Sarah Ann Hall

Reporting on writing in progress or, more probably, not; practising flash fiction.

Posts Tagged ‘pirates

OLWG#56 – When Paul Was Five – #amwriting

with 6 comments

He is my response to this week’s New Unofficial On-Line Writer’s Guild Prompts. This was fun to write, but didn’t take 25-minutes at all. It took a while longer and still needs re-editing and tweaking to make it better. Thank you Thom for the prompts that could only go one way for me this week.


When Paul Was Five

Clare decided long in advance that Paul should have a pirate-themed party for his fifth birthday. She collected together suitable detritus from the local charity shops – a squawking purple parrot on a perch, a sailing boat made of matches that was strictly hands-off, and various plastic chests of dubious treasure. With all the props she needed, Claire spent the two weeks leading up to the party making individual hats for the children expected, and hoped there would be no last minute invites as Paul made and broke buccaneers, or pushy parents approached with grappling irons. Paul was tasked with making all the swords, in cardboard of course. He and his father spent the month of weekends prior to the party’s launch decorating each sword hilt to match its owner. Paul was up on piratical law and myth, and there were runic decorations and symbols that had to be attached to explain the power and mastery of his crew in marauding and other plundering pastimes. Various pasta shapes, cotton reels, glitter, dyed string, and lots of paint, were used to make these messages clear.

As far as Clare was concerned, the only thing missing before the day was a pirate-themed magician. True, one wasn’t strictly necessary, but she needed some form of entertainment to keep the excitable little sea rats enraptured to save the tears as flimsy swords collapsed. A clown was not appropriate, balloon benders a bit old hat, and Clare searched long and hard but came up with no one suitable.

She discussed her dilemma at church and Phil, the cousin of the pastor’s wife, volunteered to come along. He had been in the merchant navy years since and had some treasures of his own he said he could bring, as well as photos and tales of tattooed peoples and brain-eaters. Clare was grateful, but pointed out the kids were only five and brain eating wasn’t necessarily appropriate. And could he please steer clear of voodoo and zombie tales. Clare didn’t want to be responsible for twenty families experiencing nightmares in the following weeks.

The day arrived: the kids played and ate, with only two throwing up from overindulgence. They fought and won their battles, cardboard swords starting to droop, leaving pasta and glitter all over the floor, and then they sat down to hear from Filibuster Phil, a man who had been to sea and see, and seen it all. Phil, as well as adopting a new moniker, revelled in his role and regaled them with stories of spotting enemy ships from the crows’ nest, being lashed to the mast to survive humungous storms, visiting islands of painted peoples, and the abilities of shipmates with peg-legs and hooked-hands. The children gaped and gasped in all the right places.

Phil’s last tale was one about the ghosts of Glummer Caves, that stole the breath out of you should you espy them. There was a rumour that if you ever stood inside the cave, a ghost might follow you all your life and use the least expected moment to take your breath. Phil paused before the punchline, his head forward like a stretching tortoise, his arms and legs akimbo like a cartoon scaredy cat, and then he tumbled gently to the floor. The kids loved it, and after a moment’s silence were cheering and crying for more. They carried on hooting, picking up their swords, as half the parents shooed them from the room and the other half picked Phil’s still body from the floor. With the children safely around the food table or in the garden, the first-aiders laid Phil on the floor, administered CPR, called an ambulance. All to no avail.

At school for the next six-months, Paul’s party was the best to have attended, ever. Clare, while not wanting to rush her baby boy to grow up, did look forward to the day he no longer hankered for birthday parties. It had been hard enough trying to keep up with Joneses, but topping the Glummer Ghosts catching up with Filibuster Phil was inconceivable.



This week’s prompts are:

  1. covered with glitter
  2. playing pirates
  3. life can end in the middle of a sentence


Go ahead and dive in, set your imagination free!
Write something
Ready, Set, Go – you have 25 minutes, but if that is not possible, take as long as you need.

Have fun


Written by Sarah Ann

June 29, 2018 at 9:34 am

#Trifecta: Week 76 – Sidmouth, 1820

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My response to this week’s Trifecta challenge is short and sweet, but was fun to write.


The prompt:

BLOOD (noun)

1 a (1) : the fluid that circulates in the heart, arteries, capillaries, and veins of a vertebrate animal carrying nourishment and oxygen to and bringing away waste products from all parts of the body (2) : a comparable fluid of an invertebrate

b : a fluid resembling blood

2: the shedding of blood; also : the taking of life

3 a : lifeblood; broadly : life

b : human stock or lineage; especially : royal lineage <a prince of the blood>

c : relationship by descent from a common ancestor : kinship

d : persons related through common descent : kindred

e (1) : honorable or high birth or descent (2) : descent from parents of recognized breed or pedigree


The rules:

  • Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.
  • You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.
  • The word itself needs to be included in your response.
  • You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above.
  • Only one entry per writer.



Sidmouth, 1820 (33 words)

‘She’s broken-heated, Seth.’

‘I’m sorry for it.’

‘She loves him.’

‘It matters not. I’ll not allow our smugglers’ blood to be corrupted. No daughter of mine will ever marry a customs man.’


Click here for more on historical smugglers.

Written by Sarah Ann

May 9, 2013 at 3:01 pm

Trifecta: Week 66 – Treasure Island

with 22 comments

This week’s Trifecta Challenge was hard. I had plenty of thoughts using ‘doctor’ as a verb, but great difficulty working out how to use it as a noun, possibly because I’ve not come across it used this way before. The story below developed from one using ‘doctored’ (verb) that was adapted to use the 3b definition. I hope the joins don’t show.


The prompt:

DOCTOR (noun)

1 a : an eminent theologian declared a sound expounder of doctrine by the Roman Catholic Church —called also doctor of the church

b : a learned or authoritative teacher

c : a person who has earned one of the highest academic degrees (as a PhD) conferred by a university

d : a person awarded an honorary doctorate (as an LLD or Litt D) by a college or university

2 a : a person skilled or specializing in healing arts; especially :one (as a physician, dentist, or veterinarian) who holds an advanced degree and is licensed to practice

b : medicine man

3 a : material added (as to food) to produce a desired effect

b : a blade (as of metal) for spreading a coating or scraping a surface


The challenge:

Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.

You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.

The word itself needs to be included in your response.

You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above.

Trifecta is open to everyone.  Please join us.



Treasure Island (324 words)

‘Are you serious?’


‘You’re going to the Caribbean to look for pirate treasure?’


Sheila left Jon in the kitchen wearing his, ‘what’s wrong with that?’ face. Next door at Caroline’s, she cried tears of frustration and worried about her life savings being frittered away. After two cups of tea and a glass of wine, Sheila and Caroline were giggling at the thought of Jon in shorts and panama stalking across a tropical island, magnifying glass in hand.

Six months later, sweat kissed Sheila’s upper lip as she crouched under a perfectly clear sky. Jon stood panting beside her, not as fit as he liked to claim, his t-shirt sodden. A tea-coloured vellum map was spread on the grass before them.

‘Look,’ Sheila pointed, running her finger along a black line. ‘This road is the same. We walked along it yesterday. So, if the scale is correct,’ she looked up, ‘you should dig in those cocoanut palms to the north of the clearing.’

Jon swung his head from side to side, making sure they weren’t overlooked. ‘Let’s go then.’

‘Jon,’ she stayed him with a touch of a finger, ‘have you thought about what happens if you don’t find anything?’

His eyes told her he hadn’t. ‘The map’s real.’

‘But the patches – ’ Sheila scraped at a piece of lose wax with a finger nail, imagined the doctor sealing the map’s uneven surface. ‘This map’s been made and remade ten times over.’

‘It’s genuine. I had it tested.’

I know,’ she said. ‘The bill from the university cleared out the mortgage account.’

‘You said you wouldn’t – ’

‘I’m here, aren’t I? We’ve had a lovely holiday. Let’s not argue. I just want you to prepare yourself.’

‘I have,’ he said and strode away.

They were empty words.

Sheila stood and folded the map. She watched, shaking her head slowly, as Jon stopped, looked around once more, and thrust his spade at the ground.

Written by Sarah Ann

February 28, 2013 at 1:06 pm

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