Translated From The English...

A Short Story by Felicity Danielle

Flaming Sparrow Captain’s Log, 19 January 1707

This being the commencement of the travel journals of William Thomas Edward Randolph Dunhill Flate. Very good weather today. Definitely lifted my spirits. Crew not mutinous yet, though I have been warned to watch for these sorts of tendencies. Temperature not more than boiling, not less than freezing. Am unable to tell more precisely as, having slipped on deck first time I came aboard and broke my ankle, doctor gave me something for the pain and my whole body is numb. Have had strange and rather alarming hallucinations of giant squirrel, but not to worry, I am keeping my saber by my bed and if he makes one false move I will have squirrel sandwhiches for tea. Cannot think of anything further at the moment.

Flaming Sparrow Captain’s Log 20 January 1707

Weather quite enthusiastic. Doctor quite mad. He has given me some more medicine and then made noises like a Gyraffe and jumped into the sea. Wanted to complain about the squirrel but did not get the chance. Squirrel would have been upset anyway, so just as well. Would like to note that the steersman, Steersman, has been gazing at me through my porthole. He has lovely eyes but I’m really not interested.

Flaming Sparrow Captain’s Log 43 January 1707

I’m not at all sure about the date— the giant octupus that resides on my ceiling assures me that there are only forty-one days in January. Thought about asking squirrel to confirm this radical opinion, but squirrel was unavailable for comment. It just perches on my hatrack and watches me with beady eyes. Have had an unaccustomed clear thought— what kind of sailing expideition sets out from the English coast in January? Perhaps it is not January at all. Crew remains staunchly anti-mutinous, providing me with tokens of their goodwill and affection such as another bottle of the doctor’s medicine, as well as, along with it, yet another occupant for my room— a giant, multicoloured helping of cheese and bread. My room is getting quite crowded. Can think of nothing else to report.

Flaming Sparrow Captain’s Log 81 January 1707

Considered changing the month today, but was unable to come up with another one. Octupus said the only logical choice is Blueberry, but I am sure this can’t be right. However, to avoid hurting his feelings I have told him I will take his suggestion into consideration. Perhaps another kind of berry is in order— Raspberry, Strawberry, or November. Octopus is not overly intelligent. And I am getting quite worried about the squirrel. It watches me all the time, and feeds me the doctor’s medicine. Once it said, in slow stentorian tones, “HMM. CABIN FEVER,” as though attempting to diagnose my condition. In all haste, I explained to it that as they didn’t allow squirrels, not giant ones anyway, into schools, I doubted it was fully equipped to judge. It is right, though, I have not been on deck since I broke my ankle. Surely that is my ankle’s fault, however, and not mine. I mentioned this to the squirrel, but it merely settled back down to its glowering, pristine silence. The portion of bread and cheese, however, is, as I have discovered, quite a good conversationalist.

Flaming Sparrow, Captain’s Log, 280 January 1707

Have given up on the month, but had quite a session with the hunk of bread and cheese today. It turns out that, while they may not allow giant squirrels into college, they do admit bread and cheese, and so the portion I am aquainted with is a qualified psychiatrist. It regaled me with its medical history— how the bread worked its way through each year while the cheese stayed home with the baby. Apparently the bread took up a part-time job as a bartender in a pub local to the college it attended. It told me in detail about how to concoct a beverage known by the enigmatic title Sheffield Slammer, also called the Sheffield Sledgehammer, Sheffield Sunrise, and a whole host of other alliterative distinctions. We attempted to make one out of the doctor’s medicine, adding little bits of the sheets and my shoelaces, but the result was unsatisfactory, though the bread assured me the shoelaces were exactly right. Meanwhile the cheese was crying to itself over how it had just let the baby sit in front of the television instead of spending quality time with it as it ought to have done (I was tempted to ask it what ‘television’ is but sensed it was not an auspicious time) and so the bread began giving the cheese’s psyche what it called a ‘massage’ a French word which, loosely translated, means to poke someone in the eye repeatedly with a sharp stick. If there is a more fascinating occurrence in this universe than a piece of bread and cheese talking to itself, I don’t wish to hear it. A beautiful sight— disgusting to watch. Afterwards, it was my turn. I lay down on my hammock and told the bread all about how, as a child, I had seen my mother pull the feathers from a chicken’s prostrate body, slowly, one by one. With only a little probing into my brain, it was discovered that the chicken was already dead. Furthermore, what my mothe had been doing was called ‘plucking’ and was not at all uncommon, especially as we had eaten the chicken later that evening.

Flaming Sparrow Captain’s Log, 302 January 1707

Had a long and deadly dull conversation with the octupus today. It centered on what a fine ship the Flaming Sparrow is— which is perfectly true. Never was a better ship built than my Sparrow. The Devil himself could not contrive to sink her. She slips tall and proud through the roughest seas, the most dangerous waters. I am very pleased with her. Even the crew is exemplary, though admittedly I have not seen hide nor hair of them since we first set sail. Other than, of course, the steersman, Steersman. I still see his hide (and hair) every once in a while when he sneaks a look in my porthole. But of the others I see naught. Oh well, at least they’re not mutinous, right?

Flaming Sparrow Captain’s Log 312 January 1707

Today the ship sank, carrying half the crew with her. Can think of nothing else to report.

Flaming Sparrow Captain’s Log 313 January 1707

This is surely the longest January on record. I have pointed this out to several crew members who survived the shipwreck, but they seem inclined to glare and mutter. I am not sorry that the squirrel went down with the ship, but I do regret the loss of the amiable, if boring, octopus, and expecially the bread and cheese, which was, psychically speaking, so totally on my wavelength, like.

Flaming Desert Island, Captain’s Log 350 January 1707

I am beginning to enjoy life here on this deserted island. I begin each day with a brisk run up the trunks of several nearby trees, where I exercise my vocal chords by hooting and howling like a monkey. Then, back to the ground the quick and easy way (letting go the branches) and a prolonged session of squatting on the ground throwing handfuls of sand at everyone that passes by, even the oddly shaped ones that the sand never seems to hit. I can’t really explain why I do this— so perhaps I won’t even try— I will only say that it seems to fit the surroundings that I now take the liberty of calling my home. At any rate, I really do enjoy the new routine— whoever would have thought that the mere sinking of a ship would lead to so much fulfillment? That, with the loss of nearly seventeen lives (one man only lost his better half) a sort of climax could be reached, leaving me healthier, more agreeable, happier, a man worthy of living? A few of the sailors do not agree with me on this. They say I am becoming a bloody nuisance and if I throw sand on them again they’ll kill me and have done.

Flaming Desert Island, Inhabitant’s Log, 400 January 1707

Ate quite a superb dinner last night— raw fish and barbecued rat wrapped in leaves. I discovered a slug in one of my leaves— or perhaps it was in the rat— but as the discovery was not made until after it was in my mouth, I ate it anyway. There is just no sense in wasting nutrition. At any rate, felt quite good afterwards. Feel quite good now, actually. Pleasant skies— weather wonderful, stomach situation superb. Threw sand on a large sailor this morning and was imprisoned in the solitary confinement hut they thoughtfully built especially for me. My execution is scheduled for tomorrow.

Flaming Desert Island, Inhabitant’s Log, 401 January 1707

Today I was executed. Weather marvellous. Can think of nothing else to report.
(...this story was thought up, considered, written, proofread, and otherwise created solely by Felicity Danielle, and as such belongs to her alone.)