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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in The Pirate Mood Ring Project's LiveJournal:

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Monday, December 18th, 2006
2:45 am
Happy Holidays – have a Mood Ring!
Welcome to the Pirate Mood Ring, a present to the PoTC fandom this holiday season from the writers at Cultural Infidelities (fabu, hija_paloma, linaelyn, and me, the_stowaway).

A long time ago, in a fandom far, far away (or, you know, in April 2004) two talented women wrote a Mood Ring for LoTRiPS* and we looked at each other and said, "We should do that for Pirates!" And lo, this comm was born. And then….not much happened for a really long time. (What? We totally were busy.) But suddenly, the day after Thanksgiving, drabbles began to happen and, finally, here it is.

One drabble for each LiveJournal mood. 132 moods x 100 words, 1 per post.

We hope you enjoy them as much as we enjoyed writing them. There's something here for everyone; just about every character we could think of shows up somewhere. The drabbles cover every pairing and none, ratings from G to PG-13 (ok, maybe a hint of R here and there); comedy, action, angst, love, hate, introspection – you name it, we managed to fit it in.

Have fun! And we'd love to hear what you think.

A note about navigation: The drabbles are posted in random order, pretty much as they were written. You can start reading anywhere and scroll forward and back through the comm, or you can go the Calendar pages for a list of titles (link takes you to November; navigate forward to December for the rest of the drabbles). Or, you can go to this page for an alphabetical listing with links.

*MoodRings -- 132 Celebrations of LOTRips by circe_tigana and anniesj
Sunday, December 17th, 2006
11:06 am
Weatherby Swann knew his death was approaching. Every fiber of him cried out in agony. If only he'd never consented to take this position as governor in some benighted backwater. It had seemed so reasonable at the time.

It was a tragedy that Elizabeth would be orphaned so young, and no kindly, firm hand to guide her through the years ahead.

He leaned forward, heaving the meager contents of his already-emptied gut over the side of the ship.

A single day out of Portsmouth. If only the ship would stop moving. If only he could stand on solid ground again.
11:03 am
So many officers had been lost. Battle, hurricane, intrigue – all had conspired to empty Port Royal of any the governor might have turned to in this hour. Those few who remained were careful to avoid any entanglements, since that aborted wedding day when Beckett had brought the world crashing down.

Sending her away out of Beckett's reach had been the best he could do. She was mulish and disobedient, but he had been the same, young and in love with his poor, doomed Sophia.

And now she was gone.

In all his three-score years, Weatherby had never been so alone.
11:00 am
Marty had spoken strong words of concern but Gibbs was reassuring, as always. They'd been weeks, nay, months without a proper piracy, and Jack seemed strange...er.

The others in Jack's motley assortment could look elsewhere for a berth. Gibbs, though a drunkard, would be welcome on many a crew, naval-trained as he was. Anamaria had a ship of her own now, her sex and race notwithstanding. Even tongueless Cotton wasn't as trapped aboard the Black Pearl as he was.

No one wanted a dwarf aboard. "Bad luck," they all said.

Bound on a fool's errand with a ship of fools.
10:58 am
It was a bit like floating in calm seawater: a weightlessness, and sound all muffled and strange. Running his tongue over them, he noticed he couldn't quite feel his lips, and when he tried to speak, the words didn't come out properly. His nose was numb too, though his tongue could still taste the ale without any trouble. In fact, this one was sweeter than the first three (or was it four?) cups had been.

Young Will sat at the trestle in the tavern, and Master Brown brought him yet another.

"Drink up!" Brown slurred, "Y'er a proper journeyman, now!"
1:51 pm
(afterpiece to linaelyn's Drunk)

Will opened his eyes and shut them again, throwing his arm over his face for good measure. The light in his (windowless) attic was painfully bright. He groaned. What was wrong with him? He remembered the tavern, and Mister Brown buying him ale…

"Will," Brown repeated, shaking him and holding the candle up to shine in his eyes. "The farrier's broken his arm and we've got ten cursed mules to shoe. Shift yourself, boy."

It was several moments before his meaning penetrated the fog in Will's head. When it did, he winced. It was going to be a wonderful day.
1:44 pm
Will slid to a stop at the bottom of the muddy slope. The sounds of their pursuit were growing closer, and Jack yanked Will to his feet and flung him forward.

"Go, go!" he urged, breathless with exertion or exhilaration--Will could not say which.

They ran through a dense thicket of broad-leafed trees, cut across the corner of a cane field, and stumbled to a halt on a craggy ledge.

"I don't know how I let you talk me into this," Will panted, pulling several twigs from his hair.

Jack grinned, teeth gleaming in his mud-smeared face. "I do."
10:47 am
This fragment is a partial letter penned by an ordinary sailor of the early 17th century, one Joshamee Gibbs; it was found with others in a cache in a cottage in Kent. It was not published earlier due to the poor condition and the illegibility of the latter half of the text. With further conservation, it is hoped that the missing text may be deciphered.

July 10th, 1702
Nassau, Bermoothes

Dearest Darling Jenny-Bird,

Ten years have gone over since I bid ye be wed with me and pass through life's perils and joys at my side. Ten years and ye may [blurred] me long dead at sea, as I now fear ye must have passed into Abraham's bosom to await our final judgement.

I still recall your eyes as [smudged, blots] if I viewed ye yesterday, but I find that your other features have faded in my memory. Is your nose as I imagine it? Does your smile curl exactly so?

Can it be that
1:14 pm
They had drunk, to be sure, a great deal of rum the night before. Ignoring the pounding in his head, Jack dipped the tiny brush into the ink and continued his careful work, limning a very passable likeness of the Black Pearl on the living canvas of James's back.

Finished, he sat back admiring the view; grinning as a brilliant notion occurred.

No, he mustn't.

Giving in to temptation with, it must be admitted, very little struggle, he signed his drawing with a flourish. "Property of" on the left cheek, and "Captain Jack Sparrow" on the right.

James slumbered on.
1:12 pm
Elizabeth rocked the cradle with one toe as she stitched, humming under her breath. The fire sent red dancing gleams into the room, but she sat in a golden circle cast by branch of working candles. She moved a screen to keep the light from the baby and sewed on.

Jack lay stretched on the sofa, sound asleep, snoring. He'd arrived after supper, pockets full of gifts and a dozen fresh tales to tell.

Will sat at her feet, against her knees, gazing into the fire with dreams in his eyes. She touched his hair; he looked up and smiled.
1:11 pm
Ragetti looked at the tiny bundle of rags, bewildered. "For me?" he asked again.

Pintel huffed an exasperated sigh. "Didn't I just say so? Open it, you bloody great idiot."

"Alright, alright, no need to be that way," Ragetti replied, working at the knots that held the thing together.

"Don't drop it. Be careful," Pintel exclaimed, hands twitching as if he wanted to unwrap it himself.

Ragetti gaped as the last rag fell away to reveal a glass eye, staring up at him. "Oh, mate," he breathed, "I dunno what to say."

"You like it?"

"You shouldn't have," Ragetti beamed.
1:09 pm
Back in his office, Norrington stood at the window, staring out at the bay, the sea beyond… the black ship flying downwind, all sails set.

There was work awaiting him, preparations for pursuit to be made, but first he would permit himself the indulgence of a moment's reflection. His lip curled. Self-pity by another name.

The fact of her choice had not surprised him; he'd known where her heart lay when he'd accepted her hand. But the manner of it had stung. So public, so unequivocal, so… cruel; the cruelty of impetuous youth. He felt, suddenly, a hundred years old.
1:07 pm
Gillette stood on the Fury's deck, quivering with wrath, in a spreading pool of sea-water. The ruffians surrounding him snickered, jeering. "Not so fine now, eh, Captain?"

Pitched over the side when the attackers rammed his ship, he'd ended up here, his wig, coat and shoes gone. They'd taken his sword.

The crew parted. To his horror, Gillette found himself facing a woman.

She looked him up and down, her glance lewd. "I like a ginger man, now and again," she grinned. "Should I keep him? No?" The crew roared with laughter and, at her signal, tossed him back overboard.
10:34 am
Commodore Norrington threw the letter down in disgust. Yet another bureaucratic functionary at Admiralty inquiring, with veiled but biting sarcasm, as to why, exactly, the notorious Captain Jack Sparrow and the crew of the Black Pearl had not yet been laid by the heels. Naval incompetence was implied.

During their meetings (too rare on the one hand and imprudently frequent on the other) Jack took good care never to tell him the precise whereabouts of the Pearl, and James was just as careful not to ask. Nevertheless…

Norrington sprang up and paced his office, scowling. Gah. The situation was untenable.
Saturday, December 16th, 2006
4:47 pm
Norrington stood on the quarterdeck, hands folded behind him, watching the topmen set the foret'gallant with a sharp eye. They knew their business, as of course they would, on such a ship.

He thought of his extraordinary good fortune. To have been in the right place at the right time and to have caught the Admiral's eye. His father had written congratulations.

First Lieutenant aboard Dauntless, bound for Port Royal. It was a prime posting; with extremely good prospects for prizes. Prizes meant prize money, and the battles to win them meant excellent chance for promotion.

Norrington smiled to himself.
3:49 pm
Seven of them. Seven bloody agents of the bloody East India Trading Company. All wide awake, all staring straight at him. Jack shifted a little in his chains, trying not to jingle the damned things, looking for a comfortable position. There wasn't one, apparently.

He still heard Black Bart's laughter, heard him proposing the wager. And he, like a fool, had taken it, so certain he would win.

Jack'd rather die than admit it (and, come to think of it, he might), but perhaps, just perhaps, he'd bitten off more than he could chew this time.

It didn't look good.
2:51 pm
Captain Carter prided himself on his seamanship. He liked to think that he could out-sail and out-fight any pirate or coasting smuggler in the Caribbean. His Redoubtable had the best record of victories of all the Jamaica squadron. He'd boasted of it more than once and, perhaps, too loudly. It was taken, in certain quarters, as a challenge.

He suffered, therefore, considerable mortification when Redoubtable was neatly dismasted and boarded by the 26-gun sloop Fury. Fuming, he stood with the remnant of his men; the pirate captain approached. Rage became apoplexy as Anamaria, grinning, broke his sword over her knee.
1:39 pm
Jack inhaled another lungful of the oddly-scented smoke, held it, exhaled slowly. It had a musty-spicy sweetness to it, not unlike certain incenses he'd smelled on the Main, up in the hills, where the natives' influence had changed even the rituals of the Church. He rolled his tongue against the roof of his mouth to taste it again, pleasantly fascinated with the faint tickling sensation so induced. He closed his eyes and concentrated, running the tip of his tongue over his palate, teeth and lips, mesmerized.

Jack lay back and laughed. Someday, he'd smoke this with James. That'd be… interesting.
Thursday, December 14th, 2006
7:39 pm
The offices at Government House were in a state of barely-organized chaos as the wedding day dawned. Servants hustled through last minute tasks. A chest of teaspoons, inexplicably misplaced, was located at last and the butler set three of the footmen to polishing them. The kitchens were a blur of stirring, kneading, basting, roasting, and baking – with houseguests to feed and the wedding breakfast to prepare. The flower arrangements were placed on the tables just as the sun rose in a red sky.

"Rain today," one maid said, as they hurriedly straightened the chairs.

"Bite your tongue!" her companion replied.
Wednesday, December 13th, 2006
1:01 pm
He wasn't accustomed to such fierce opposition. Truth be told, he wasn't accustomed to any opposition, ever.

The Master had summoned him so much more often of late, and the prey were none of the storm-weakened morsels that he preferred.

This last ship had fired cannon and smaller guns, which was only to be expected from a vessel too large to easily devour in a single gulp. That burning, limb-rending explosion had been too much, however.

Again, he rose from the sheltering sea to swallow the creature with the indigestible hat and the Black Spot --

-- or die trying.
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