Lou (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
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crack_van2005-05-24 01:27 am
louphoenix.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2005-05-24 01:27 am
Entry tags:
Her Bones by Guede Mazaka (PG-13)
Fandom: PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN
Pairing: Will Turner/Jack Sparrow/Elizabeth Swann
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
guede_mazaka
Author Website: http://www.waxjism.org/gm/index.html
Why this must be read:
Because it's absolutely beautiful. A wunderfull, lyrical piece of writing. Three meditations on the Black Pearl. All perfect with all voices wonderful in character.
The oldest beams of the Black Pearl are oak. Strong, well-seasoned, scented with sea-salt and sweat-salt and rum and, if you press your cheek hard to the grain and breathes deep, the ice of ancient winter forests. They make up the heart of her, and they’re why she’s always had a steady streak beneath her wicked temper.
The rest of her is a patchwork of her travels and captains, her wood tracing the whole circumference of the globe. Some of the planking in the captain’s cabin is teak, left over from one old seadog’s vanity trip into the Far East. Barbossa left behind cheap pine to cover the many scars from his ravaging years, with the occasional better piece of wood—he couldn’t die or be harmed and he got used to the idea, forgot that it were men and not ships who took curses. Whenever the soft stuff rots, swells with the damp air or splinters into a gun-crew, it’s a memory of the morass into which he almost sunk everything. They are what lies at fault for the tremble in the Pearl that sometimes rises with the storm-winds, the new creakiness in her murmuring. She suffered those nine years.
Three meditations on the Black Pearl.
Pairing: Will Turner/Jack Sparrow/Elizabeth Swann
Author on LJ:
guede_mazakaAuthor Website: http://www.waxjism.org/gm/index.html
Why this must be read:
Because it's absolutely beautiful. A wunderfull, lyrical piece of writing. Three meditations on the Black Pearl. All perfect with all voices wonderful in character.
The oldest beams of the Black Pearl are oak. Strong, well-seasoned, scented with sea-salt and sweat-salt and rum and, if you press your cheek hard to the grain and breathes deep, the ice of ancient winter forests. They make up the heart of her, and they’re why she’s always had a steady streak beneath her wicked temper.
The rest of her is a patchwork of her travels and captains, her wood tracing the whole circumference of the globe. Some of the planking in the captain’s cabin is teak, left over from one old seadog’s vanity trip into the Far East. Barbossa left behind cheap pine to cover the many scars from his ravaging years, with the occasional better piece of wood—he couldn’t die or be harmed and he got used to the idea, forgot that it were men and not ships who took curses. Whenever the soft stuff rots, swells with the damp air or splinters into a gun-crew, it’s a memory of the morass into which he almost sunk everything. They are what lies at fault for the tremble in the Pearl that sometimes rises with the storm-winds, the new creakiness in her murmuring. She suffered those nine years.
Three meditations on the Black Pearl.