Every day from May 1 - June 26, 2008, I wrote a 'drabble' -- a story consisting of 100 words, no more, no less. The rules: Each 100 words had to be a stand-alone story. Each 100 words had to contain a pirate and a moth. Some of them were more successful than others, but all were amazingly fun. Enjoy!
The Pirate and the Moth
(c) 2008 Christy C Humphrey
May 1, 2008
The pirate reached into his seaman’s chest for his favorite red woolen doublet which he intended to wear to the Annual Pirate’s Ball on Dead Man’s Island.
“Aaaaarrrrrrrrgggghhh?” he asked in surprise, using his hook to raise his eye patch, as if he could see any better out of the empty socket than he could out of the one that worked. “Aaaaaarrrrrrrrrgggggghhhh!”
The doublet was full of holes, and a fat, satisfied moth peered up at him with a sated grin on his proboscis.
“Urp,” belched the moth.
“Aaaarrrrrrrrrrggggggghhhh!” roared the pirate.
It would be a fight to the death.
“Aaaaarrrrrrrrgggghhh?” he asked in surprise, using his hook to raise his eye patch, as if he could see any better out of the empty socket than he could out of the one that worked. “Aaaaaarrrrrrrrrgggggghhhh!”
The doublet was full of holes, and a fat, satisfied moth peered up at him with a sated grin on his proboscis.
“Urp,” belched the moth.
“Aaaarrrrrrrrrrggggggghhhh!” roared the pirate.
It would be a fight to the death.
May 2, 2008
Dreadsome Dave reflected on his sudden change in fortune. There was little else to do as he sat alone in the dark, dank Cadiz jail awaiting hanging for piracy on the high seas.
The cell was overrun with rats and other vermin. The hold of the Gypsy Moth had also carried unwanted stowaways. The cell smelled of unwashed flesh and fetid human waste. Ditto the Moth. The food, very similar. The iron bars limited his movement; the endless expanse of ocean had done the same.
But, oh, how the Moth could fly. And tomorrow, at sunrise, so would Dreadsome Dave.
The cell was overrun with rats and other vermin. The hold of the Gypsy Moth had also carried unwanted stowaways. The cell smelled of unwashed flesh and fetid human waste. Ditto the Moth. The food, very similar. The iron bars limited his movement; the endless expanse of ocean had done the same.
But, oh, how the Moth could fly. And tomorrow, at sunrise, so would Dreadsome Dave.
May 3, 2008
A pirate sneaks into my room when I should be sleeping. I sit bolt upright in my bed, my eyes suddenly wide open. Before I can speak, he raises a finger to his lips, shushing me so that my parents won’t hear us. He silently beckons me from my bed to the open window. A large moth, stained with moon shadows, waits for us on the windowsill. The pirate climbs onto its back and offers me his hand. I settle between the moth’s broad wings, nesting in the safety of my captor’s arms as we fly away into the night.
May 4, 2008
Black Flint the pirate lay dying on the deck of La Muerta Violente. A cannonball had severed his left leg just below the knee, and his fighting arm had been sliced to ribbons in hand to hand combat when the ship had been boarded.
He barely felt the sharp poke of a boot as a Royal Navy sailor rolled him onto his stomach.
“Blimey,” spoke the sailor, “would you look at that! What do you suppose it means?”
There, on Black Flint’s upper arm, right where a chunk of flesh had been carved away, was the elaborately tattooed word “Moth…”
He barely felt the sharp poke of a boot as a Royal Navy sailor rolled him onto his stomach.
“Blimey,” spoke the sailor, “would you look at that! What do you suppose it means?”
There, on Black Flint’s upper arm, right where a chunk of flesh had been carved away, was the elaborately tattooed word “Moth…”
May 5, 2008
Old Jennings had never intended to become a pirate. He wasn’t cut out for plundering and pillaging, murder and rapine. He never acquired sea legs and, consequently, was perennially seasick. His fondness of literature, his sophisticated palate, his cultured taste in music and poetry, and above all, his fastidious personal grooming habits had earned him the nickname ‘Pansy’.
Enforced piracy was a small price for a captured entomologist to pay, however. He had personally identified eight of the indigenous moths of Jamaica Bay, 17 in the Galapagos Islands, and tomorrow they would be sailing to the southern coast of India!
Enforced piracy was a small price for a captured entomologist to pay, however. He had personally identified eight of the indigenous moths of Jamaica Bay, 17 in the Galapagos Islands, and tomorrow they would be sailing to the southern coast of India!
May 6, 2008
Dear Diary:
Tonight I can write about something other these damnable doldrums! Twenty-seven days without a breeze, dwindling water supply, quarreling amongst the crew (the scurviest band of pirates that ever sailed – I was forced to make Toothless Hibbets walk the plank yesterday), and nothing but hard tack in the larder.
However, as I write these words a moth is throwing itself at my lantern, carried in on a hint of a breeze perhaps? I am in hopes that tomorrow we will once more be on our way. There is treasure to be had, and I intend to have it!
Tonight I can write about something other these damnable doldrums! Twenty-seven days without a breeze, dwindling water supply, quarreling amongst the crew (the scurviest band of pirates that ever sailed – I was forced to make Toothless Hibbets walk the plank yesterday), and nothing but hard tack in the larder.
However, as I write these words a moth is throwing itself at my lantern, carried in on a hint of a breeze perhaps? I am in hopes that tomorrow we will once more be on our way. There is treasure to be had, and I intend to have it!
May 7, 2008
Craning his head first over his left shoulder and then his right, trying to get a good look at his reflection in the mirror, the moth suddenly understood why everyone eschewed his company.
The mirror didn’t lie. Unlike the rest of his brownish clan, his wings were black, outlined in blood red. And there, right in the middle of his back where everyone else had fuzzy dun stripes, was a bold black and white skull and crossbones!
“That explains why Mom wouldn’t tell me who my father was,” he sighed.
“Yarrr! Not my fault!” he screamed into the friendless void.
The mirror didn’t lie. Unlike the rest of his brownish clan, his wings were black, outlined in blood red. And there, right in the middle of his back where everyone else had fuzzy dun stripes, was a bold black and white skull and crossbones!
“That explains why Mom wouldn’t tell me who my father was,” he sighed.
“Yarrr! Not my fault!” he screamed into the friendless void.
May 8, 2008
“The Pirate Bug, Orius insidiosus, is a vicious, wily, merciless thug,” warned the village elder. “He is ready to feed the moment he is born. However – Niko, are you paying attention? Eyes front, please – however, he can go up to twenty days – TWENTY DAYS – without food or water while he lies in wait for an unsuspecting victim. And who does he like to eat? Sweet, tender little Mediterranean flour moths just like you, Niko, just like you. Are you listening? Beware the Pirate Bug, my sons, beware. Any questions? Good. Class dismissed.”
Niko never made it home. He hadn’t listened.
Niko never made it home. He hadn’t listened.
May 9, 2008
Leatherface Eddie had been ten months at sea with nothing to show for it but one minor skirmish (which had cost him an eye and gained him nothing) and a large collection of dead moths. First he arranged them according to color, from black to white with all shades of brown and grey in between. Then he arranged them by size, largest to smallest. He tried counting them, but math had never been his forte. He staged faked battles with them but they tended to fall apart. No one had told him that being a pirate would be so boring.
May 10, 2008
In my dream, a pirate and a moth are seated in a small boat floating down a quiet, broad river. A full moon lights their way as they ride its reflection past the shadowy, reedy banks. In my dream, the pirate loves the moth and is singing something that sounds like a cross between a sea chanty and a lullaby, accompanied by countless croaking bullfrogs at water’s edge. It is a strangely moving song. In my dream the moth wants to fly away but is held in the boat by the pirate’s voice. In my dream, I am the moth.
May 11, 2008
The mournful sound of the concertina floats on the salt breeze while a band of sailors gather to pay their last respects to one of their own. The captain says a few words to the assembled crew; and then the dead pirate, wrapped in his hammock like a moth in a cocoon, is gently committed to the deep by his brethren.
Later that day, his killer is not treated so kindly. The concertina still plays, but the tune is a jig, and the murderer must dance his way off the end of the plank to the hearty amusement of all.
Later that day, his killer is not treated so kindly. The concertina still plays, but the tune is a jig, and the murderer must dance his way off the end of the plank to the hearty amusement of all.
May 12, 2008
A black knight cantered into view, his armor making a most high jangling. Sir Lancelot, seeing the black steed so well caparisoned yet so rudely sat, addressed his page. “Tell me, lad,” quoth the legendary hero, his tongue firmly in his cheek, “by what device is this most puissant knight revealed? The sun blazeth in mine eyen and I cannot verify the knowing of him.”
“’Tis a black pennant, sir, bearing a moth rampant ’round a deathly pate and bones.”
A shiver ran through Lancelot. “’Tis L’Moth d’Arthur, boy! On our knees – quick! – lest the pirate king have our heads!”
“’Tis a black pennant, sir, bearing a moth rampant ’round a deathly pate and bones.”
A shiver ran through Lancelot. “’Tis L’Moth d’Arthur, boy! On our knees – quick! – lest the pirate king have our heads!”
May 13, 2008
“Name?” asked the employment councilor.
“Mad Dog Blevins,” replied the applicant.
“Date of birth?”
“Dunno.”
“Last address?”
“Never ’ad one.”
A moth flew in the window, and the parrot on Blevins’ shoulder nabbed it mid-flight and swallowed it.
“Wow, I thought parrots were fruit eaters” said the interviewer.
“Polly’s ’ere’s a carnivore. Like me.”
“Oh. OK Mr. Blevins, any particular job skills or previous experience?”
“Cuttin’. Shootin’. Stealin’. Burnin’. Keelhaulin’. Plunderin’. That sort of thing. The usual.”
“Excellent. Mr. Blevins, I’m pleased to offer you a job with the IRS. I think you’ll be a good fit here. Welcome aboard!”
“Mad Dog Blevins,” replied the applicant.
“Date of birth?”
“Dunno.”
“Last address?”
“Never ’ad one.”
A moth flew in the window, and the parrot on Blevins’ shoulder nabbed it mid-flight and swallowed it.
“Wow, I thought parrots were fruit eaters” said the interviewer.
“Polly’s ’ere’s a carnivore. Like me.”
“Oh. OK Mr. Blevins, any particular job skills or previous experience?”
“Cuttin’. Shootin’. Stealin’. Burnin’. Keelhaulin’. Plunderin’. That sort of thing. The usual.”
“Excellent. Mr. Blevins, I’m pleased to offer you a job with the IRS. I think you’ll be a good fit here. Welcome aboard!”
May 14, 2008
“My name’s Horrid Zale and I’m a pirate.”
“Hi Horrid,” answered the group.
“I’ve tried to stop a dozen times. But then I get one little taste of it, and suddenly I’m on a ship looking for adventure. I’ve got a weakness for plundering.”
Several members of the group nodded their heads in understanding.
After the meeting a well dressed older gentleman with a distinguished patch over his eye, a wooden leg and a couple of gold teeth introduced himself to Horrid over snacks of toasted moths and rum. “Looking for a sponsor?” he asked, offering his hook in friendship.
“Hi Horrid,” answered the group.
“I’ve tried to stop a dozen times. But then I get one little taste of it, and suddenly I’m on a ship looking for adventure. I’ve got a weakness for plundering.”
Several members of the group nodded their heads in understanding.
After the meeting a well dressed older gentleman with a distinguished patch over his eye, a wooden leg and a couple of gold teeth introduced himself to Horrid over snacks of toasted moths and rum. “Looking for a sponsor?” he asked, offering his hook in friendship.
May 15, 2008
After enduring months of angry seas, after losing half his crew to scurvy and then quelling a near-mutiny, the captain of the Hanging Spaniard was finally about to reap his reward. His sailors had dug through the sand and had found the chest. They had, on pain of death, brought it back and delivered it to him unopened.
A hush fell over the crew as the first mate jimmied the lock and stepped aside, giving the captain the honor of raising the heavy lid. He peered inside, eyes popping, then bellowed in rage: “MOTHS! Wrong chest, ye scurrilous bilge rats!”
A hush fell over the crew as the first mate jimmied the lock and stepped aside, giving the captain the honor of raising the heavy lid. He peered inside, eyes popping, then bellowed in rage: “MOTHS! Wrong chest, ye scurrilous bilge rats!”
May 16, 2008
Candace had managed to keep the secret, having told Dave only that they’d be watching a movie with Rob and Jen. Dave didn’t know that his pals from the local chapter of the BMLA (B Movie Lovers Association) would be there, poised to shout HAPPY BIRTHDAY and throw popcorn at the guest of honor as he entered the apartment. There was pizza and beer for dinner, followed by soft drinks, Junior Mints and more popcorn during the screening of ‘Teenagers from Outer Space’.
And then there was the gift. “WOW! My own pirated copy of ‘Mothra!’ You guys are awesome!”
And then there was the gift. “WOW! My own pirated copy of ‘Mothra!’ You guys are awesome!”
May 17, 2008
I find myself surrounded by reminders of our shattered life. This stone is the path that led me to you, uneven, difficult, an upward climb. This heavy, humid heat is our bodies when love was new, this box of mementos a pirate’s treasure of stolen moments. The wind carries your voice back to me, and the sun burns me like your eyes once did. This moth, this poor doomed moth, flails and struggles in its panic to escape the spider’s deadly trap. It will not succeed. I, too, have spun my web well and you cannot, will not, leave me.
May 18, 2008
Dearest Mother:
I know not why I write, as these words of farewell will likely never reach you. I have been captured by a moth-eaten bevy of piratical misanthropes and am serving out my days as their “guest” aboard the ‘Scourge of the Deep’. Do not weep. I sought adventure. I have found it.
I perceive but two options open to me. I can swing from the yardarm, or I can make myself useful to these brigands. In either case, Mother, it is farewell. For if I become one of them, then I am no longer
Your faithful Son,
Ned
I know not why I write, as these words of farewell will likely never reach you. I have been captured by a moth-eaten bevy of piratical misanthropes and am serving out my days as their “guest” aboard the ‘Scourge of the Deep’. Do not weep. I sought adventure. I have found it.
I perceive but two options open to me. I can swing from the yardarm, or I can make myself useful to these brigands. In either case, Mother, it is farewell. For if I become one of them, then I am no longer
Your faithful Son,
Ned
May 19, 2008
Dread Pirate Dickless Chainy announced today that if a woman is appointed admiral of the piratical fleet, he (Chainy) would personally lead a mutiny that would “make global warming look like a Sunday School picnic, yarr.” He went on to say that if anyone else he didn’t like became admiral, he would pack him in moth balls, and he didn’t mean the kind in your closet. He purportedly has 6,000,000 moth detainees in Guacamoleo for the purpose.
Dread Pirate Chainy is credited with rigging the current admiral’s appointment, shooting at least one of his shipmates, and plundering foreign oil-rich countries.
Dread Pirate Chainy is credited with rigging the current admiral’s appointment, shooting at least one of his shipmates, and plundering foreign oil-rich countries.
May 20, 2008
Wee Gallagher, known to his family as “Tiny”, was giving pirating a bad name. At seven feet tall and weighing nearly 400 pounds (all muscle, no fat), Wee Gallagher certainly looked the part. The gold rings piercing ears, nose, nipples and nethers, the shaved head covered in a knotted rag, the cutlass at his side, all bespoke his profession.
Gallagher’s problem was that he had a heart commensurate with his size. “See wot I mean?” groaned a shipmate, pointing abaft where Gallagher was tenderly and assiduously disentangling a moth from a spider’s web, a sympathetic tear running down his cheek.
Gallagher’s problem was that he had a heart commensurate with his size. “See wot I mean?” groaned a shipmate, pointing abaft where Gallagher was tenderly and assiduously disentangling a moth from a spider’s web, a sympathetic tear running down his cheek.
May 21, 2008
The bleached skeletal remains of the pirate lay unremembered and unmourned in the shelter of a shallow cave on a tiny island. His father’s words had rung in his head as he lay dying: ‘You’re no good to man nor God.’ True, in life he had not been a good son, a good sailor or even a good pirate, hence his abandonment in this place.
In death, however, he was good for something. As the cave had sheltered him, so had his skull sheltered a most rare and beautiful moth, nearly extinct, come here to reproduce, now emerging into life.
In death, however, he was good for something. As the cave had sheltered him, so had his skull sheltered a most rare and beautiful moth, nearly extinct, come here to reproduce, now emerging into life.
May 22, 2008
The doctor hooked up with the show girl, the priest with the milkmaid. The dominatrix spanked the judge. Two nuns paired up with each other. Drinks were drunk, joints smoked, love made.
The pirate and the moth were the only two still unattached guests at the Halloween party. They took their plates out to the patio and nibbled at food they didn’t want.
“Great party,” said the pirate.
“Yeah,” shrugged the moth. “But I gotta bug outa here.”
“Want some company?”
“Nope. I fly solo.”
And so saying, she spread her wings and kamikazed into the heart of the jack-o-lantern.
The pirate and the moth were the only two still unattached guests at the Halloween party. They took their plates out to the patio and nibbled at food they didn’t want.
“Great party,” said the pirate.
“Yeah,” shrugged the moth. “But I gotta bug outa here.”
“Want some company?”
“Nope. I fly solo.”
And so saying, she spread her wings and kamikazed into the heart of the jack-o-lantern.
May 23, 2008
Anne had encountered someone in an online social network, and she was almost certain she knew him. She took a deep breath and typed the words, “Are you the Pirate formerly known as Evan?”
Pirate’s answer came up on her screen just moments later.
“Hi, Moth. Who wants to know?”
Her heart pounded as she carefully worded her reply. “Someone you knew a long time ago. The last time I saw you, it rained.”
The wait seemed interminable. But then… “We took shelter in some bamboo. You wore blue shorts. I’ve carried you in my heart for years. Hi, Anne."
Pirate’s answer came up on her screen just moments later.
“Hi, Moth. Who wants to know?”
Her heart pounded as she carefully worded her reply. “Someone you knew a long time ago. The last time I saw you, it rained.”
The wait seemed interminable. But then… “We took shelter in some bamboo. You wore blue shorts. I’ve carried you in my heart for years. Hi, Anne."
May 24, 2008
“These works are by Spanish painter Raoul Menendez,” said the docent. “They are fine examples of the ‘Literalist’ school of art which flourished during the mid eighteenth century.”
The first painting was of a man, obviously dead, lying on the floor. Sixteen men perched precariously on his chest. The title of the painting was ‘Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.’
The next painting showed a huge moth in almost photographic detail. It was entitled ‘What a rolling stone does not gather.’
“Wait.” I said to the docent. “Shouldn’t that be moss?”
“No,” she replied. “Menendez spoke Castilian Spanish.”
The first painting was of a man, obviously dead, lying on the floor. Sixteen men perched precariously on his chest. The title of the painting was ‘Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.’
The next painting showed a huge moth in almost photographic detail. It was entitled ‘What a rolling stone does not gather.’
“Wait.” I said to the docent. “Shouldn’t that be moss?”
“No,” she replied. “Menendez spoke Castilian Spanish.”
May 25, 2008
When the sun sinks into the sea, the water boils, creating a vast cloud of steamy vapor. That’s what the pirate told me, and that’s why you should never sail on the horizon at sunset. He personally knew someone who had suffered terrible burns when he mistook the steam for fog and had sailed too close to the edge.
‘Yeah right,’ I thought.
He then went on to explain that the wind filling the sails comes from the fluttering of moths.
‘The butterfly effect!’ I exclaimed. But what I want to know is, how did a pirate learn chaos theory?
‘Yeah right,’ I thought.
He then went on to explain that the wind filling the sails comes from the fluttering of moths.
‘The butterfly effect!’ I exclaimed. But what I want to know is, how did a pirate learn chaos theory?
May 26, 2008
The writer takes her dusty, neglected box of ideas off the shelf. She’s been away from her computer for only a few days, and the dust has taken advantage of her absence. She takes a deep breath and opens the box, wondering if it will be dusty inside as well. Fortunately, it’s not as bad as she had expected.
Gently removing one embryonic idea after another, she sets them aside for another day. Nothing feels quite right. But what’s this? She smiles. ‘Ah yes,’ she thinks. ‘The pirate and the moth. Perfect.’
She boots her computer and begins to write.
.
Gently removing one embryonic idea after another, she sets them aside for another day. Nothing feels quite right. But what’s this? She smiles. ‘Ah yes,’ she thinks. ‘The pirate and the moth. Perfect.’
She boots her computer and begins to write.
.
May 27, 2008
At age 5, I sat in the television audience of the Uncle Jay Show, praying that Zebo the Clown would select ME to draw some scribbles on his large easel so that he could work his marker magic. My prayers were answered.
I gave him a large, crooked X and a couple of dots, out of which came a death’s head perched above a pair of crossed cutlasses. Ooh! Aah! But Zebo wasn’t finished. With a few more strokes of his marker the pirate symbol evolved into a moth ready to fly off the page. I still have that picture.
I gave him a large, crooked X and a couple of dots, out of which came a death’s head perched above a pair of crossed cutlasses. Ooh! Aah! But Zebo wasn’t finished. With a few more strokes of his marker the pirate symbol evolved into a moth ready to fly off the page. I still have that picture.
May 28, 2008
About half the pieces were from a jigsaw puzzle featuring a ruthless pirate on the box. The others were from a puzzle forming a complicated Escher moth design. Darla, with her infinite Haldol patience, kept trying to put them together into a cohesive whole. Something in her dulled mind told her it was impossible. Something else, whispering through the drugged fog, urged her to keep on. What else was there to do? She’d seen all the “I Love Lucy” reruns a hundred times, and she wasn’t allowed to nap. The puzzles kept her sane in a dayroom full of crazies.
May 29, 2008
Davey put another quarter in the slot. The screen came to life, repetitive music looping, colors flashing. He moved the joystick left and right, up and down, guiding the pirate through the maze to the hidden treasure. Ghosts on the left! Skeletons on the right! Fight! Attack! Level complete. Whew!
He tried to relax a bit as the next level loaded. Ready, set, go! Descend into the cave, light the lantern, choose which of the two paths to take. Dead end. Turn back. Try it again. Damn! Moths hurl themselves at the lantern, putting it out. Total darkness. Game over.
He tried to relax a bit as the next level loaded. Ready, set, go! Descend into the cave, light the lantern, choose which of the two paths to take. Dead end. Turn back. Try it again. Damn! Moths hurl themselves at the lantern, putting it out. Total darkness. Game over.
May 30, 2008
Pretty little Donnie Martin had begun his career as a “cabin boy,” but now at the alluring age of twenty-one he was called “first mate”, though he was still officially only a “seasoned hand” or “able seaman”. The pirates found all these terms enormously, riotously funny as they unabashedly eyeballed Little Donnie flitting about the deck like a dainty moth in his velvet pantaloons, diamond ear studs and silver buckles. Oh yes, indeed, Little Donnie Martin put the “jolly” in “jolly roger”, no question about that! In fact, the only question was: who would he would favor as his bunkmate tonight?
May 31, 2008
The frustrated composer sat at his desk, pulling his hair out. His idea was to compose a narrative orchestral piece for children, assigning a specific instrument and melodic theme to each character in the story. But it just wasn’t working. The Pirate’s ominous theme was represented by the trombone section. The moth’s sweet voice was heard in the flutes. But it just sounded stupid! The composer furiously scratched out every single note he had written, including the title. Then smiling in sudden inspiration, he renamed the piece: Peter and the Wolf. Ah, now THERE was something he could work with!
June 1, 2008
The cloudless spring sky was full of giant falcons, butterflies, and dragons. Les, for some inexplicable reason, could not get his jolly roger kite off the ground. He ran across the field, letting out the string, but the kite only crashed to earth again. He adjusted the tail. It didn’t help. He tried again. Nothing. Kate, his new girlfriend, had effortlessly launched her enormous moth where it hovered aloft as if held in the sky by sheer magic. She laughed as she watched him. “Hey!” she yelled as he made another futile attempt. “Don’t you know that pirates can’t fly?”
June 2, 2008
My parents have gone out and have hired a pirate to babysit while they’re away. His teeth are rotten, his fingernails filthy and his breath sulfurous. A curved scimitar is at his side and I see a knife in his boot. I am terrified.
Without a word, he holds his hands up to the lamp. I follow his one good eye to the shadow on the wall. A parrot! I smile in spite of myself. A quick change and there’s a bulldog. Then a moth which he catches (but how?) and, opening his palm, presents to me as a gift.
Without a word, he holds his hands up to the lamp. I follow his one good eye to the shadow on the wall. A parrot! I smile in spite of myself. A quick change and there’s a bulldog. Then a moth which he catches (but how?) and, opening his palm, presents to me as a gift.
June 3, 2008
Parents’ Night had been going well. Mrs. Johnson had counted no fewer than 17 video cameras in the audience, all trained on the brightly costumed first graders. The kids had sung two of their three songs with only minor memory lapses in the choreography when Ryan the Pirate somehow snagged his hook in Avery the Moth’s wing, causing her to stumble. Her misstep dragged him along as she fell first to her knees and then, in a blur of pirate and moth, over the edge of the stage. The ensuing free-for-all was the deciding factor in the teacher’s early retirement.
June 4, 2008
The room is warm, my belly is full of lunchtime carbs, and the entymology professor’s voice is a monotonic drone. My eyelids are too heavy to hold up. Gravity pulls my head toward my lap and I bring myself back to attention with an embarrassing jerk. Try as I might, I cannot stay awake. Only a few words of the lecture reach my ears: Acherontia atropos… Africa to Scandinavia…wandering death bird… death’s head moth…nothing to do with pirates… The professor laughs at his own joke, but I have missed it. I only hope this will not be on the exam.
June 5, 2008
It was the first time in history that a pair of lepidopteras, fighting proboscis to proboscis every step of the way, had made it to the final primary before their party’s presidential nomination could be decided. Would the butterfly be able to win enough delegates to represent her party? Or would the victory go to the moth? At the moment of truth, the moth gained that honor.
Now he must spend the next five months in a fight to the finish with the pirate who represented the other party. Who will gain the White House? The pirate or the moth?
Now he must spend the next five months in a fight to the finish with the pirate who represented the other party. Who will gain the White House? The pirate or the moth?
June 6, 2008
A moth hurried across Grand Central Station to catch the Lexington line. A pirate stepping into the subway car spotted him and held the door so that he wouldn’t miss the train.
“Thanks,” panted the moth.
“No prob,” replied the pirate.
The car was packed with commuters. A toothbrush was working sudoku, a banana (‘Hmmm…Dole or Fruit of the Loom?’ wondered the moth) read the Times, and the Pillsbury DoughBoy bopped to the music in his headphones.
At 7:47 their stop was announced and everyone detrained.
“Another day, another dollar,” sighed the moth, bracing himself for another Madison Avenue morning.
“Thanks,” panted the moth.
“No prob,” replied the pirate.
The car was packed with commuters. A toothbrush was working sudoku, a banana (‘Hmmm…Dole or Fruit of the Loom?’ wondered the moth) read the Times, and the Pillsbury DoughBoy bopped to the music in his headphones.
At 7:47 their stop was announced and everyone detrained.
“Another day, another dollar,” sighed the moth, bracing himself for another Madison Avenue morning.
June 7, 2008
Liz and Aaron Moth had given up trying to have a baby of their own. They had registered with an adoption agency, had suffered through endless interviews, background checks, credit checks, job checks, reference checks, financial analyses, home visits. It had been six years, and still they were childless. Even their efforts to adopt internationally had been fraught with bureaucratic entanglements that had left them exhausted, both physically and emotionally.
That’s why they were off to meet with the pirate. It was an unbearably desperate measure; but if anyone could get them a baby, the pirate could. No questions asked.
That’s why they were off to meet with the pirate. It was an unbearably desperate measure; but if anyone could get them a baby, the pirate could. No questions asked.
June 8, 2008
Dead-Eye Dan knocked on his neighbor’s door. “We’re having a treasure hunt!” he said. “I need to find an expired coupon, a business card, a penny, a paper towel roll, a tea bag, a balloon, a post card, and a moth. Do you have any of those things you could give me for my treasure hunt, please?”
“What fun,” smiled the neighbor, giving him a penny, “But don’t you mean a scavenger hunt?”
“I’m a pirate, not a scavenger!” he roared, running the neighbor through with his saber, leaving her to bleed to death while he visited the next house.
“What fun,” smiled the neighbor, giving him a penny, “But don’t you mean a scavenger hunt?”
“I’m a pirate, not a scavenger!” he roared, running the neighbor through with his saber, leaving her to bleed to death while he visited the next house.
June 9, 2008
Hairless Harry drank himself into oblivion every night, feeling misunderstood by the other pirates who ridiculed him because he suffered from alopecia – total hairlessness.
“Make we merry with Hairless Harry! He looks like a fairy but twice as scary!”
Harry did have one friend: a moth had found its way into his cabin and kept him company night after night, then bedded down in one of Harry’s boots. Poor Harry. Poor moth. In his stupor, Harry donned his boots for a midnight trip to the head. It wasn’t until morning that he discovered his late friend squashed between his toes.
“Make we merry with Hairless Harry! He looks like a fairy but twice as scary!”
Harry did have one friend: a moth had found its way into his cabin and kept him company night after night, then bedded down in one of Harry’s boots. Poor Harry. Poor moth. In his stupor, Harry donned his boots for a midnight trip to the head. It wasn’t until morning that he discovered his late friend squashed between his toes.
June 10, 2008
The storm had sprung from nowhere, catching the pirate captain and his crew unaware. A young midshipman was tossed overboard and the first mate crushed when the foremast snapped. The captain cursed the storm and himself for not being prepared.
He called for the trull who had sneaked aboard the ship at the last port, and he placed her alone on the battered quarterdeck. A moth the size of a pterodactyl suddenly swooped down upon them and grabbed her in its sharp talons. Everyone knew it was bad luck to have a woman aboard. There would be smooth sailing tomorrow.
He called for the trull who had sneaked aboard the ship at the last port, and he placed her alone on the battered quarterdeck. A moth the size of a pterodactyl suddenly swooped down upon them and grabbed her in its sharp talons. Everyone knew it was bad luck to have a woman aboard. There would be smooth sailing tomorrow.
June 11, 2008
Libby said that Avi said that pirates couldn’t be well educated. I was eight years old, and as I whiled away my time poring over my butterfly and moth collection, I stewed over this information. I already knew I wanted to be a pirate when I grew up but I dared tell no one because, if what Libby said that Avi said was true, then I would be a huge disappointment to my professorial parents.
I eventually abandoned my moths, but I never abandoned my dream. I went to Harvard, became a CPA and ultimately made Enron a household name.
I eventually abandoned my moths, but I never abandoned my dream. I went to Harvard, became a CPA and ultimately made Enron a household name.
June 12, 2008
“I’ll show you a card with an ink blot on it,” explained my psychiatrist, “and all I want you to do is tell me what you see. Any questions? Good. Let’s get started.”
He held up a card.
“Pirate,” I said.
“OK. Now this one?”
“Another pirate… a pirate with an eye patch… a pirate ship… a pirate with a parrot on his shoulder… two pirates fighting… a pirate with a dragoon pistol… a toothless pirate wearing an earring… a moth…”
“Ah, excellent!” responded my doctor. “I think we’re making some progress.”
“Just kidding,” I said. “It was a pirate.”
He held up a card.
“Pirate,” I said.
“OK. Now this one?”
“Another pirate… a pirate with an eye patch… a pirate ship… a pirate with a parrot on his shoulder… two pirates fighting… a pirate with a dragoon pistol… a toothless pirate wearing an earring… a moth…”
“Ah, excellent!” responded my doctor. “I think we’re making some progress.”
“Just kidding,” I said. “It was a pirate.”
June 13, 2008
The professor was utterly obsessed with insects. I had been in his creative writing class for six weeks, and all I had written about was pirates, moths, pirate moths, or mothy pirates. This particular project would end soon, and the professor was babbling excitedly about the next eight week topic: the veil and the cockroach! And after that, the salesman and the monstrous vermin!
I wasn’t aware that Professor Kafka was using the class to develop his own creative ideas. His ‘Metamorphosis’ was published the following year to great critical acclaim.
I never read it. I was tired of bugs.
I wasn’t aware that Professor Kafka was using the class to develop his own creative ideas. His ‘Metamorphosis’ was published the following year to great critical acclaim.
I never read it. I was tired of bugs.
June 14, 2008
“Did you hear about Mildred’s boy?”
“No. What happened?”
“Well… You know he joined the Navy.”
“Yes.”
“And you know he was out in the Pacific somewhere. Guam maybe? The Philippines? I’m not sure which.”
“Go on.”
“Well. Edna said that Pearl told her that while Lonnie Ray was stationed out there on one of them islands, he just up and run off and joined a band of pirates!”
“Pirates! Oh my!”
“That’s exactly what I said! Oh my!”
“So what happened?”
“Oh, it was just awful!”
“Tell me! No! Shhhh! Here comes his moth…”
“Why hello, Mildred. Lovely morning.”
“No. What happened?”
“Well… You know he joined the Navy.”
“Yes.”
“And you know he was out in the Pacific somewhere. Guam maybe? The Philippines? I’m not sure which.”
“Go on.”
“Well. Edna said that Pearl told her that while Lonnie Ray was stationed out there on one of them islands, he just up and run off and joined a band of pirates!”
“Pirates! Oh my!”
“That’s exactly what I said! Oh my!”
“So what happened?”
“Oh, it was just awful!”
“Tell me! No! Shhhh! Here comes his moth…”
“Why hello, Mildred. Lovely morning.”
June 15, 2008
The torture, intended to convince Smilin’ Jack to reveal the secret of the treasure map, had been slow and methodical. First the pirates took his fingers, joint by joint, but still he would not talk. His toes were next. They took his teeth one by one, but Jack maintained his cheerful outlook and only smiled his simple, enigmatic smile.
After losing part of his tongue and being left on a deserted island to reflect upon his options, he was rescued by whalers.
“Wat’th your thtep!” he cheerfully called as they debarked. “Don’t thlip in the moth! It’th thlick as thnot!
After losing part of his tongue and being left on a deserted island to reflect upon his options, he was rescued by whalers.
“Wat’th your thtep!” he cheerfully called as they debarked. “Don’t thlip in the moth! It’th thlick as thnot!
June 16, 2008
Only fourteen more, thought the writer. That’s how many more pirate and moth stories she had to write before she could get on with her life. Like the queen and erstwhile miller’s daughter who had to come up with the name of the little man who had spun the straw into gold, the writer was being held captive by her own promise to herself. First of all, she must write one pirate and moth story per day for the months of May and June and, secondly, she must not repeat herself. She could do it! There were only fourteen more!
June 17, 2008
The pirates knew that the chest of gold was being held in the bank vault until November when the Royal Navy frigate would haul it back to England.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” whispered Grimy Peter. “I’m a pirate, not a bank robber.”
“Shut your gob and let’s go,” commanded Captain Yar.
Under cloak of darkness, they lowered the dingy and rowed toward shore. Unfortunately the cloak had been chewed by celestial moths, allowing not only the starlight to shine through, but a big, full moon.
The authorities saw them coming and were waiting for them on shore.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” whispered Grimy Peter. “I’m a pirate, not a bank robber.”
“Shut your gob and let’s go,” commanded Captain Yar.
Under cloak of darkness, they lowered the dingy and rowed toward shore. Unfortunately the cloak had been chewed by celestial moths, allowing not only the starlight to shine through, but a big, full moon.
The authorities saw them coming and were waiting for them on shore.
June 18, 2008
The co-moderators of an online writers group put their drunken, drug addled heads together to create a topic for a drabble contest.
“I know!” slurred one. “They should write about a pick-up truck!”
“Ooh! Ooh! And a norchestra!” slurred the other.
“Naw, too easy.”
“Ooh! Ooh! How about ‘The Shoe and the Pogo Stick’?”
“Still too easy.”
Another drink or two and they finally landed on The Pirate and The Moth.
“NO ONE will be able to write about THAT!” they howled in their stupor.
“Ooh! Ooh! And let’sh make a rule. Any form of self-reference is shtrictly verboten.”
“Kewl!”
“I know!” slurred one. “They should write about a pick-up truck!”
“Ooh! Ooh! And a norchestra!” slurred the other.
“Naw, too easy.”
“Ooh! Ooh! How about ‘The Shoe and the Pogo Stick’?”
“Still too easy.”
Another drink or two and they finally landed on The Pirate and The Moth.
“NO ONE will be able to write about THAT!” they howled in their stupor.
“Ooh! Ooh! And let’sh make a rule. Any form of self-reference is shtrictly verboten.”
“Kewl!”
June 19, 2008
Pirate Pete had not had his morning coffee, and consequently his head felt like it would come off. The night before had been one of unbridled debauchery, so it was no surprise that he had such a bad headache.
“Somebody better make some coffee,” cried the pirate, grabbing his head in agony at the echoing loudness of his own words. Even the wings of a moth, flapping around his cabin, sounded like hurricane force winds.
“All I want is some coffee,” whimpered Pete, “and maybe a quiet place to die.” It never occurred to him to change his drunken ways.
“Somebody better make some coffee,” cried the pirate, grabbing his head in agony at the echoing loudness of his own words. Even the wings of a moth, flapping around his cabin, sounded like hurricane force winds.
“All I want is some coffee,” whimpered Pete, “and maybe a quiet place to die.” It never occurred to him to change his drunken ways.
June 20, 2008
I am NOT a moth-eaten pirate! I am sick and tired of being misunderstood, mis-categorized, mis-labeled. Sick of it, do you hear me?! ‘Moth-eaten’ implies that I am old, shabby, ragged, down at the heels, poor, useless. I am none of these things. I am a professional, highly skilled at what I do. Is it my fault you can’t understand plain English? Is it my fault you don’t have the sense to figure it out? Why, oh why, must I suffer YOUR stupidity? I am not a moth-eaten pirate. I am a moth EATING pirate! There’s a big difference, yarrr!
June 21, 2008
In that twilight just before sleep, I find myself wandering in the mysterious, labyrinthine furrows of my own brain. Past the fully automated data banks I stumble, past the well of secrets, on to the triple padlocked saloon called “Tip of the Tongue” where, perhaps imbibing little too freely, I often abandon items too small to remember but too large to forget. I am searching for something. Perhaps it is here. I press my face to the window trying to find what I’m looking for, but I cannot even recall what it is I seek. Pirate? Cynosure? Rastafarian? Tuxedo? Moth?
June 22, 2008
Waves pounding on an empty shore. The day’s blistering heat dropping with the sun into the cold, impersonal ocean. Sand cooling quickly into chilly night. The beach silent but for the endless waves and the wind stirred fronds of a few scrawny palms; dark but for a waning gibbous moon sporadically revealed through thick wafting clouds. Crabs scuttling over the sand, unseen, unheard. Shells, fish bones, assorted flotsam and jetsam including one crumbling leather sandal, four cracked plastic soft drink bottles, and a tangle of brittle monofilament fishing line littering the beach. A pirate. A moth. Another night in paradise.
June 23, 2008
I introduce myself, hit my mark, and launch into my comedic monologue about the sinking of the Titanic. The punch line is a zinger (“I guess you’ll pay closer attention next time I tell you something’s only fudge”), and I deliver it with panache.
The director laughs, a good sign. “Great,” he says. “Now do it again, only this time, you’re a pirate.”
Easy. ‘Yarrs’ are always funny, and I use them liberally.
“Now do it as a dying moth,” he instructs.
I hurl myself into an interpretive dance. Bad choice. The director was looking for funny voices, not dancers.
The director laughs, a good sign. “Great,” he says. “Now do it again, only this time, you’re a pirate.”
Easy. ‘Yarrs’ are always funny, and I use them liberally.
“Now do it as a dying moth,” he instructs.
I hurl myself into an interpretive dance. Bad choice. The director was looking for funny voices, not dancers.
June 24, 2008
Now that the kids were finally grown and gone, I decided to go to grad school The first thing I did, of course, was to enroll in a GRE preparation class. I hadn’t done algebra in a long, long time, not to mention geometry, trig or calculus. My heart pounded at the mere thought of all those monstrous little x’s, y’s and z’s.
The verbal would be no problem.
Pirate is to moth as:
Oh hell, I thought. I’m doomed.
The verbal would be no problem.
Pirate is to moth as:
- beef is to bar-b-q
- telephone is to angioplasty
- nonsense is to reason
- legato is to football
Oh hell, I thought. I’m doomed.
June 25, 2008
I have been sent to my room without supper again. “And if you don’t learn to behave, a cruel pirate will come and take you away,” my mother threatens.
I sit in my room, waiting for the cruel pirate. Around 10 o’clock I hear his secret tap on the window. I let him in. Silently, he offers me a milkshake. He is carrying a small cloth bag that glows from within and from which flies a fleet of moths, each encumbered with a tiny LED light which he has rigged for my enjoyment.
“Good-night, son,” says the pirate.
“Good-night, dad.”
I sit in my room, waiting for the cruel pirate. Around 10 o’clock I hear his secret tap on the window. I let him in. Silently, he offers me a milkshake. He is carrying a small cloth bag that glows from within and from which flies a fleet of moths, each encumbered with a tiny LED light which he has rigged for my enjoyment.
“Good-night, son,” says the pirate.
“Good-night, dad.”
June 26, 2008
How long has she been here? The marks on the wall tell her it’s been almost two months. She’s to be released tomorrow, but can she go back into the world? Is she ready? She frees the moth that is caught in her tangled, matted hair, and lifts her eyes to the single window high above her head, seeking inspiration. Weak sunlight oozes through the reinforced glass, casting weak barred shadows on the floor. Words flow down her chin like stale drabble – ‘treasure;’ ‘buccaneer;’ ‘scabbard;’ ‘mutiny.’ Wiping ‘pirate’ from her lips, she takes up her pen and begins to write.
