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What you Will now available
Dec. 20th, 2011 12:42 pmMy seasonal short, What you Will (a steampunk/Shakespeare fusion) is out from MLR. It's available direct and on Amazon.
They say there's no fool like an old fool. Antonio didn't count himself as old but he was more fool than any man ought to be who'd flown around the world and back again so often he might as well have just been going from Deptford to Dartford. There was a lad involved. There's always a lad in the tale, for men like him.
And was there a happy ending? Now that depends on whether you believe what a certain playwright wrote, or whether you want the real story.
Excerpt:
I'd flown these routes before, back in the days when I was still a poacher. Plenty of rich pickings to be found. What did they call that trader my speedy little privateer took, these five years past? Phoenixthat was it. Phoenix, treasure-trove full of jewels the size of quails' eggs and spices so fresh you'd have sworn they were new picked. By God, we'd filled our purses that day.
Now that I'd "turned gamekeeper" I had legitimate cause to be flying over here but Illyria was still a name to bring out sweat on the back of my neck. I'd not dared to land there any more, no matter how lucrative a trade contract I'd been offered.
I guess I should have stopped flying then, when my pockets were full of Phoenix's profits. I could have given my Letter of Marque back to Her Majesty's men, then gone home and settled down, but the smell of the chase was always calling me and there was always another ship to hunt down. Tiger, my last prize was called. We fell on her out of the sun; might have got away with it if she'd hauled her colours and just let us strip her of her cargo, but it came to a fight. Nasty, brutal fight, and all--Count Orsino's nephew lost his leg and I was left a marked man. Set foot in Illyria and I was dead, the Count would see to that.
Still, I'd made a success of myself since those privateering days, making plenty of money to see me through a comfortable old age, once I'd had enough of flying, or it had had enough of me. All I lacked was someone to spend that time with.
I never was one for spending ages staring into my glass, although if I caught my reflection in the helm's polished brass I saw a presentable enough face looking back, and knew I'd still be counted handsome, despite the scar across my chin. The looks I got from the women of London, painted whores up to finest ladies, reassured me the wound didn't make a scrap of difference. Not that any amount of looking or sighing from them was going to make a scrap of difference to me as far as my affections were concerned
They say there's no fool like an old fool. Antonio didn't count himself as old but he was more fool than any man ought to be who'd flown around the world and back again so often he might as well have just been going from Deptford to Dartford. There was a lad involved. There's always a lad in the tale, for men like him.
And was there a happy ending? Now that depends on whether you believe what a certain playwright wrote, or whether you want the real story.
Excerpt:
I'd flown these routes before, back in the days when I was still a poacher. Plenty of rich pickings to be found. What did they call that trader my speedy little privateer took, these five years past? Phoenixthat was it. Phoenix, treasure-trove full of jewels the size of quails' eggs and spices so fresh you'd have sworn they were new picked. By God, we'd filled our purses that day.
Now that I'd "turned gamekeeper" I had legitimate cause to be flying over here but Illyria was still a name to bring out sweat on the back of my neck. I'd not dared to land there any more, no matter how lucrative a trade contract I'd been offered.
I guess I should have stopped flying then, when my pockets were full of Phoenix's profits. I could have given my Letter of Marque back to Her Majesty's men, then gone home and settled down, but the smell of the chase was always calling me and there was always another ship to hunt down. Tiger, my last prize was called. We fell on her out of the sun; might have got away with it if she'd hauled her colours and just let us strip her of her cargo, but it came to a fight. Nasty, brutal fight, and all--Count Orsino's nephew lost his leg and I was left a marked man. Set foot in Illyria and I was dead, the Count would see to that.
Still, I'd made a success of myself since those privateering days, making plenty of money to see me through a comfortable old age, once I'd had enough of flying, or it had had enough of me. All I lacked was someone to spend that time with.
I never was one for spending ages staring into my glass, although if I caught my reflection in the helm's polished brass I saw a presentable enough face looking back, and knew I'd still be counted handsome, despite the scar across my chin. The looks I got from the women of London, painted whores up to finest ladies, reassured me the wound didn't make a scrap of difference. Not that any amount of looking or sighing from them was going to make a scrap of difference to me as far as my affections were concerned
