My feet scrape against the ground as I take a step forward. This is not good
I am a boy of 11. Crows fly above cause of the smell of rotting flesh.
My hands are bound. Feet are cuffed. The icy metals dig into my wrist.
I am a pirate.
Not sure I made the right choice.
My torn pants sway in the wind. I am going forward. A step at a time.
The night breeze chills me to the bone.
I hear people being hanged. I don’t look. I don’t want to see my fate.
I am very close. I made the right choice, to be a pirate. I step up onto a stool, bag over my head, noose on my neck, not ready to die.
I’m a pirate and dead or alive, I’ll sail the seas.
Then the world slips to gray and I’m back on my ship, as a Ghost in the night.