This short story was prompted by the following image:

Barbary Macaque, Gibraltar. CC 2.0 photo by David Stanley.

Barbary Macaque, Gibraltar. CC 2.0 photo by David Stanley.

The Prospective Ardor of the Buccaneer Baboon and the Privateer Pup



Unfortunately for me, I’m a pirate. Pirates don’t spit fire or worship skeletons. We climb masts, hoist spinnakers, and rig all and everything on our romantic tall ships.


And some pirates are lovers.


I met Woolf on Lady Virginia, Captain’s beloved Bermuda sloop. For days we met thrice at our masters’ table, spending countless hours frolicking and chattering. Then there was that moonlit night before docking when we fell asleep together on the quarterdeck. . .


If it was anyone, it would’ve been him. He’d been at sea dozens of times, guarding his admiral. He knew my passion for the swaying stern, beating sun, and for the glorious rush storms spawn, when the bowsprit parlays for authority with the swells.


But then he made that comment–about shoving crackers down my gullet–as if I was a simple hairless parrot! Like he wasn’t the admirals lap-dog!


Woolf howls up at me as I reflect, one misunderstood. I might have to sails these seas alone.



Written for Flash! Friday fiction


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