Matthew Evans

And yet another experimental scene, but instead of describing a place, it describes a person.  Instead of creating a whole new character I just reused Sam from one of my previous posts The Visitor.

     Matthew Evans was not an ordinary boy.  In fact he was what some people would call peculiar.  But compared to the circumstances Sam had recently found himself in, nothing seemed strange anymore.  In fact to Sam, he seemed like a rather ordinary joe . . . at first.

     From across the busy intersection Sam could see that he was wearing a pair of old no-name shoes, a pair of blue jeans and a brown long sleeve shirt.  The crosswalk sign gave the signal and Sam began to walk. As he came closer he could see that on his right arm Matthew was wearing a watch, no, a stopwatch, and very similar to the one he was wearing.  In his left hand he carried a cell phone which he talked into.  It was hard to tell what he was saying over the noise of the traffic but noting the concerned look on his face it was obviously something important.  Matthew also had dark brown eyes, which never stayed in one place, and above them was a mop of slightly tousled brown hair.

     When Sam was halfway across the intersection Matthew spotted him.  Quickly he ended the conversation with whoever he was talking to and slipped the phone into his pocket.  By then Sam was just stepping onto the sidewalk.

     “Hello there . . .” he began.

     “No time for that,” Matthew interrupted.

     “Huh?”

     “Or that.  I’ll introduce myself later.  But first, I gotta get you out o’ here.

A Ship!

Another experimental paragraph, this time in first person.

     For the second time I knocked on the door to the captain’s cabin.

     “Captain Morris?”

     Silence.

     I grasped the door handle and, finding it unlocked, opened the door and scanned the room.

     No sign of him anywhere, then I spotted his officer’s coat hanging from the bedpost.  Strange, I thought.  He never leaves his cabin without his jacket.

     I walked over to the captain’s desk and admired his array of maps, charts, and various navigational instruments all organized and in their proper place.  Off to the side and seemingly out of place, like a flower amongst rocks, there was a little picture frame enclosing a portrait of his beloved wife Susan.  I picked up one of his many feather quill pens and stroked the soft barbs.

     Completely forgetting my purpose of being down in the captain’s cabin I put down the feather and strolled over to the mirror above his chest-o’-drawers.  I straightened my collar and donned his tricorn hat.  Looking in the mirror, I could imagine the days when I would eventually become a captain, with my own desk and room and . . . a whole ship with trusty sailors ready to do anything at my command.  I took a whiff of the fresh sea air coming in through the open window.  Oh yes, those would be the days.

     I walked back over to his desk, picked up his spyglass, and looked out the window.  Then I saw it: the ship of Bart Roberts.  I stared through the spyglass for a few moments before flinging the hat and spyglass on the desk then dashing through the doorway and up the stairs to the deck shouting “Pirates!  Man the guns!  Prepare for battle!”