YAR HAR!

If ye be reading this, then yer no doubt found me message in a bottle! Make ye no mistake, laddy. This bottle be me second-to-last bottle o’ rum!

Rum. If nobody’s ever told ye that rum be the meaning o’ life, then let me be the first to tell ye: rum be the meaning o’ life!

Rum, she make the wind blow.

Rum, she make the swim sea.

Rum, she moon the glow makes . . .

YAR HAR!

If ye be reading this, then yer no doubt found me last bottle o’ rum! Now that I’m outta rum, yer better hurry up and read me letter.

Ahoy and avast, ye filthy landlubber! I be the fiercest pirate to ever sail the Six Seven Seas! There be Cap’n Redbeard. There be Cap’n Blackbeard. Then there be me! Cap’n Salt’n’Pepperbeard!

Ye likely heard me name slurred between tankards o’ grog at the seaside taverns, cursed under the breath from the preacher’s pulpit, and maybe even scratched on the bottom o’ an old apple barrel that rolled off the deck one windy sea day. But even a fearsome pirate like meself with a song-worthy name and sack o’ cannonballs has his bad days.

And mine be the day I sailed into Treasure Island.

Did ye hear me, yer blundering sea monkey? Into that confounded island we sailed! No anchor. No rowboat. Jes blue sea one moment and gold sand the next!

Now, who be to blame fer that? Be it the wind, ye say? Fortune? Me man up in the roost? “’Tis not fair to blame one o’er the other,” said I, “so the three o’ ye can walk the plank!”

But avast! Me ship! Beached like a whale, she be! That be why I write to ye, whoever ye be—some greasy, piratin’ Spaniard or bootlicker from the Royal Navy. I be shipwrecked, ye hear? ’Tis be worst than the day I sailed off the edge o’ the world, where I fought and defeated the terrible Amerikraken!

It be with a scrape and a bow that I say me and me lovely wench Marigold be in need o’ yer help. But befer I tell ye where we be, it be best if ye first hear me tale. And the sooner ye do, the sooner ye can send more rum help us . . .

This be a writing exercise based on the following prompt: Write a story using only bad descriptive language. Example: “Her eyes were deep blue like the sound o’ bongo drums.”

It began, I tell ye, precisely at some hour on some day in some sea. I remember the details, fer I had jes finished me sixth or seventh bottle o’ rum jes like I be now (I found more, but please hurry).

“Land ho!” cried the nest-warmer as he hung over the roost. At his words, me whole crew hung over portside. Me and me first mate hung over the poop. But me helmsman, he jes hung onto the helm.

Me crew, they stared. The sails, they froze. The winds, they died . . . like me great-grandmother Jenelle, bless her soul!

Finally, I yanked up on me belt and descended the steps with the power o’ a cheese wheel.

“What arrr ye waitin’ fer, me hearties!” said I. At once, me men swiveled round on their sea legs to face their cap’n. “I said,” said I, “what arrr ye waitin’ fer!” A map that’d been folded too many times stuck to me hook like a short man I once knew.

“’Tis be Treasure Island, make ye no mistake! That Greek hoard be buried ’round this plate o’ dirt somewhere. Grab yer shovels, ye salty sea dogs! Grab yer shovels, and follow me!”

And fer hours and days, me men reshaped the beaches o’ that island like a dumb parrot talks to a deaf coconut. We even looked behind the waterfalls fer treasure chests.

“Bring ’er out! Bring ’er out!” cried me men as they toiled beside a small pool. Aye, I be tellin’ ye the truth, lad. From the waters, me men brought ferth the most prettiest lass me eyes have ever befallen. And best o’ all, she be gold—pure gold!

“Shiver me timbers!” said me men. “Them curves! Them eyes! Like they could blink and come to life at any moment!”

“Keep yer bananas from peelin’, ye starvin’ sea wolves!” said I. Me black shadow painted the gold statue like a hamster travels through space. I looked to me first mate. “What say ye, Barstuck? What king leaves a dem fine treasure to dethrone the sun?”

Me first mate stirred from his daze in the same way a door closes on rusty hinges. “If there be one gold wench, Cap’n, then—pray fortune smiles upon us—there could be more!”

At his words, me men shrieked a merry holler. “A gold wench fer e’ery man! A gold wench fer e’ery man!”

“Arrright, men!” said I. “Ye keep searchin’ fer yer gold wenches! But the cap’n gets first pick, and I pick me Marigold!”

A silent murmur rippled across the pool. But me men be soon poking through streams, turning over rocks, and making holes in the sand as big as a compass that points only to Lincoln, Illinois.

As fer me and Marigold, I had some o’ me men carry her to me cabin, where she and I shared a bottle o’ rum or two or however many it took to make the cabin sway as if we be at sea.

At exactly sometime later, me first mate stuck his head through the door. He eyed Marigold, who wore me hat with the big red feather that sticks up like Harambe befer they shot ’m.

“Cap’n?” said he (me first mate, not Harambe). “Ye need to a’dress the men.”

“What ye yammerin’ about, shipmate? Me men be old ’nough to dress ’emselves.”

“The men be wantin’ their share o’ the treasure, Cap’n.”

“Avast, and blame them not, Barstuck! Marigold be me richest treasure yet! She be a dem fine wench, I say, a dem fine wench. Don’t talk much, me Marigold, but that be jes fine, I say. But there be more islands on our course. More treasure to be shared among the lads!”

“They want this treasure, Cap’n. Their minds be made up.”

At once, the cabin turned as black as a cannon shot. Outside, the waves against the beach became as quiet as a table with a blue finish. I be gettin’ a better at this, arrr?

“Be this mutiny I hear?” The words fired from me mouth like a bad simile.

“Aye, Cap’n. Lest ye share yer gold wench.”

The room got smaller as I began to squint, me first mate like a leaf o’ spinach as I popped him between me eyes.

“Do ye stand with me, Barstuck?” said I. “Or do ye stoop down to them feckless sea rats?”

Me first mate turned the color o’ scurvy. Like how an orange looks that’s been left in the sun fer many a day—a few days, to be exact. The kind that people go out o’ their way to step around so they don’t get orange guts on the bottom o’ their boots. An orange that got kicked out o’ Eden ‘cause it weren’t an apple. If ye can picture that in yer mind, then ye know what he looked like.

Anyway—“I stand with the crew,” said me first mate.

And it be then, lad, that I knew what I had to do.

I turned to me lovely Marigold, a sorry glint in her gold eyes. With so many men and only one wench—and a dem fine one, at that—it be the only fair thing to do. And with another swig o’ rum, I grabbed me flintlock and shot dead me first mate.

“Praise Barstuck! He killed the cap’n! Now we get that gold wench!” they cheered from outside. But their smiles darkened as I stormed out the cabin door with the rage o’ Hellen Keller when she finally learned to read but Harry Potter be not yet written.

The rats jumped me from all sides, cutlasses slicing the island air which be as thick as a cupboard full o’ brass toby mugs.

I hacked and slashed, dodged and thrusted, deflected and poked until me ship be littered with corpses. Red tinged me sword. Iron filled me nostrils. It be like an automatic Windows update.

Fewer (no) men meant more rum. But with no men to pull me ship back to sea, I be stranded with me wench Marigold, and she be not as lovely with no supply o’ rum on this floating piece o’ hell.

And here, matey, is where ye can lend a hand. If ye can read, then yer no doubt read the Good Book that says to treat others as ye would be, eh, well, ye know the thing.

Find ye a ship, yer scalawag, and bring me more rum! Follow me map to where the X marks the spot. There be no other island like it—beaches, palm trees, and water all around. Yer know it when ye see it, like love in hindsight!