Alone he sat, sank in his thoughts
Oblivious to the world around
As one thought drifted to the next
Only to return to that same longing

That longing to love and be loved
To have someone to laugh with
Share tears with
Someone to care for
For the rest of his days

Another year draws to a close
Minutes tick away
Days, weeks, months
Endless time alone
If only…
He had someone to call his own

“Mom, I’m doing great. They really like me here and gave me this neat office overlooking Mad. Ave. Yep, got a plant and a secretary, too,  Miss Pidgeon.  No, don’t try to call me at work, they don’t like us getting personal calls. I’ll call you. Listen, gotta go now, got to get back to work. Love you too, say hi to Dad.”

Sighing, he put away his cell phone and looked at his surroundings. The uncomfortable bench he had occupied for the last few months was planted in a dusty little patch of earth underneath the highway overpass.  A few shrubs struggled to exist and a single pigeon hopefully fluttered down from above every day when he appeared with his brown bag lunch and the help wanted ads.

This was not the life that he had envisioned for himself when he came to the Big Apple straight out of college. The homeless shelter was at least a roof over his head, but he spent as little time there as possible, crossing the street to sit in what passed here for a little park.  At least the guy he had just met had some work for him. Just keep an eye on the package, he had said, putting it on the bench beside him. A friend would pick it up.

The cops’ arrival took him by surprise. They quickly cuffed him, saying that a full kilo of the stuff in the bag would buy him some long time away.

Watching the pigeon peck at a cast-off brown lunch bag wedged in the scraggly shrubs opposite the dusty bench on which he sat,  he called his wife to say that he would be late getting home. “I know, I know, I was looking forward to the concert. But this thing came up and I can’t get away. Tell the kids I love ‘em and will miss hearing them sing. Gotta go, bye.”

As he said this, a large male hand lightly brushed his left shoulder , reached into his shirt, and squeezed his nipple. Breasts brushed against the back of his head. A high voice whispered into his ear.”It’s party time, Sugar. Business before pleasure, Sugar.”

The hand not busy with his nipple reached for the envelope of money being offered. “You know Tranny always likes to get paid before the real fun begins, Sugar.”

The  two  moved away from the bench and into the shadows of the overpass.

Sister Mary Magdalene checked to see if the girl was still there. Heading for the soup kitchen earlier, she had noticed her slumped on the bench, holding tight to a battered cardboard suitcase. Peering through the chain link fencing on her return,  Sr. Mary saw that she hadn’t moved.

Same story, different girl, sighed Sr. Mary to herself. After all. she had  ended up on that very bench some years ago after fleeing  the nearby bus station and it’s eager pimps always on the lookout for naive young flesh.  She had escaped that degrading sort of life and had found refuge with the Catholic Charities nuns who gently helped her find her calling.

Granted, she didn’t look like the stereotype the word nun conjured up. Sr. Mary wore jeans ripped at the knees, a sweatshirt that said “Nuns Do It Better” ["Prayer"] underneath a scuffed leather jacket. The only hint that she might be something other than a tough, streetwise woman was the little gold dove pin on her jacket.

Entering the dusty little park, she avoided the used condom on the ground that a pigeon was examining and sat down beside the girl.

“You look beat, sweetie, hungry too. Probably could use a shower after that all night bus ride, right?”

“But…but how did you know…?”

“Oh, didn’t I mention that I’m a mind-reader?”  Sr. Mary gazed into the girl’s tear-stained face. “Here’s some more. You fought with your parents, and took off late last night. You were gonna show them! Now you’re here, scared shitless, and wished you’d never done it. Right?”

Fresh tears spilled from her red-rimmed eyes while wrenching sobs  made  her shoulders heave  as she clutched her pathetic suitcase.

“Tell you what,” said Sister Mary Magdalene, “here’s my cellphone. Call your mom and dad and tell ‘em you’re allright. Then we’ll get you fed and cleaned up, and ready for that ride back home.”

“Raise the flag, let’s show ‘em who we are,”

 “Aye captain,” replied Stephan, as he pulled on the halyard, raising the skull and crossbones to the top of the mast.

 Captain John was a pirate.  He stood on the bridge of The Ghost, salty spray stinging his face as his ship sliced through the choppy bay.  It was early morning with wisps of last night’s fog floating on the tops of the waves.  The breeze was coming across the port side as The Ghost heeled over and pushed on towards land.  John looked out at the city of mighty buildings made of steel and glass.  Will she still be there? He wondered, and how will I find her?  He had never assaulted a city of this size, never even knew something like this existed.  All he knew is he had to have her back.

“Captain, look at the large, green lady statue in the bay,” yelled Stephan.

 With wonderment and awe John looked off the starboard bow and saw a large statue of a woman holding up a torch.  What is this place I have come to? He thought. 

“Where do we land the ship?” shouted Stephan

 Looking back to the city, John surveyed the land.  “There at the point, where those giant white tents are, it looks like a dock of some sort,” replied John, “and prepare the cannons on the starboard side, I see enemy ships leaving the dock and heading this way.”

John watched as the large, square ship headed right at them.  They were strange vessels, with layers of shiny glass on each side, and no sails.  He could see people on the very top moving around and pointing at them as the distance between the two ships closed.  Looking closely, John could see no sign of cannons or other weapons. “Ready the cannons, but hold your fire,” shouted John.  As the two ships passed he could see hundreds of strangely clad people looking out of the glass at his ship, and they were waving at him. 

“Prepare for battle,” John shouted, “Muskets and sabers, all parties ashore.”  The Ghost quickly jibed and as the boom swung across the deck, Stephan expertly slid the ship into the dock.

“Ashore,” John shouted as he jumped over the side of the ship.  Thirty rough pirates followed him onto the dock. Muskets and sabers in hand they raced past startled onlookers to the large white tent.  “Where is your leader?” John shouted as he crashed through of hundreds of people.  He looked around.  These people weren’t afraid.  Most of them were looking at him and smiling, some were clapping.  One of them shouted, “Where is Jack Sparrow?”

 He walked up to the nearest strangely dressed man and asked, “Who is your leader?”

 “Leader, what leader?” replied the man, “You guys look great.”

 “Hey, what are you guys doing?  You got a permit for a movie down here?” shouted a tall, dark man in a uniform as he approached John.

 “Aye, are you in charge around here?” John asked.

 “Yeah buddy, but only til five, what are you doing? I don’t see any cameras,” replied the man.

 “I don’t know cameras, but I need you to take me to Trump Castle.  I am here to rescue my fair maiden, Guinevere,” said John.

 “Trump!   That explains it.  What’s he up to now? The Tower is way up on 5^th avenue, you guys need to catch a bus,” said the man.

 Johns pulled out his ruby encrusted dagger and held it to the mans neck.  “You will take us,” he said as he slowly drew the blade down the left side of his neck causing a line of blood to slowly appear, “or today is the day you die, take us to this bus.”

 With eyes wide with fear the man pointed to a large, gray vehicle.  Dragging the man with the dagger still at his neck he led his men over to the bus.  The men charged up the steps. John entered last with his prisoner and looked down at the startled man sitting behind a big wheel.  “Take me to Trump Castle or you die!”

 Standing with his dagger next to the driver’s neck, John looked up in awe as it moved forward.  Castles built into the sky as far as his eye could see on both sides of the bus. Everything made of glass.  The bus came to a stop.  “This is it, Trump Tower,” said the driver.

 “Prepare for battle, follow me men!”  John exclaimed.

 The door of the bus opened and John jumped the steps down to the ground.  Knocking men and women to the ground he sprinted through huge glass doors with his men close behind.  He stopped in shock at the beauty of the inside.  Dark wood, gold, waterfalls.  It was like an oasis inside a castle. He fired his musket in the air and shouted, “Where in this castle is my fair maiden Guinevere being held prisoner?”

Suddenly, from behind them a voice came “Drop your weapons now!”

 John turned to see 10 uniformed men with big and little muskets pointed at them.

“All I want is Guinevere, nobody has to die today,” he said.

“Drop your weapons or you will die today,” replied a uniformed man.

John looked at Stephan who winked at him.  Stephan knew his captain had never surrendered.  He turned to his men and whispered, “Be ready.”

 “For Guinevere,” John shouted as pointed his musket and fired. Eardrum shattering gunfire erupted from both sides.  Acrid smoke filled the air.  “Charge,” John shouted, as he ran toward the battle. 

He heard the bullet before it hit him. He could hear the whine of the bullet’s rotation as it spun on a perfect trajectory directly for his head.  For just an instant he felt the impact as it hit and then spun into his brain, making jelly of all thoughts of Captain John before it exploded out the back.  Everything went dark.

There was light, John slowly opened his eyes.  Looking down on him was a beautiful woman, deep blue eyes sparkling like sapphires through her long blonde hair.  A troubled look flashed across her face as she watched him.

“My fair maiden, Guinevere, I’m alive,” said John.

 “Fair maiden. What are you talking about?” said the woman, “You’re an idiot John, get up, you’re late for work.”

 Captain John, sat up and looked around his 500 square foot apartment, then flopped back down on the bed.  “Arrh, I’d rather be a pirate.”

Posts on this prompt:

Maiden Voyage by Jonathan

New Land by Ellie

Ghost Ship by BandE

Posts not-on-this-prompt:

The Murder by Sara Harvey

Away from  the tour group for a few hours, he spent  time walking  and taking pictures of the tall modern buildings that crowded the old harbor. Once a bustling seaport during the age of sail, all vestiges of that era had been swept away by the government. Now the emphasis was on banking, tourism, and e-commerce.

For a moment the clouds rolled away and intense sunlight bounced off the buildings and reflected into the water. A beautiful shot which he quickly captured with his new digital camera. Still not too sure how the damned thing worked, he nervously checked  the memory, There it was. The perfect travel magazine picture: dark sky, brilliantly lit buildings and an absolutely deserted harbor. Perfect. Something to show the folks back home.

Rejoining the group and heading back to the hotel, he went into the cool, dark bar with some of the more tolerable types he had met on this “Nine Olde World Capitals in Nineteen Days” tour. Had Doris still been alive, he would be traveling with her , enjoying her easy company, not the forced gaiety of this group of strangers. Still, George and Al were amiable enough, and as they sipped their beers, he showed them his afternoon’s work.

He clumsily worked the camera memory, still marveling at all that digital stood for when George spoke. “ Jesus, Al, look at that boat.  Must be 200 years old! Man, somebody musta had a lotta bucks to restore that baby.”

“Great shot”, said Al, “you silhouetted that thing perfectly against those buildings. You got a good eye, old buddy.”

Don stared at his camera as if it were a meteorite that had just come through the ceiling and landed on the beer -soaked bar.  His perfect deserted harbor with buildings in the background snapshot now had a sailing vessel in it!

Next day, he skipped the tour [Churches, Cafes and Cathedrals] and went to a  tiny, almost hidden building that he had seen near the waterfront. A cracked and peeling sign stated that it was the maritime museum. Entering, a distant bell sounded, but the room seemed empty. Sunlight struggled to gain entrance through windows seemingly not washed since the days of sail. Lining the walls were floor to ceiling shelves, packed full of  leather bound volumes, their edges crumbling and dusty with age.

Coughing preceded the slow, shuffling footsteps of an aged man, cadaverous looking , sunken  of chest  and bearded. His breath came in gasps  as he spoke. “May…I…. assist..Sir?”

Explaining his interest in the harbor history  and the ships  that had used it, Don inquired if any of the volumes surrounding them contained paintings or drawings of sailing vessels from some 200 years ago.

Wordlessly, the man coughed/shuffled  to the shelves and extracted a crumbling volume. He laid it on a small teetering table in the center of the room, turned,  and was gone.

Leafing through pages of  ship images  without finding what he wanted, he closed the volume, releasing a little dust cloud. Discouraged that he hadn’t found the vessel, he turned to leave and was startled by a voice asking, ”Did ….you… find what you..were …looking ….for?”

“Well, no, I was looking for this”, Don said, pointing to the ship’s image on the camera display.

A cascading dust storm of coughing and choking nearly doubled over the elderly fellow.  Wiping his eyes,he finally spoke. “The Scimitar. One of the finest…. trading vessels… of the early 1800′s….I..was the last…Ca…”, an explosion of coughing overtook him again, and making drinking gestures, he disappeared through a door and never returned.

“I think you’ll find what you want in here.” Don was back at the museum on the last day in  town before his group returned home . His final chance to solve the mystery surrounding the digital image nestled in his camera. The person who brought these dusty volumes to him today was the only employee of the museum, and no, he did not know of any shuffling, coughing , elderly man who worked there. In fact, the museum was closed yesterday!

Don began scanning the old harbor history books he had requested.  He came upon a page that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Titled Ghost Ship Scimitar , the writer described the day the ship had first floated into the harbor on the incoming tide, two hundred years ago tomorrow. A boarding party found the cargo intact,  passengers and crew gone.

Broken furniture and glass littered the floor of the Captain’s cabin. The most horrifying discovery was the partial last entry in the bloodstained log: Crewe rfuse my absolute authority as Master Under God have denied them shor leave and… A human heart was stuck to the page by congealed blood!

Fleeing the ship in terror, the boarding crew spread the word.  The log page and heart convinced all that the ship was cursed. The vessel floated out on the evening tide and was  assumed to have eventually sunk.  The heart was  preserved in rum and saved along with the bloodstained log.

Don, questioning  the museum curator, found that the heart and original log page were in a safe at the museum, and that sightings of the Scimitar were reported through the years.  Disappointed that he couldn’t view the contents of the safe but satisfied with what he had discovered about the mystery ship, he returned to his hotel to pack  for departure home next day.

They had been airborne for about an hour when he overheard  George and Al  discussing the theft from the museum.

“Yeah, they said the safe was open and the contents gone… alarm never went off…didn’t say what was in the safe.”

“Money or somethin’ maybe…said a tourist was suspected…some old bearded guy with a cough…can you believe it?”

“Somethin’ about a curse …every two hundred years…sails back…”

Don smiled knowingly as he looked at his prize photo of the skyscrapered skyline, the harbor almost empty, as the Ghost Ship slowly faded from view.