Last week, WordPress wouldn’t let me post and I gave up. This week, WP finally let me make multiple updates that I’ve been trying to get done for two months. I am both happy and annoyed. I don’t know what that means for this story. Let’s find out.
“Last night’s storm was quite the rager,” Tabitha ventured, having come to the end of her morning news feed. She set her phone on the table, glad of the sunlight coming through the porthole. “More tea, love?”
“Please.” Bert absently pushed air until his hand knocked over his nearly empty teacup. Cold liquid spilled over his fingers and onto the reclaimed driftwood table. “Ah, blast.”
Straightening the cup, she poured a fresh batch in while snagging a towel with her other. “We’d best check the storm damage after brekkie.”
“Saw a lot in the news about strange damage.” Bert shoved his phone out of harm’s way and started sopping up the mess – and the one he’d made of his water glass as well. At least he’d managed the runny eggs and toast before getting the clumsies. Still, it wouldn’t do; he’d need to pay attention to any repairs.
“Oh?” Tabitha returned the kettle to the tiny stove and quirked an eyebrow. “Glad we battened the hatches.” She snickered. “I still love that we can say that.”
He smiled indulgently, knowing most women would have run at the bare suggestion of moving onto a restored pirate ship. His wife, however, promptly bought a hat with a giant feather and learned how to fire the cannon.
“Yes, if you read between the lines, it’s a lot of unusual things. Dismissed, of course. Unreliable witnesses. An awful lot of them, though.”
“Waves of frogs and raining fish and the like, is it then?” She snagged the last toast corner and waved it, leaning against the counter. “Mind?”
“Have at it, darling.” He pushed the marmalade pot in her direction. “One person swore there was a unicorn in the midst of a panicked sheep herd.”
Marmalade acquired, Tabitha poked a corner into her mouth and chewed the honey-wheat slice she’d made just yesterday. Swallowing, she wiped her hands to make sure any lingering stickiness was gone and tugged on the porthole curtain. “Well, I…hmm.”
“Hmm?”
“Where would you say we anchored last night?”
“Off the coast of Cornwall.” Bert sighed. “I supposed we should’ve properly found a port, but it blew in so fast, and anchoring seemed the right choice at the time.”
“And where would you say we are now?”
He joined her, head tucking close to hers as he wrapped an arm around her waist.
Silence filled the galley.
“I s’pose…” Bert cleared his throat. “Well, it does appear to look like every movie scene that’s been filmed in Central Park, now doesn’t it?”
They both stared in more silence for a few minutes.
Eventually, Tabitha realized the pirate ship was drawing a crowd of onlookers, most pointing cameras toward them. “Can’t avoid it, even in New York City, I expect.”
“What may or may not be New York City,” Bert corrected, pushing his glasses up his nose firmly. “They don’t seem jaded enough.”
“I’m more worried about how we’ll get a pirate ship out of a pond,” Tabitha said drily. “Or if we’ll need to use the cannon to blast our way out.”
“Or where we resupply for the journey back to Cornwall.” Bert wandered toward his laptop, fingers already twitching.
She sighed, knowing she’d be lucky to pull him away from his research now, and prepared to handle the three uniformed policemen cautiously heading toward the ship.
***
This week’s prompt was from nother Mike: When the storm was over, they found themselves floating in a pond in Central Park…
My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: A rose by any other name will stab with wick’d thorns just the same.
