Short Pirate Quotes

I should like to know which is worse: to be ravished a hundred times by pirates, and have a buttock cut off, and run the gauntlet of the Bulgarians, and be flogged and hanged in an auto-da-fe, and be dissected, and have to row in a galley -- in short, to undergo all the miseries we have each of us suffered -- or simply to sit here and do nothing?' That is a hard question,' said Candide.

Other pirates leaped over the railing. One, two... seven... thirteen. A baker’s dozen. Wait, fifteen. Eighteen... Twenty-one. The odds weren’t in our favor. “Maybe they just came over to borrow a cup of sugar,” I said. Andrea barked a short laugh. Curran put his hand on my shoulder. “That’s a lot of sugar. Must be a big cake.

She ascends from the ocean in a way that is nothing short of celestial. The water follows her in a throne, elevating her to the height of my ship. Ocean-soaked hair runs down the length of her body, and she retains the otherworldly glow that always seems to illuminate her moony skin. Only now she is something more than just a siren, or a girl masquerading as a pirate. She is a goddess.

The Queen of Monsea, in trousers and short hair, looking for all the world like a miniature pirate.

It was a dark story.

Pirates are humans. Just misunderstood humans.

Scots wear short patience and long daggers.

Alexander Smollett, master; David Livesey, ship's doctor; Abraham Gray, carpenter's mate; John Trelawney, owner; John Hunter and Richard Joyce, owner's servants, landsmen--being all that is left faithful of the ship's company--with stores for ten days at short rations, came ashore this day and flew British colours on the log-house in Treasure Island. Thomas Redruth, owner's servant, landsman, shot by the mutineers; James Hawkins, cabin boy--' And at the same time, I was wondering over poor Jim Hawkins' fate.

A short life and a merry one at that!

In the music industry I get a lot of public judgement. Any time the topic of my religion surfaces, there are always people who react negatively, telling me to leave my crazy beliefs out of it. The problem is, I can't. My beliefs are as much a part of my being as my music, or my family, or my obsession with earthy-tasting cereal. Luckily, after all the rejection I faced on my mission, I'm no longer afraid of negative reactions. I've already heard it all--- face-to-face. Hateful comments still hurt, but they don't hold the same weight they once did. Besides, say what you want, but I'm a short-haired angel. (Or at least I was to one man on a subway.)

I want to know which is worse, to be ravished a hundred times by negro pirates, to have a buttock cut off, to run the gauntlet among the Bulgarians, to be whipped and hanged at an auto-da-fé, to be dissected, to row in the galleys—in short, to go through all the miseries we have undergone, or to stay here and have nothing to do?

He slowed to a walk. As he approached her he was surprised at just how pretty she was. She looked a little like Maureen O'Hara in those old pirate movies. His writer's mind kicked in and he thought, This woman could break my heart. I could crash and burn on this woman. I could lose this woman, drink heavily, write profound poems, and die in the gutter of turberculosis over this woman. This was not an unusual reaction for Tommy. He had it often, mostly with girls who worked the drive-through windows at fast-food places. He would drive off with the smell of fries in his car and the bitter taste of unrequited love on his tongue. It was usually good for at least one short story.

He turned his mind back to another unwelcome task: mentally composing his letter to Chase. Dear friend, you were right. I'll be very late seemed too short, and would give his friend far too much to crow about; but I must venture through time with the pirate queen would be met with confusion, and fear for Nicholas's mind.

I like pirates, don’t you, Miss Drew? An’ robbers an’ things like that? Miss Drew, would you like to be married to a robber?

L’Ollonais’s men were reported to have blown through 260,000 pieces of eight, or $13.5 million in today’s dollars, in three short weeks

Definitely a play-to-pay, saved us a lot of bucks. There's just a small catch.' Beverly and Krak eyed Steve, wary of the catch. A catch in these times was seldom an overly convenient thing.

The boat bounced hard on the waves. Reflexively, Tally shot out a hand to brace herself on the closest stable object. She stared in horror at her own pale fingers gripping the front waistband of the pirate's shorts. His purple Hawaiian shorts were now riding low, very low, on his hips, as the weight of her hand dragged the fabric down. And down...

Tally yanked her hand away and stuck it behind her back. "God. I am so sorry." She'd touched him. Felt the heat of his tanned skin, felt the crisp hairs at his groin...felt...oh, man. "Nice try, but no cigar. Want to go for two out of three?" Tally closed her eyes and blew out a breath. "Oh, this day just gets better and better." "It's certainly looking up for me." With an amused glance, the pirate hitched his shorts back over the sharp angle of his hipbones. There'd been so sign of a tan line.

I'd like to know which is worse: to be raped a hundred times by Negro pirates, to have one buttock cut off, to run the gauntlet in the Bulgar army, to be whipped and hanged in an auto-da-fé, to be dissected, to be a galley slave—in short, to suffer all the miseries we've all gone through—or to stay here doing nothing.” “That's a hard question,” said Candide. These remarks gave rise to new reflections. Martin concluded that man was born to live in either the convulsions of distress or the lethargy of boredom. Candide did not agree, but

But if this man alone is removed from this piratical crew, we may appear, perhaps, for a short time relieved from fear and anxiety, but the danger will settle down and lie hid in the veins and bowels of the republic. As it often happens that men afflicted with a severe disease, when they are tortured with heat and fever, if they drink cold water, seem at first to be relieved, but afterwards stiffer more and more severely; so this disease which is in the republic, if relieved by the punishment of this man, will only get worse and worse, as the rest will be still alive.

We were running on borrowed time, but we didn't know just how borrowed it was, those free and wild days. The whole blessed country came to be paved over, and how I wish we were short on concrete instead of oil. There's shopping malls in the pinewoods, houses in the tomato fields, and our lonesome two-lane blacktops are all six lanes plugged tight with traffic. Hurricanes, earthquakes, wars, plagues, and pirates for three hundred years, but it always came back. And then in thirty years it was gone, paved over and gone. But we did not know all that when we were sitting there in the shade of those courthouse oaks, trying to wish up money.

I like pirates, don’t you, Miss Drew? An’ robbers an’ things like that? Miss Drew, would you like to be married to a robber?” He was trying to reconcile his old beloved dream of his future estate with the new one of becoming Miss Drew’s husband. “No,” she said firmly. His heart sank. “Nor a pirate?” he said sadly. “No.” “They’re quite nice really – pirates,” he assured her. “I think not.” “Well,” he said resignedly, “we’ll jus’ have to go huntin’ wild animals and things. That’ll be all right.” “Who?” she said, bewildered. “Well – jus’ you wait,” he said darkly. Then: “Would you rather be married by the Archbishop of York or the Pope?” “The Archbishop, I think,” she said gravely. He nodded. “All right.

He knelt down, and put a flower under her nose. She turned away. He tickled her under the chin with it. “Stop it.” “It is for you.” “I don't want it.” “Ah, Maeve, you wound me. It’s just a poor, innocent flower. To think that its very existence, its very life, was ordained so that it could be presented to you . . . that its very life was cut short so that it could bring a smile of delight to your lovely lips—and now, you don’t want it.” He put his hand to his heart and affected a hurt look. “Dear God, if I were that flower I would be sorely crushed, and go to my death drowning in tears of bitterness and rejection and hurt and abandonment—” “Oh, give me the blasted thing!” she cried, and snatching it away from him, held it protectively against her breast. Sir Graham smiled, his eyes twinkling.

Porridge is our soup, our grits, our sustenance, so it's pretty much the go-to for breakfast. For the first time, I ate with a bunch of other Taiwanese-Chinese kids my age who knew what the hell they were doing. Even at Chinese school, there were always kids that brought hamburgers, shunned chopsticks, or didn't get down with the funky shit. They were like faux-bootleg-Canal Street Chinamen. That was one of the things that really annoyed me about growing up Chinese in the States. Even if you wanted to roll with Chinese/Taiwanese kids, there were barely any around and the ones that were around had lost their culture and identity. They barely spoke Chinese, resented Chinese food, and if we got picked on by white people on the basketball court, everyone just looked out for themselves. It wasn't that I wanted people to carry around little red books to affirm their "Chinese-ness," but I just wanted to know there were other people that wanted this community to live on in America. There was on kid who wouldn't eat the thousand-year-old eggs at breakfast and all the other kids started roasting him. "If you don't get down with the nasty shit, you're not Chinese!" I was down with the mob, but something left me unsettled. One thing ABCs love to do is compete on "Chinese-ness," i.e., who will eat the most chicken feet, pig intestines, and have the highest SAT scores. I scored high in chick feet, sneaker game, and pirated good, but relatively low on the SAT. I had made National Guild Honorable Mention for piano when I was around twelve and promptly quit. My parents had me play tennis and take karate, but ironically, I quit tennis two tournaments short of being ranked in the state of Florida and left karate after getting my brown belt. The family never understood it, but I knew what I was doing. I didn't want to play their stupid Asian Olympics, but I wanted to prove to myself that if I did want to be the stereotypical Chinaman they wanted, I could. (189) I had become so obsessed with not being a stereotype that half of who I was had gone dormant. But it was also a positive. Instead of following the path most Asian kids do, I struck out on my own. There's nature, there's nurture, and as Harry Potter teaches us, there's who YOU want to be. (198) Everyone was in-between. The relief of the airport and the opportunity to reflect on my trip helped me realize that I didn't want to blame anyone anymore, Not my parents, not white people, not America. Did I still think there was a lot wrong with the aforementioned? Hell, yeah, but unless I was going to do something about it, I couldn't say shit. So I drank my Apple Sidra and shut the fuck up. (199)

All of us have a right to our lives. But what if, for lack of guidance, we take the wrong paths? Take Wintrow for instance. What if he was meant to lead a different life? What if, because of something I failed to do or say, he became King of the Pirate Isles when he was meant to be a man leading a life of scholarly contemplation? A man whose destiny was to experience a cloistered, contemplative life becomes a king instead. His deep spiritual meditations never occur and are never shared with the world.” Paragon shook his head. “You worry too much.” His eyes tracked a moth. It fluttered earnestly by, intent on battering itself to death against the lantern. “Humans live such short lives. I believe they have little impact on the world. So Wintrow will not be a priest. It is probably no more significant than if a man who was meant to be a king became a philosophical recluse instead.” He felt a shiver run over her body. “Oh, ship,” she rebuked him softly. “Was that meant to be comforting?” Carefully, he patted her as a father might soothe an infant. “Take comfort in this Amber. You are only one small, short-lived creature. You’d have to be a fool to think you could change the course of the whole world.” She was silent until she broke out in a shaky laugh. Oh, Paragon, in that you are more right than you know, my friend.” “Be content with your own life, my friend, and live it well. Let others decide for themselves what path they will follow.” She frowned up at him. “Even when you see, with absolute clarity, that it is wrong for them? That they hurt themselves?” “Perhaps people have a right to their own pain,” he hazarded. Reluctantly he added, “Perhaps they even need it.” “Perhaps,” she concluded unhappily." p. 781: Amber and Paragon:

The wooden ship objected with loud creaks as the heavy wind strained its sails to the limits, pushing it forwards through the waves. A rather petite vessel, it was the smallest she’d sailed. It was old and worn, too. Nora looked up at the yellowed sails fondly. It was a miracle that they’d lasted this long, cooperating with the buffeting winds without rest for many seasons now. And Nora and the ship had been through some strong gales together. Excellent craftsmanship, Nora thought and, as she often did, pondered the ship’s origins: who’d made it and what waters it’d sailed before she stole it. She’d been certain that the ship wouldn’t last long on the high seas, and that she’d soon have to find a replacement, but she’d been pleasantly surprised. Her ship might not cover vast distances in as short a time as the bigger, heavier sailing ships she was used to, but Nora could turn Naureen around or change direction in a matter of minutes. She could swiftly put distance between her and the ships she plundered. Sometimes, it seemed as if the ship responded to her thoughts, as if there was a weird invisible bond between the two of them. ‘Naureen. Us sailor gals must stick together,’ she said aloud, as if the ship could hear her. Nora always talked to her ship. Clearly a sign she’d been on the sea for too long, she mused. Naureen. Nora didn’t know who’d named the ship or what the name meant, but she thought it strangely fitting. It graced the bow of the ship, painted in beautiful calligraphy. Nora saw it whenever she was aboard another vessel, rummaging for furs or bones of extinct animals she could sell, or food. The sight of her ship always made her heart flutter with happiness. There was a time when Nora would steal the ships she plundered, if she liked them and was in the mood for a change. But not after she stole Naureen. Well, not stole, she corrected herself. When she’d come across the tiny ship, she’d found the salt-rimed corpse of the hollow-cheeked owner sprawled face down on the deck. He’d probably starved to death. His body had not been the first one Nora’d found drifting at sea, nor the last.

The picture of human life in the market-place, though its general tint was the sad gray, brown, or black of the English emigrants, was yet enlivened by some diversity of hue. A party of Indians—in their savage finery of curiously embroidered deerskin robes, wampum-belts, red and yellow ochre, and feathers, and armed with the bow and arrow and stone-headed spear—stood apart with countenances of inflexible gravity, beyond what even the Puritan aspect could attain. Nor, wild as were these painted barbarians, were they the wildest feature of the scene. This distinction could more justly be claimed by some mariners—a part of the crew of the vessel from the Spanish Main—who had come ashore to see the humours of Election Day. They were rough-looking desperadoes, with sun-blackened faces, and an immensity of beard; their wide short trousers were confined about the waist by belts, often clasped with a rough plate of gold, and sustaining always a long knife, and in some instances, a sword. From beneath their broad-brimmed hats of palm-leaf, gleamed eyes which, even in good-nature and merriment, had a kind of animal ferocity. They transgressed without fear or scruple, the rules of behaviour that were binding on all others: smoking tobacco under the beadle's very nose, although each whiff would have cost a townsman a shilling; and quaffing at their pleasure, draughts of wine or aqua-vitae from pocket flasks, which they freely tendered to the gaping crowd around them. It remarkably characterised the incomplete morality of the age, rigid as we call it, that a licence was allowed the seafaring class, not merely for their freaks on shore, but for far more desperate deeds on their proper element. The sailor of that day would go near to be arraigned as a pirate in our own. There could be little doubt, for instance, that this very ship's crew, though no unfavourable specimens of the nautical brotherhood, had been guilty, as we should phrase it, of depredations on the Spanish commerce, such as would have perilled all their necks in a modern court of justice. But the sea in those old times heaved, swelled, and foamed very much at its own will, or subject only to the tempestuous wind, with hardly any attempts at regulation by human law. The buccaneer on the wave might relinquish his calling and become at once if he chose, a man of probity and piety on land; nor, even in the full career of his reckless life, was he regarded as a personage with whom it was disreputable to traffic or casually associate. Thus the Puritan elders in their black cloaks, starched bands, and steeple-crowned hats, smiled not unbenignantly at the clamour and rude deportment of these jolly seafaring men; and it excited neither surprise nor animadversion when so reputable a citizen as old Roger Chillingworth, the physician, was seen to enter the market-place in close and familiar talk with the commander of the questionable vessel.

America today is not the same nation as when you were born. Depending on your age, if you were born in America, your home nation was a significantly different land than it is today:   ·                    America didn’t allow aborting babies in the womb; ·                     Same sex marriage was not only illegal, no one ever talked about it, or even seriously considered the possibility; (“The speed and breadth of change (in the gay movement) has just been breathtaking.”, New York Times, June 21, 2009) ·                    Mass media was clean and non-offensive. Think of The I Love Lucy Show or The Walton Family, compared with what is aired today; ·                    The United States government did not take $500 million dollars every year from the taxpayers and give it to Planned Parenthood, the nation’s largest abortion provider. ·                    Videogames that glorify violence, cop killing and allow gamesters who have bought millions of copies, to have virtual sex with women before killing them, did not exist. ·                    Americans’ tax dollars did not fund Title X grants to Planned Parenthood who fund a website which features videos that show a “creepy guidance counselor who gives advice to teens on how to have (safe) sex and depict teens engaged in sex.” ·                    Americans didn’t owe $483,000 per household for unfunded retirement and health care obligations (Peter G. Peterson Foundation). ·                    The phrase “sound as a dollar” meant something. ·                    The Federal government’s debt was manageable.            American Christian missionaries who have been abroad for relatively short times say they find it hard to believe how far this nation has declined morally since they were last in the country. In just a two week period, not long ago, these events all occurred: the Iowa Supreme Court declared that same sex marriage was legal in the State; the President on a foreign tour declared that “we do not consider ourselves a Christian nation…” and a day later bowed before the King of the nation that supplied most of the 9/11 terrorists; Vermont became the first State to authorize same sex marriage by legislative action, as opposed to judicial dictate; the CEO of General Motors was fired by the federal government; an American ship was boarded and its crew captured by pirates for the first time in over 200 years; and a major Christian leader/author apologized on Larry King Live for supporting California’s Proposition 8 in defense of traditional marriage, reversing his earlier position. The pace of societal change is rapidly accelerating.

a hundred times by negro pirates, to have a buttock cut off, to run the gauntlet among the Bulgarians, to be whipped and hanged at an auto-da-fé, to be dissected, to row in the galleys—in short, to go through all the miseries we have undergone, or to stay here and have nothing to do?" "It is a great question," said Candide. This discourse gave rise to new reflections, and Martin especially concluded that man was born to live either in a state of distracting inquietude or of lethargic disgust.

I want to know which is worse, to be ravished a hundred times by negro pirates, to have a buttock cut off, to run the gauntlet among the Bulgarians, to be whipped and hanged at an auto-da-fé, to be dissected, to row in the galleys—in short, to go through all the miseries we have undergone, or to stay here and have nothing to do?" "It is a great question," said Candide. This discourse gave rise to new reflections, and Martin especially concluded that man was born to live either in a state of distracting inquietude or of lethargic disgust.

I’d pulled my unruly blond hair out of its usual ponytail for the occasion, loaded on some makeup to play up my teal eyes, and poured myself into a little black skirt, short enough to show off my legs while not offending Lafitte’s nineteenth-century sensibilities. It must have worked, because the pirate was giving me that head-to-toe appraisal guys do on instinct, like they’re assessing a juicy slab of beef and deciding whether they want it rare, medium, or well-done. “You really are lovely, Drusilla.” The timbre of Lafitte’s voice shivered down my spine, and I fought the urge to check out the biceps underneath that linen shirt. Holy crap. This was just wrong. I should not be absorbing his lust.

Eugenie looked great, her short spiky auburn hair edged with conservative blond tips and her face wearing a minimum of makeup. Must be Mr. Natural’s influence. I gave her a hug and turned to meet Quince, who was sitting across from her. Okay, I could see the attraction. He had thick, honey-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail not unlike my own, and a green gemstone stud in one ear. He reached out a grasped my hand, shaking it firmly. “It’s great to meet you. Eugenie talks about you all the time.” “She talks a lot about you too, Quince.” The man had no idea. He smiled and his blue-green eyes were almost enthralling. “Most people call me Rand, but Eugenie likes my real name better than my nickname.” After a half hour of small talk, I wasn’t sure I liked Quince Randolph. He was drop-dead gorgeous, no question about that. But there was something off about him I couldn’t quite pinpoint. He stared too hard when he talked to you, made my eye contact than a normal person. I tried to dig into his head a little but came up blank, which was weird, except I’d done a heavy grounding ritual this morning. “You know, I just noticed something.” Eugenie had a funny look on her face. “You guys have the same hair and eye colo. I’d never realized it till I saw you sitting there across from each other.” “Maybe we’re very distantly related.” Rand smiled. “I doubt it,” I said, frowning. “I don’t have much family. And if we were related, I’d be pissed off that you have better cheekbones.

No matter,” he assured her. “If it’s a concern, you may take me in your mouth.” Her smile did not falter. “Anything you put in my mouth will not stop short of my stomach.” “No doubt,” he boasted. “You miss my meaning.

Save perhaps for the inventing and scriptwriting of Armitage, for the comics publication Judge Dredd the Megazine, in which he delineated and developed the city of London in that futuristic and somewhat casually violent shared world. And possibly his novels in the Judge Dredd line from Virgin Books, being Deathmasques, The Medusa Seed and Wetworks. And possibly any amount of other comics-related material to boot. And his work for Virgin Books’ New Adventure and Missing Adventure lines, come to think of it, including Sky Pirates!, Death and Diplomacy, Burning Heart, and for their continuation (starring one-time companion Bernice Summerfield), Ship of Fools, Oblivion, The Mary-Sue Extrusion and Return to the Fractured Planet. Each and every one a fine and puissant piece of literature, so all in all it is a bit unfortunate that at least half of them are no longer in print. For the BBC he has written the novel Heart of TARDIS, the short story Moon Graffiti, subsequently released as one half of a BBC Radio Collection audio disc, and the very volume you currently hold, quite lovingly, in your hands. His work on Bernice, incidentally, continues more-or-less simultaneously with the release of the Big Finish novel The Infernal Nexus. Mr.

The president and Colson were in the middle of their conversation about Henry Kissinger when assistant Steve Bull entered the Oval Office to report that Coach Allen of the Redskins had finally arrived. Bull also informed the president of the news, just filtering in, that baseball star Roberto Clemente was on a plane that had crashed after taking off from the San Juan International Airport late the night before. “Was he killed?” Nixon asked. “They don’t have confirmation yet,” Bull replied.1 Clemente, the popular outfielder for the Pittsburgh Pirates, had boarded a rickety four-engine DC-7 plane that was overloaded with relief supplies for the victims of a massive earthquake in Nicaragua. The earthquake was believed to have resulted in the deaths of more than seven thousand people. Most of the deaths had occurred in the capital city of Managua, which had taken the brunt of the 6.2 magnitude shock at midday on Saturday, December 23.2 The city was leveled. The lumbering plane that Clemente was on nose-dived into heavy seas shortly after takeoff from San Juan. Clemente was thirty-eight years old and had been a perennial All-Star, four-time winner of the National League batting championship, defensive genius, and MVP in 1966. He led the Pirates to two world championships, one in 1960 and the other a decade later in 1971. “Mr. Clemente was the leader of Puerto Rican efforts to aid the Nicaraguan victims and was aboard the plane because he suspected that relief supplies were falling into the hands of profiteers,” the New York Times reported after his death was presumed.3 Clemente was scheduled to meet Anastasio Somoza, the military dictator of Nicaragua, at the airport, one of the very grafters he was attempting to circumvent with his personal mission. Clemente’s body was never recovered. It was a bad omen for the start of 1973.

Life is too short to be taken too seriously, and too long for you to be concerned about other people’s opinion” ~ Erik Martin Willén

Only a stock that many traders were selling short could be cornered; a stock that was in the throes of a real bear raid was ideal. In the latter situation, the would-be cornerer would attempt to buy up the investment houses’ floating supply of the stock and enough of the privately held shares to freeze out the bears; if the attempt succeeded, when he called for the short sellers to make good the stock they had borrowed, they could buy it from no one but him. And they would have to buy it at any price he chose to ask, their only alternatives—at least theoretically—being to go into bankruptcy or to jail for failure to meet their obligations. In the old days of titanic financial death struggles, when Adam Smith’s ghost still smiled on Wall Street, corners were fairly common and were often extremely sanguinary, with hundreds of innocent bystanders, as well as the embattled principals, getting their financial heads lopped off. The most famous cornerer in history was that celebrated old pirate, Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt, who engineered no less than three successful corners during the eighteen-sixties. Probably his classic job was in the stock of the Harlem Railway. By dint of secretly buying up all its available shares while simultaneously circulating a series of untruthful rumors of imminent bankruptcy to lure the short sellers in, he achieved an airtight trap. Finally, with the air of a man doing them a favor by saving them from jail, he offered the cornered shorts at $179 a share the stock he had bought up at a small fraction of that figure.

The problem with the chosen, is that like the good brother who stayed home in the story of the prodigal, we become resentful. Christians want (desire) to understand a simple, clean, black and white universe. And (like adolescents) insist on our understanding of justice. In short, we desire to be in control. In essence, Christians want to be God.

You’ll have to forgive me for being half-clothed, a chara,” he apologized, “but I was robbed on my journey here by a group of damned thieving boys.” Now what did he mean by that? Rose shut her eyes tightly and opened them again. No, he was still there. She filled her lungs with air, prepared to scream for all that was holy. “I won’t be harming you,” he said, lifting his hands in surrender, “but I would be most grateful for some clothes. Not yours, of course.” He sent her a roguish grin. She gaped at him, still uncertain of who he was. But she had to admit that he was indeed an attractive man, in a pirate sort of way. His brown hair was cut short, and his cheeks were bristled, as if he’d forgotten to shave. She tried not to stare at his bare chest, but he cocked his head and rested his hands at his waist. His chest muscles were well defined, his skin tawny from the sun. Ridges at his abdomen caught her eye, and it was clear enough that he was a working man. Perhaps a groom or a footman. Gentlemen did not possess muscles like these, especially if they lived a life of leisure. His green eyes were staring at her with amusement, and Rose found herself spellbound by his presence. “Do you not speak,” he asked, “or have I cast you into silence with my nakedness?” “Y-you’re not naked,” she blurted out. Her anxiety twisted up inside her, and she began babbling. “That is, you’re mostly covered,” she corrected, her face flaming. “The important bits, anyway.” Not naked? What sort of remark was that? She was sitting in the garden with a stranger wearing only trousers, and she hadn’t yet called out for help. What was the matter with her? He could be an intruder bent upon attacking her. But he laughed at her remark. It was a rich, deep tone that reminded her of wickedness. Rose

In Milwaukee and across the nation, most renters were responsible for keeping the lights and heat on, but that had become increasingly difficult to do. Since 2000, the cost of fuels and utilities had risen by more than 50 percent, thanks to increasing global demand and the expiration of price caps. In a typical year, almost 1 in 5 poor renting families nationwide missed payments and received a disconnection notice from their utility company.4 Families who couldn’t both make rent and keep current with the utility company sometimes paid a cousin or neighbor to reroute the meter. As much as $6 billion worth of power was pirated across America every year. Only cars and credit cards got stolen more.5 Stealing gas was much more difficult and rare. It was also unnecessary in the wintertime, when the city put a moratorium on disconnections. On that April day when the moratorium lifted, gas operators returned to poor neighborhoods with their stacks of disconnection notices and toolboxes. We Energies disconnected roughly 50,000 households each year for nonpayment. Many tenants who in the winter stayed current on their rent at the expense of their heating bill tried in the summer to climb back in the black with the utility company by shorting their landlord. Come the following winter, they had to be connected to benefit from the moratorium on disconnection. So every year in Milwaukee evictions spiked in the summer and early fall and dipped again in November, when the moratorium began.

The hackaneers, like the captains of pirate crews, had needed skilled men and women, and someone like Lang was in short supply. He had told his hackaneer captain which family members of the Chinese Politburo to target, to steal the pictures of their mistresses and investment records, to rob and blackmail and extort until the crew’s coffers had swelled with loot. Then

And the Church’s views on marriage were nothin’ short of ridiculous. It had to be celebrated in public, and the marriage was permanent, for mercy’s sake. We preferred to do things more clandestinelike, for marriage, after all, is a personal affair. And after a year, if the man was not up to his wife’s standards, she could boot him out the door. Say, “I divorce you!” and he was gone, just like that. Canon law did agree with native law in one respect. It said that a woman could own property. Nice, you say. Sure, so the woman could leave her property to the Church! Hypocrisy, pure and simple. And the feckin’ clergy—they made whores of all women who would lay with a man she lusted after. What sense is there in that? Most

There’s several colonies setup on islands that have not been touched yet by Europeans and I’m sure some of them will be happy to take them in, also anyone that wants too can join my crew but I won’t force them to join, it will have to be their decision, either way it will be a though life for them but it will be a free life... their life and that’s all that really matters in the end... making your own decisions

range viewer mounted near our ship’s console. Jafar steered for Lucas. After a few more minutes, Lucas signed off and turned to us. “We have a carrier strike group nearby, guys. Denny says they launched two 60H Seahawk helicopters with Seal Teams aboard. We get to clear the Mother Ship’s deck for safe boarding of the Seal teams. I’ll circle the wagons and you guys go rain some death down on the Mother Ship deck until ain’t nothin’ livin’ there. Then we hold shadow position until the Seahawks get here, maintaining a safe landing zone.” Casey and I just smile at each other. Oh yeah! And it’s my turn on the XM307. We jog back into position with Casey manning our Browning fifty while I slipped behind the XM307. We started taking small arms fire from the pirate ship as Lucas passed them to the port side before giving us a clear field of fire. Casey tilted and fired short bursts with tracers. Soon, anything stupid enough to get near the railing was cut in half. I fired 25mm bursts stem to stern. Airburst shells exploded all along the pirate deck, blowing out the view windows on their bridge, and leaving no inch of the vessel untouched above deck. Lucas sped up, passed the pirate bow and angled out on the starboard side. We repeated our dual assault although there really wasn’t anyone alive anyway. Twenty minutes later, we heard the Seahawk helicopters approaching. I fired one more burst as Lucas passed once again on the port side. With the helicopters in sight, Lucas headed for the open sea. Shortly after Casey and I closed up shop, Jafar came to summon us to the bridge. Denny was on speaker. “We’re all here, Captain Blood,” Lucas told him. “The Seals found twenty-six mangled pirates above deck and took no fire from the vessel. Below decks, fourteen more pirates were taken prisoner and eleven of the original ship’s crew rescued. No one spotted you guys so steam for our next baiting area. Once things get wrapped up with the rescued ship the carrier group will get orders to take up a support position within striking distance in case we get this lucky again. Great job! Man, we fucked them up today!” We did our ‘pirate talk’ for a few minutes, including Jafar. Denny cracked up. Who says pirate warfare and cold blooded murder can’t be fun. I had to ask though. “What was the cover story for no live pirates on deck to the carrier group?” “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” Denny adlibbed for our amusement. “The Seals didn’t mind. The official news coverage will be a pirate falling out. The mysterious crater where the pirate den used to be near Mogadishu will be rumored a munitions accident. Those

I was trying to apologize,” she said, relief and humor easing into her eyes and curving her lips. “You didn’t answer my question.” He thought he might snap off the end of the pier, he was gripping it so hard. In response, she ducked her hand into the pocket of her shorts and pulled out a folded and now somewhat crumpled piece of paper. “Here. Read for yourself.” He took the paper, realizing he was acting like a complete yobbo, and knew then that perhaps he wasn’t nearly so cool and levelheaded about this whole endeavor as he’d led her to believe. The truth of it being, he only really wanted her to figure out what would make her happy if what made her happy was him. Under her amused stare, he unfolded the paper and read: Dear Hook, I’m trying to be a good and supportive sister and help get Fiona and her ridiculously long veil down the aisle before I strangle her into submission with every hand-beaded, pearl-seeded foot of it. At the moment, sitting here knee-deep in crinolines and enough netting to outfit every member of Downton Abbey, I can’t safely predict a win in that ongoing effort. That said, I’d much rather be spending the time with you, sailing the high seas on our pirate ship. Especially that part where we stayed anchored in one spot for an afternoon and all the plundering was going on aboard our own boat. I’ve been thinking a lot about everything everyone has said and have come to the conclusion that the only thing I’m sure of is that I’m thinking too much. I’ve decided it was better when I was just feeling things and not thinking endlessly about them. I especially liked the things I was feeling on our picnic for two. So this is all to say I’d like to go, um, sailing again. Even if there’s no boat involved this time. I hope you won’t think less of me for the request, but please take seeing a whole lot more of me as a consolation prize if you do. Also? Save me. Or send bail money. Sincerely, Starfish, Queen of the High Seas, Plunderer of Pirates, especially those with a really clever right Hook. He was smiling and shaking his head as he folded the note closed and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Well?” she said at length. “Apology accepted” was all he said. “And?” He slid a look her way. “And…what?” She’d made him wait three days, and punitive or not, he wasn’t in any hurry to put her out of her misery. Plus, when he did, it was likely to be that much more fun. “You’re going to make me spell it out, aren’t you? Don’t you realize it was hard enough just putting it in writing?” “I accept your lovely invitation,” he said, then added, “I only have one caveat.” Her relief turned to wary suspicion as she eyed him. “Oh? And that would be?” “Will you wear the crinolines?

Something snapped in my mind. The noise all around me receded in a wave until all I heard was a distant, throbbing pulse like a muffled heartbeat. A legionnaire gutted one of the pirates not three strides in front of me, and the man twisted in a horrid dance as his guts spilled. He dropped his weapons—a pair of short, curved swords—and one of them landed at my feet. I picked it up. Through the red mist that drifted down before my eyes, I no longer saw a ship, or pirates. I could see only soldiers. Legionnaires in their uniforms, hacking and slashing and killing. Where the young, arrogant Decurion stood, I saw only a nameless, faceless commander of Caesar’s legions. I saw only the man who’d murdered my sister. In that moment, Caius Varro was Rome. And I . . . I was Vengeance.

I am not thinking in the manner of Peter Pan,” said the other. “With all reverence for the author of that masterpiece I should say he had a wonderful and tender insight into the child mind and knew nothing whatever about boys. To make only one criticism on that particular work, can you imagine a lot of British boys, or boys of any country that one knows of, who would stay contentedly playing children’s games in an underground cave when there were wolves and pirates and Red Indians to be had for the asking on the other side of the trap door?

Where is everyone?” Cat asked, looking around the deserted ship. “Shore leave,” he said laconically. “What about us?” “If it’s urgent, we’ll just have to swim.” Cat yawned and stretched languidly, feeling boneless from Travis’s loving and a long, wonderful nap. “Swim? Ha. I’d go down like a brick. Looks like you’re stuck with me.” Travis tilted her face up and kissed her swiftly. “Remember that, witch. You’re mine.” Her eyes widened into misty silver pools. She looked up at him through dense lashes that glinted red and gold. He smiled. “You really are a pirate, aren’t you?” Cat muttered. “Where you’re concerned, yes.” The sensual rasp in Travis’s voice sent echoes of ecstasy shimmering through her. His smile was rakish and utterly male, reminding her of what it was like to have him deep inside her. It was all Cat could do not to simply stand and stare at her lover. In the slanting afternoon light his eyes had a jewel-like purity of color. His skin was taught, deeply bronzed, and his beard was spun from dark gold. Beneath his faded black T-shirt and casual shorts, his body radiated ease and power. “Don’t move,” Cat ordered, heading back to the cabin. “Where are you going?” “Don’t move!” She raced below deck, grabbed the two camera cases she used most often, and ran back on deck. While Travis watched her with a lazy, sexy gleam in his eyes, she pulled out a camera and a small telephoto lens. When she retreated a few feet back along the deck, he moved as though to follow. “No,” she said. “Stay right where you are. You’re perfect.” “Cat,” he said, amusement curling in his voice, “what are you doing?” “Taking pictures of an off-duty buccaneer.” The motor drive surged quickly, pulling frame after frame of film through the camera. “You’re supposed to be taking pictures of the Wind Warrior,” Travis pointed out. “I am. You’re part of the ship. The most important part. Creator, owner, soul.” She caught the sudden intensity of his expression, an elemental recognition of her words. The motor drive whirred in response to her command. After a few more frames she lowered the camera and walked back to him. “Get used to looking into a camera lens.” Cat warned Travis. “I’ve been itching to photograph you since the first time I looked into those gorgeous, sea-colored eyes of yours.” Laughing softly, he snaked one arm around her and pulled her snugly against his side.

She looked strangely out of place here on a naval ship full of rough tars, her fine clothes and proud bearing reminding him that he had plucked her from a world he had never known, would never know, a world that was as different from anything he had ever inhabited—even when he was the Irish Pirate and celebrated, feted and entertained by some of the most influential leaders of patriot Boston—as ice was from flame. She was English quality. High-born and haughty, her father and now her brother, only one step down from a prince. Whereas he was just a poor Irishman trying to make a fresh start in a new and emerging country. She was, in short, unreachable. Untouchable. Unobtainable. No matter how heavily she invaded his thoughts, no matter how much he enjoyed needling her, no matter how hard his damned cock pushed against his breeches at the very sight of her.

So it was that the nineteen-year-old farm boy hanging around the docks was captured and put aboard a ship bound for Barbados. Sold to the owner of a tobacco plantation, he did not have to labor long. Cromwell’s fleet arrived shortly thereafter, and with the promise of freedom he joined Venables’s army and wound up in Jamaica. Nothing more is known of him until 1662, when he signed on with Mings.

With matters in this unpromising state, new burdens were thrust upon South Carolina. The pirates, who in earlier days had been welcomed in Charleston, now ruined the commerce of the city, and sapped the prosperity of the province. They were under the lead of Teach, "Black Beard," whose head-quarters were in North Carolina.

The next stage is a hornfels, a thoroughly recrystallized rock, so named after its supposed resemblance to animal horn. Hornfels has one rather unexpected quality—when suitably shaped, it can produce beautiful musical notes when struck. Indeed, it took central place in an extraordinary narrative of the English Lake District. An eccentric 18th-century inventor, Peter Crosthwaite—a fighter against Malay pirates in his youth and, later in life, the founder of a museum in the town of Keswick—built a kind of xylophone using hornfels from the local Skiddaw mountain. Half a century later, the Keswick stone-maker and musician Joseph Richardson determined to top Crosthwaite’s achievement, and almost ruined his family financially by building an even bigger instrument, which would produce a larger range of musical notes. Once built, though, it was indeed a sensation. Richardson toured England for three years with his sons, playing Handel, Mozart, and dance tunes on his rock creation—though at times restraining the power of the instrument so it would not shatter concert hall windows. Queen Victoria liked the performances so much that she requested extra concerts (although reports from the time do suggest that she was not amused at its imitation of Alpine bells). The harmonious hornfels ‘lithophones’ may still be seen in the Keswick museum—and are to this day occasionally taken on musical tour.

Her most difficult choice had been which book to bring. She couldn't decide between something she'd never read before and one of her favorites. So, of course, she'd packed two: a pirate adventure story she'd borrowed from the bookseller just the day before and the beloved book of short stories her mother used to read to her when she was a child. A warm smile stretched across Belle's lips at the thought of her mother and the love of reading she'd instilled in her only daughter. She'd also nurtured Belle's sense of adventure. "I'm finally going on one of my own, Mama," Belle whispered. "A true adventure.

So when Morgan returned from Maracaibo on May 16, 1669, some things were the same as always: A significant percentage of the town’s populace was going wild at the dockside, their shouts interrupted by the throaty salutes of cannon. The tavern owners were pulling the barrels of Madeira from their basements and buying every drop of rum they could get their hands on; the whores’ prices were rising by the minute, as 450 nouveau riche buccaneers would soon need servicing; the merchants readied their scales for the gobs of melted silver the pirates would soon be bringing in and slamming down on their counters with their filthy hands. In short, Port Royal was humming. But there was one face that was missing in the revelry: Modyford’s.

Perhaps he found it strange being accompanied by a Chinese-Nigerian arms trafficking pirate, but the Irish priest had just followed me silently on board the covert government transport.

The words looped in my head. Download it for free. Cheerful, triumphant. Download it for free! What a freaking bargain. “I’m sorry,” I said. “She found what?” "That website. Meems, what was the name again? Bongo or something?” Mimi looked up from her iPad. “What are you talking about?” “That website where you found Sarah’s book.” "Oh,” she said. “Bingo. Haven’t you heard of it? It’s like an online library. You can download almost anything for free. It’s amazing.” My hands were shaking. I set down Jen’s phone, and then I set down the wineglass next to it. Without a coaster. "You mean a pirate site,” I said. “Oh God, no! I would never. It’s an online library.” "That’s what they call it. But they’re just stealing. They’re fencing stolen goods. Easy to do with electronic copies.” "No. That’s not true.” Mimi’s voice rose a little. Sharpened a little. “Libraries lend out e-books.” “Real libraries do. They buy them from the publisher. Sites like Bingo just upload unauthorized copies to sell advertising or put cookies on your phone or whatever else. They’re pirates.” There was a small, shrill silence. I lifted my wineglass and took a long drink, even though my fingers were trembling so badly, I knew everyone could see the vibration. "Well,” said Mimi. “It’s not like it matters. I mean, the book’s been out for years and everything, it’s like public domain.” I put down the wineglass and picked up my tote bag. “So I don’t have time to lecture you about copyright law or anything. Basically, if publishers don’t get paid, authors don’t get paid. That’s kind of how it works.” "Oh, come on,” said Mimi. “You got paid for this book.” "Not as much as you think. Definitely not as much as your husband gets paid to short derivatives or whatever he does that buys all this stuff.” I waved my hand at the walls. “And you know, fine, maybe it’s not the big sellers who suffer. It’s the midlist authors, the great names you never hear of, where every sale counts … What am I saying? You don’t care. None of you actually cares. Sitting here in your palaces in the sky. You never had to earn a penny of your own. Why the hell should you care about royalties?” I climbed out of my silver chair and hoisted my tote bag over my shoulder. “It’s about a dollar a book, by the way. Paid out every six months. So I walked all the way over here, gave up an evening of my life, and even if every single one of you had actually bought a legitimate copy, I would have earned about a dozen bucks for my trouble. Twelve dollars and a glass of cheap wine. I’ll see myself out.

A few weeks prior, I noticed a small cargo vessel at anchor on the northern end of the harbor. Every so often a stray yacht, sail boat or tramp steamer would mysteriously show up and stay a while before leaving again. Coming into Monrovia was always welcome. No one would ever pull into any of the open ports along the Liberian coast if they could help it. There was always the chance of trouble with pirates or the authorities and so it was strange for this small ship to be so far from its usual trading routes closer to Europe. The ship was beat up from years in the North Sea, with her ribs outlined through her rusted skin. Everyone had heard the rumor, that Franz Knupple came to Liberia on her but now she was quietly swinging from her hook, at the small designated anchorage near the fishing pier. Without anyone paying all that much attention to her she had become part of the landscape. Now the story continued… The vessel’s captain was inspecting the bilges for leaks, with a drop cord in his hand and as he stood ankle deep in water, a short or break in the wire, electrocuted him! Since the last time Knupple was seen in Harbel no one had seen him, but now after the death of the Zenit’s Captain, a new rumor was spawned. It didn’t sound reasonable to anyone that a seasoned seaman would be standing in water with a live electrical wire in his hand. One of the first rules of the sea was to stay away from electricity when you are wet or standing in water. Although anything is possible, no one could believe that he had electrocuted himself.

She looked over her shoulder at the ship’s bow. The smallest and highest section of the deck at the front of the vessel, the forecastle, had but one lone figure standing atop it. The flying jib front sail billowed above and ahead of him, stretching out into the endless blue of the sea and sky. Gavin stood with his hands braced on the railing, his tall figure displaying his broad shoulders and narrow waist while showing off his powerful thighs. The glint of a short sword shimmered at his hip. Excitement flared within her again.

She looked over her shoulder at the ship’s bow. The smallest and highest section of the deck at the front of the vessel, the forecastle, had but one lone figure standing atop it. The flying jib front sail billowed above and ahead of him, stretching out into the endless blue of the sea and sky. Gavin stood with his hands braced on the railing, his tall figure displaying his broad shoulders and narrow waist while showing off his powerful thighs. The glint of a short sword shimmered at his hip. Excitement flared within her again. “My pirate,” she whispered with a dreamy smile. My lover, she silently added with a blush.