Last week I talked about a contest I am entering in July, during which I will have two days and 1000 words to write a fiction piece based on a given genre, location, and object.
I asked for prompts from people to help me practice, and promised to write up to three fiction pieces to practice.
Thank you for your suggestions! This is what I came up with for my first practice.
I decided to go with the first one I got, which was pretty challenging. This was my prompt:
Genre: Swashbuckling Adventure
Location: Moose Jaw
Object: Butter Dish
A disclaimer: I have never written a swashbuckling adventure, nor have I written anything set in Moose Jaw, and I am pretty sure I have never had a butter dish in my story.
There's a time for everything, I suppose.
Alec’s boots creaked along the wooden boards as he stalked the length of the ship, keeping his eye on the bank of the river. Everyone laughed when he bought this small vessel, with the money he earned from selling his family’s heirlooms. The crystal butter dish was the last thing to go, and when he held the check for it in his hand, he decided to christen his ship after the item. When he turned the Butterdish away from the seas and inland, toward the prairies, everyone’s laughter turned to derision. But as they chuckled and chortled, scoffed and scorned, he knew that the days of farmers being able to live off the land were drawing to a close. He had tried to till and weed and harvest, but had clearly not been cut out for it. And so, he packed up all of his the family heirlooms that had been left to him, and his few personal possessions, climbed aboard the Butterdish, and drew up the anchor.
“Captain! Come quickly!” The second mate called from the bow.
“What now?” Alec muttered as he stomped to Salty Bob. Another failed farmer, another failed farmhand, who had begged him to allow him on the ship. “What do you need?”
“We are coming up to the crossing. Then we will be sailing right past Moose Jaw again.”
“Excellent. Do you see anything at the bridge?”
“See for yourself.” Bob shoved the spy glass at his captain.
Alec peered through it. The fields of golden wheat spread out across his vision. Sure enough, there was a large grain truck crawling down the road.
A slow smile spread across Alec’s face.
“Tell the crew to get ready. When the bridge comes into sight, we attack.”
The crew crowded along the starboard side, hands on pistols and swords, awaiting the order.
“Just a bit closer…” Alec murmured, watching the truck lumber onto the bridge.
“Get ready!” he shouted to the crew. “Attack!” he yelled as he leaped over the ledge of the ship and onto the bridge. His men followed, screaming with adrenaline as they did, landing on the bride with a thud. They swarmed the truck, forcing it to a stop.
Alec strode to the driver’s side door. “Now, then, where do you think you are headed?” The man behind the wheel wearing a plaid shirt and dirty trucker hat, was pale with fear.
“Just to the elevator. Get out of my way, please.”
Alec grinned broadly. Sorry, sir, but we aren’t going to be able to do that. We’ll be taking your grain.”
“Over my dead body!”
Alec shrugged. “If it comes to that.” He pulled out the knife sheathed at his waist. “But that could get awfully messy. Probably best if you just hand it over, all peaceful.”
The farmed swallowed at the sight of the knife. “You do know this is Saskatchewan, don’t you? This isn’t the Caribbean,” he said to
Alec, never taking his eyes off the blade.
“Sure do, bud. Where else would we be able to pillage such grain?”
The pirates surrounded the grain truck. Already they were climbing up, readying for a fight.
The farmer looked in the rearview mirror, looked through every window. “I’m not going to get away, am I?”
“No, sir.” Alec pointed the blade toward the man. “Now, I am sorry, but you’re going to have to make up your mind now. Or I will make it up for you.”
The farmer’s eyes narrowed as he levelled his gaze straight at Alec. “Go to hell, pirate.”
Alec sighed. “Suit yourself,” he said, lunging forward as he jammed his blade into the farmer’s arm. His men yelled in victory, filling the sacks they had carried with grain as the farmer struggled with their captain.
“It doesn’t have to be like this, old man,” Alec said, slamming the farmer’s head into the dashboard. We don’t care about you. Just the booty. Just the grain.” The farmer’s nose broke against the AM radio dial. “What do you say, old man? Going to back off?”
The farmer gasped for breath through his mouth, blood streaming from his nose and the gash in his arm. Alec had his knife back now, and the farmer wondered at his own blood dripping from it.
“I worked for that grain. I’ve worked my whole life. That’s what I have to leave my wife, my kids.”
“So you have a choice, then, old man. Do you want to fight for a small amount of the grain you want to leave them, or do you want to stick around with them a little bit longer?”
The old man sighed as he leaned his head back against the head rest. He closed his eyes. “Take the damn grain.”
“Good choice sir. We would, anyway.”
Alec jumped down from the truck. He waved at his men. “Leave him some. Back to the ship, boys.”
The men ran to the edge of the bridge, leaping onto the deck of the Butterdish waiting below them. Alec grinned back at the bleeding farmer, waved, and leapt after them. He reached out, grabbing a rope hanging from the foremast, and swung out and down, sliding until his boots hit the wooden planks.
Bob approached him. “I take it you were successful, Captain?”
“Most certainly,” Alec said, tossing an empty grain sack at him.
“Tell the men to unload the treasure in the hold. Let’s see how we made out. Then they must get ready. Moose Jaw has always been good to us. Let’s see what she offers this year.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Bob answered, and he left to follow his orders. Alec grinned at the retreating back, at his men lugging sacks of wheat to the hold below, and at his ship. Then he leaned against the rail, and watched the banks of the river move past him as they sailed towards Moose Jaw.