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by adrm
Rated: E · Fiction · History · #2189863
A short scene that sets the premise for the first two parts of the story
St. Croix,
The Danish West-Indies,
April 1801.

As I write this, I am enjoying the hospitality of the British Navy.
I’m fifteen years old and I’m sentenced to hang in five days.
The girl I love is dining with the enemy commander who has invaded our island.
I have killed at least three men and a child; traded in slaves; I have partaken of strong drink; and enjoyed the intimate company of whores.
My name is Christian Nore, and this is my diary.


-----------------------------


All the above is plain truth—apart from the bit about this being my diary. The real book is rotting in some West-Indies bog. To occupy my mind, I want to spend my remaining hours reconstructing the events that led me here.
My gaolers are kind enough to keep me amply supplied with rum and my mood is significantly better than expected.


I've revised this, as I feel I need a little more drama to grab a potential reader's attention. This makes for a less subtle opening, but as the following pages build background, a promise of action might serve to keep readers going.

The flash of canons, almost obscured by the harsh smoke from the previous salvos.
The severed head raised above a savage face, howling in triumph.
The effortless swipe of my knife across a man’s throat, spraying the girl in front of him in arterial blood.

The dreams came every night when I slept alone.

The sky was dark outside, but from experience I knew it was no use trying to go back to sleep. A single step took me to my small table, and I pulled the rickety chair closer. The manuscript lay open on the first page:

St. Croix,
The Danish West-Indies,
April 1801.

As I write this, I am enjoying the hospitality of the British Navy.
I’m fifteen years old and I’m sentenced to hang in five days.
The girl I love is dining with the enemy commander who has invaded our island.
I have killed at least three men and a child; traded in slaves; I have partaken of strong drink; and enjoyed the intimate company of whores.

My name is Christian Nore, and this is my diary.

-----------------------------


All the above is plain truth—apart from the bit about this being my diary. The real book is rotting in some West-Indies bog. To occupy my mind, I want to spend my remaining hours reconstructing the events that led me here.

It would have to do—there wasn’t much time left to finish the damn thing.
I grunted and grabbed a fresh page.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2189863