On the Eighth day of Christmas the Floozies Gave to Me…Eight Minutes Peace

On the Eighth day of Christmas the Floozies Gave to Me…Eight Minutes Peace

            Anne glance up (for once) at the diminutive Draco Disciple and tax collector, Vinz Clortho. “Heaven forbid you’d ever catch me breaking the law?”

            “And why would someone like you break the law?” Vinz questioned, peering over his round spectacles.

            “I don’t see how this is relevant to the occasion.” Anne avoided the question and looked to the floozies for assistance.

“Well,” Roxy Coxcomb drew a long puff from her pipe. “I think it’s a criminal offense to not be having any fun on Christmas.”

“Does Andrew want to have some fun?” Jezebel added, wiggling her…eyebrows.

Vinz frowned, but as the floozies proceeded to crack jokes about Anne’s supposed lack of experience and teaching the “lad” a thing or two, he slunk off to rejoin his fellow Dracos.

“That was nearly a disaster.” Anne sighed.

“It’s not quite over yet luv.” Chastity tilted her head towards a fairly irate Captain Frobisher.

“Can you distract him?” Anne pleaded. “I’m not going to make it through the night if the captain finds out.”

“Come with me,” Roxy brushed off her skirts and wrapped an arm around Anne’s waist. “I’m sure they’ll stop talkin’ now.”

Upstairs the din of the party was barely muffled. Anne could make out the sound of the Captains different laughs and the tunes that the Bristol Buskin Frolic was playing. She and Roxy sat in silence, waiting for a long enough time to pass before they went down among the party again. It'd been at least eight minutes.

“Any word of Fanny?” Anne asked from by the window, looking at the snow falling gently on the streets of Bristol.

“Nothing new,” Roxy sat of the edge of the bed. “Sorry dear.”

“S’alright.” Anne shrugged. “So how long do we need to stay up here before people will believe my lie again?” 

Fin.

The Shirt

Here is the last post to Anne's Clothes. To give everyone a fair warning, this post is a little bit longer than the others. While most of the others only took up half a page or less in my Microsoft Word document, this one was a little over one page. This post is also a bit more serious than the others. Instead of Anne's usual wit and sass (at least I hope I wrote her that way), this has a more bittersweet tone.

The Shirt

Anne scanned the horizon from the top of the crow’s nest. The wind whipped her shirt around her slight frame. The crow’s nest was the only place Anne felt any sense of real privacy. Growing up in London, privacy wasn’t as common as one might like and on a bark like the Gabriel, privacy didn’t even exist.

The crew of the Gabriel had grown used to Anne, or Andrew. They all treated her like a little brother, and Anne insisted on not being given any slack. A few times members of the crew had offered to help her out, but she was determined to do her share and prove her place. She needed somewhere to belong. 

Normally sitting up in the crow’s nest gave Anne a sense of freedom. Today the open space seemed to press in around her. She tugged at the ties on her shirt. The memory of Fanny’s words rose in her mind, when her mother told her that money was tighter than usual. Anne had known what Fanny’s next words would be, though she didn't want to hear them. 

“I didn’t want this for you.” Fanny said with tears in her eyes. “I had to go into this business to help my family. I never wanted this for you, I can’t see any other way to keep us going. I’m not as pretty as I was.” Anne had joked with her mother about men for years, but Anne had never expected to join her mother’s trade.

A quiet childhood longing started to form into a plan. “I could go find my father.” Anne said quietly, glancing at her mother. “I could dress as a boy and find him. I know which men to look for.”

Fanny knitted her brows. “Anne, anyone would be able to tell you’re a girl, even if you did wear boys clothes.”

“I’ve grown up watching men come and go.” Anne shrugged. “How hard can it be to act like one?” Anne had vowed years ago to not become like her mother, for all that she was a good woman, but Anne couldn’t bear to tell that to Fanny.

Keeping up with the men had been harder that Anne had originally thought. She didn’t realize until she was already signed on that she had no plans other than going to sea and voyaging with a captain who might be her father. She didn’t know what would happen if she got caught, who might bail her out of jail for cross dressing, where she would go after she was done at sea. It was unlikely that the Captains would provide anything for an illegitimate daughter. 

The signal for the change in the watch came. It was time to clamber down from her safe spot. Frobisher was just a speck on deck, but Anne could tell he was looking for something. She wondered what he had misplaced this time. Men…

 That night as she lay in bed Anne allowed rare tears to slip out. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and fingered the material of her shirt. It was the only thing she had brought from home of her old clothing. Some children clung to a poppet while they fell asleep. Anne fell asleep holding tight to a corner of her shirt and humming a song she’d heard some of the men singing earlier that day.

"Cold is the Arctic Sea,

Far are your arms from me.

Long will this winter be

Frozen in Frobisher Bay,

Frozen in Frobisher Bay."

 Fin.

There you have it. The story behind all of Anne's clothing. I actually debated whether to use Sailor's Prayer or Frobisher Bay as the ending lyrics, but the later seemed appropriate considering who Anne works for. 

Thank you to all of the character who I borrowed for my stories (and probably shall borrow again). To Everonword, thank you for doing quick edits on my stories so that they flow. Thank you, whoever you are, for reading my rubbish. I hope you've enjoyed these snippets.

Next week, if I am not too busy, I hope to write the event in which the crew finds out that Anne is a girl. Until then, I shall get packing for another wonderful weekend with the best people on earth!

The Boots

The Boots

             Captain Hawkyns pulled a pair of boots out of a trunk and held them out to Anne. “Try these on…lad.” He shook the boots a little when Anne hesitated and she slowly took the shoes from the captain. “Now tell me,” Captain Hawkyns eyed Anne with a curious gaze, “Where do you come from Anne Drew?”

“London.” Anne answered, pulling the leather over her feet. “Nearby Fleet Street.” She looked up to gage the Captain’s reaction. While Hawkyns didn’t give too much pause, his eyes flickered and Anne took a chance, “My mother’s name is Frances Drew, most people know her as Fanny.”

“Dear God.” Anne heard Captain Hawkyns mutter under his breath before he managed a quick recovery, “How old are you lass?”

“Sixteen. Seventeen in September.” Anne could see Hawkyns counting in his mind, she held her breath and waited. Hawkyns looked at Anne with a mix of awe, confusion, and suspicion. Anne had to admit there was not much of a resemblance between the two of them, maybe the eyes or the structure of their noses. “How’d you know I was a girl?”

“You’d have to be blind not to see it, lass.” Hawkyns shook his head, “However, you’d do well to sign onto Frobisher’s crew, I could even help you to keep him blind, not that he isn't already.”

“Why would you do that?” Anne blurted.

Hawkyns gave Anne a smile. “I take care of my men, Anne Drew. Especially the ones who are like unto family to me. How do those boots fit?”

Anne grinned ruefully, she might be able to get something out of being a captain’s daughter after all. At least she’d get a lot more help out of Hawkyns. Maybe letting “Bob” tell Hawkyns about her secret wasn’t such a bad thing after all.  

Tomorrow brings the stories of Anne's knife and jewelry.  Hope anyone who reads these little stories is enjoying them!

The Slops

So I write ONE POST about how to break your captain out of jail, and Anne starts knocking about in my head and won't shut up until I write something about her. The conversation went something like this.
Anne: "Write about me!"
Me: "Why? I have 20 (not kidding) other characters that need to be written about this week."
Anne: "But I want you to write about ME, not just about how I *almost* got Captain Frobisher out of jail!"
Me: "Wait. Your. Turn."
Anne: "Not a chance, and I won't shut up until you write about me."
Other Characters: "We're going on strike anyway."
Me: "What? How can you go on strike- I don't even pay you!"
Other Characters: "Oh yeah....well, we're going to be unreasonable and uncooperative this week. We thought we'd give you a heads up."
Me: "Gee thanks."
Anne: "Now will you write about me?"
Me: "Some people's children! Yeesh, whatever, I'll write about you if it will make you pipe down."
Anne: "Yay! Plus you owe me for turning my shirt pink."
Me: "We made it white again!"
Anne: "Moot. Point."
Me: "I'm writing about you, PIPE DOWN OR I'LL TELL THE CAPTAIN." 

So Anne got to tell the stories behind most of what she wears. I'll be posting a story or two every day and we'll see what happens. If it's rubbish you can blame Anne. She rushed me.

The Slops

Anne looked into her mother’s room as the first rays of sunlight came in through the window. Two figures lay in the bed, sleeping soundly. The landlord would be up soon, wanting the rent for the month. That would wake them up if nothing else did.

Anne was used to creeping around silently. It was the only way she didn’t get tangled up in her mother’s affairs. Without making the door or floorboards squeak, she danced across the floor and searched the john’s pockets. Holding up the john’s clothing, Anne wondered just how slight he was. She could almost fit into his slops.

No money, but his clothing reeked of the smell of the sea. Anne shook her head. Her mother was always soft for sailors.

 “He can’t pay.” Anne thought to herself. “Looks like he’ll be leaving without his trousers.” She flung the slops over her shoulder and took the rent money from the false bottom of a chair. They’d be able to stay for another month at least, and the idea of the john sneaking out without his trousers made her snicker.