Papers, papers, papers...

[greenconverses]

Be proud! I added another page onto Chapter Nineteen today! That being said, I also will most add three pages onto the jumble that is my Pirates of the Caribbean fan fic, but hey...I'm writing, right?

*winning grin*

I've now recovered from the shock of qualifying for Nationals in debate, though I still have hysterical bouts of disbelieving laughter from time to time. (Thanks for the congratulations, _silent_wishes, and sorry for not responding to comments - I'm such an incredibly lazy ass.) Seeing as though we've proven ourselves worthy, Kallis is now letting us compete at state and I have this weekend to write two cases about big box retailers. *eye roll* At least it's not as completely mundane as the NBA dress code topic.

I also need to re-write my National History Day paper AGAIN this weekend. I had it finished, but now Haar says I need to have the actual pentagon papers sourced in my paper and because I have four hundred words left until the limit, he wants me to add more. He also wanted me to check out about four more books on the subject and read them over the weekend so I could add even MORE to my paper (after I spent Thursday night cutting everything out of it), but I don't care and I'm not going to do it. I'll write a paragraph about the pentagon papers and even source them, but I am THROUGH with looking for more evidence. I think my paper is strong enough the way it is and if Mr. Haar doesn't like it, that's fine with me. 

Anyway, enough with my bitching and complaining. 

They were going door-to-door, banging on the wood and then bursting in unannounced. They barked orders to sleep passengers and then left as quick as they came, creating a mass of confusion. Half the passengers they awoke spoke not a word of English – they only clue they were given were the lifebelts strewn on the floor.

           

The situation in the corridors was just as bad – startled passengers asked questions, but their only response was a frantic, “Put yer lifebelts on, dammit!”

           

Sirius watched from Remus’s doorway as this process processed its way down the corridor. He was fuming.

           

“This is ridiculous,” he growled as a Serbian man was shouted at and a lifebelt was thrown in his face. “Fucking ridiculous…If this was the first class – ”

           

“Whether you like it or not, mate, it isn’t,” Remus replied, coming up behind him and pressing a lifebelt into his arms. Ever the practical one, he already had his on and was tying it together. “It’d be in our best interest to head to the main gates before a mob forms. Maybe we can convince someone to let us through.”

           

“You better not be counting on me to do the convincing,” Sirius spat, throwing the lifebelt over his head as Remus closed the door. “I haven’t a pence on me.”

           

“I suppose that’s when your first class status comes in handy, then.”

           

Remus hoisted a small bag over his shoulder, waiting for Sirius to finish tying his lifebelt. A steward shoved past them, yelling angrily at the Spanish bloke across the corridor, before moving on, his keys jingling on his belt.

           

Sirius paused, eyeing the keys. Remus followed his eyes, then instantly shot him a warning glare. Sirius received the message, but he wouldn’t have needed it anyway.

           

Forgetting about his lifebelt, Sirius turned and burst the cabin’s door in, noticing that Remus hadn’t bothered to lock it. He flipped on the light and hurried over to James’s discarded trunk, throwing the lid open and bending down beside it.

           

“What are you doing?” Remus asked from the doorway, his shadow arching across the floor.

           

Sirius didn’t answer, throwing clothes and textbooks and photographs onto the floor as he searched through the contents, until he reached the bottom. He tapped once on the old, uncovered wood of the trunk bottom, a hollowed reply reaching his ears. Digging his fingernails under a crease, he wrenched the wood plank up and threw that to the floor too.

           

“So that’s where he hid them,” Remus whispered, leaning over Sirius’s shoulder. “I looked before, but I didn’t figure…”

           

Out from the hidden compartment came a small, dusty leather pouch, no bigger than an average man’s wallet. This pouch, however, contained tools that would be worth much more than anything in a wallet after this night was over.

           

At least they knew James was innocent for sure. This pouch hadn’t been touched in ages and he couldn’t have slipped into the Malfoy safe without his trusty tools.

 

“I don’t know about you, but I’m anticipating a tough fight to get up to the higher decks,” Sirius muttered, slipping James’s tools in his pocket. “And I’d like to have a better advantage than my first class status.”



I figure I need to reassure my reading base that I'm still writing, so above is a scene (more like HALF the chapter, HAHA...er...right, not kidding...) and here is me begging for forgiveness for being so lazy and ignoring this fan fic. I won't have it finished by the end of February (since, you know, it's in like three days), but I'll have it finished soon. That's about as much as I can promise right now. 

....

So, do we have any Pirates of the Caribbean fan fic readers in the house? : ) Well, even if we don't, I'll still going to post a chunk of the chunks that I'm trying to string into a story. I think writing this story in pieces is easier than trying to write it all out  in sequence, simply because all my ideas are changing faster than they did for Nothing on Earth, though that fic has come a long way from what I first thought up two years ago. 

Anyway, here's a small portion of what I have for the PoTC fic. It's not edited and might never appear in the actual fic when I get around to writing it, considering I just had a new idea for the beginning, but I do like this scene, so...eh...yeah.

I like expanding my horizions...

 Elizabeth Swann didn’t think there was anything more uncomfortable than being laced into a tight corset.

           

Mind, that was before she had been subjected to the trial that was being fit for a wedding gown.

           

“Oww!” Elizabeth gasped, nearly squirming herself off her stool. “Isn’t there any way to do this without needles?”

           

“Begging your pardon, Miss Swann,” the dressmaker, Julianne, apologised through a mouthful of needles. “But if you’d stand still and proper, I wouldn’t stick you.”

           

Elizabeth huffed, exhaling loudly and blowing stray strands of hair out of her face. Who knew being fit for a dress could be such an exertion? For two hours, Julianne and her assistant had been pinching, prodding, measuring, and lacing Elizabeth in hopes of fashioning her a beautiful dress for her approaching wedding.

           

Will, her fiancé, had already been fitted, and was in and out of the tailor’s shop in less than a half an hour. Elizabeth supposed it was because he was a bloody male and it didn’t matter half as much if his suit was made to perfection. It was just as likely that Will, unlike her, was blessed with the virtue of patience and could stand stock-still on a stool while people prodded him in uncomfortable places without a complaint.

           

She wished Will was still here to keep her company. Then, at least, she wouldn’t be thinking about where those ladies were sticking those awful pins – Elizabeth hated needles. Alas, he had been thrown out almost immediately after he was finished, as he couldn’t very well see the bride in her wedding gown (even if said gown only consisted of scraps of fabric) before the ceremony.

           

“Terrible bad luck,” the dressmaker had explained in a mutter as she shoved him out the door.

           

Lucky Will was probably sitting on the beach, waiting for her to finish. Lucky Will didn’t have to listen to her father complain about the guest list for the seventeenth time and ask her whether she would rather have the roses on the altar or decorating the house for the reception. Lucky Will hadn’t been swamped with plans and details and catalogues since the minute he had proposed to her.

           

“Bloody lucky Will,” she muttered miserably, her breath hitching as the assistant adjusted the laces on her corset yet again.

 

*

           

As suspected, the accursed himself, William Turner, was currently lounging about on the beach. Sitting as close to the ocean as he could without getting his trousers wet, he was barefoot and said trousers were rolled up to his knees. The cool waves of clear blue rolled over his feet and past his ankles, before retreating back into the larger body from whence it came.

           

He had taken today off from the forge, with the complications of his suit fitting and other wedding plans that might need his attention. He doubted Mr. Brown would notice that the smith was closed – he hadn’t been into the shop for half a month and never paid any attention to anything other than the bottom of his rum bottle nowadays. The last time Will had taken time off without permission had been during the Barbossa incident last year, and Mr. Brown hadn’t realised he was gone until he showed up again.

           

Since these days off were rare, he was taking full advantage of this one. He and Elizabeth had the whole afternoon together, without a chaperone (something that Governor Swann surely would not like if he knew about it), and they were planning on doing some much needed relaxing. Sometimes planning a wedding seemed more exhausting than fighting a sea battle against undead pirates.

           

Will had arrived at the beach some time ago and the picnic lunch he’d brought along for them to share remained untouched. He supposed Elizabeth was being held up at the dressmaker’s, the poor girl, and he didn’t envy her one bit.

           

Running a hand through his hair, Will stared out at the ocean, watching ships and sloops come into the port. A large set of white sails was coming in from the distance – probably an important Navy ship – and he figured it would arrive within an hour or two, possibly bringing in another important relation for him to meet and be approved by.

           

As he stared out at the unending blue, he felt a familiar, restless sensation begin to gnaw at his stomach. He missed the sea, in all her glory and horror. In the few days he’d been out on it, he’d received a taste and now, a year later, he wanted another delightful gulp.

           

Had it really been a year since the cursed treasure debacle? It didn’t seem like it. Rather, everything that had occurred in-between then and now seemed like a very pleasant dream and he was going to wake up at any moment, locked in the watery brig of Barbossa’s ship. Did most life-altering experiences feel like that?

           

With an irritated sigh and much flouncing of skirts, Elizabeth suddenly appeared at his side and plopped herself down on the sand next to him, jarring him into reality.

           

“Have a pleasant visit with the dressmaker, luv?” Will asked, flashing her a winning grin.

           

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder, hooking her arms around his waist and pulling herself up against him.

           

“Is it too late to elope?”

           

Will laughed and kissed her gently on the head.

           

“I certainly think so…You’re father would kill us both if we ran off after he worked so very hard to plan his darling girl’s wedding.”

           

A very unladylike snort came from his betrothed.

           

“Well, when you see the guest list, you’re going to wish we’d run off. I think my father would have invited the entire Continent if I hadn’t put my foot down.”

           

“Good thing my guests only take up twenty seats then, isn’t it?” he asked, digging into the sand with his big toe. “You…ah…haven’t gotten around to my suggestion about having a certain pirate captain attend our wedding, have you?”

           

Elizabeth looked up at him, a thin grin plastered on her face.

           

“I’m waiting for the opportune moment, darling,” she responded sweetly, fire dancing in her eyes. “And there aren’t very many of them dancing about when the illusive Captain bloody Sparrow has to go sack every English merchantman carrying supplies for our wedding. Did you know he commandeered our tablecloths this time? Why on earth would he need tablecloths? They weren’t even expensive.”

           

“I think he’s trying to reap his revenge on you, Miss Rum Burner.”

           

The story of Elizabeth and the burning rum never failed to amuse Will, especially when Jack told the story. It was almost as entertaining as Elizabeth’s outrageous fear of needles.

           

“Is he still sulking about that?” she asked, fixing him with a questioning stare. She untangled one arm from him, reaching for the buckle of her shoes.

           

“I don’t think he’ll ever completely forgive you.”

Eh. So that's that.


Later.