaten. He raised his hands. Surrendering. One pirate saw him.

“Yer a wise one,” he said, smiling, “Lady’ll be pleased to see you, a’right.”
Matt stared at the bigger man fearfully, but didn’t make any attempt to attack. The pirate looked like he could crush his skull with one hand and Matt had no intention of aggravating him.

The other survivor died with a sharp crack of an elbow to his throat. Matt watched him die slowly, his broken trachea no longer able to circulate air. He gaped and struggled desperately, like a fish out of water, before he slumped over and fell over.

 

“One more t’go?” laughed a pirate, holding his sword over his shoulder.

“Nay,” said Matt’s captor, “this one mus’ be an oarsman. Or a philosopher.”

“Surrender?”

“Aye.”

“Philosopher it be, then!” the remaining pirates laughed heartily, “Still, handy with a knife, eh? He took down Marc a’right,” they smiled at him.

“You…” Matt hesitated as they bound his hands with rope, “You’re not gonna make me pay for that?”

“We were a’fightin’. Marc knew wha’ was comin’ t’him,” said his captor.

“Come on!” called one of the pirates, “Let’s get back and send them soft-arses t’collect the spoils! We’ve done what we came for!”

Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...