Jerudiah's Inquisition

Jerudiah's Inquisition

A Story by EverythingCoconut
"

Chapter from an adventure novel. Set on a merchant vessel. A young girl on board searches for an answer to a niggling question. More fantasy based than historical.

"

Jerudiah's Inquisition


It was no easy task easy being the only female on board an all-male vessel. Belching, guffawing, and all-round rowdy behaviour were the hallmarks of these masculine creatures; the kind of lewd behaviour that did not sit well with Jerudiah. An upper-class young girl, she had spent the majority of her early years enjoying the finer things in life; dance, the arts, and all the perks that came with a childhood nestled in the gold-plated bosom of royalty. She had been trained in good manners, knowing how and when she must speak as a lady, and had been blessed with a sporty and intelligent demeanour.

Her current situation was made easier by the fact that the rest of the crew hadn't the faintest idea that she was of the opposite gender, an advantage that Jerudiah had prided herself on since the first day she had arrived on board her new home. She had gone to great lengths to keep up this facade; wearing boys' clothes, walking with a boyish gait and even speaking and eating in the most brusque manner she could muster. She had been warned of the superstitious nature of seamen and could not risk being denied a place on the ship, as she had left her comfortable life far behind her.

She felt homesick often, and missed her past life and her family terribly. Even so, she had found a more-or-less satisfying position with the crew, and though the majority were louts, they were not brutes, and had never caused her more trouble than the occasional jibe.

She had gained a certain amount of respect with the men, who considered her to be a reliable and humurous young man who could always be relied on to lend a hand. They had given her the affectionate title of, "Kid Samson" and she had found many of her happiest moments playing cards below deck or looking through reverend Stype's record collection as he divulged to her the glories of his Christian God, grateful as always for an audience.

But for all the adventure and style of a life at sea, Samson had always had a niggling question on her lips, which she couldn't put to the back of her mind; where had the ship come from? This was a question she had never mentioned, nor had she once heard the crew discussing the subject.

On a particularly cold and misty evening, as she lay alone in her bunk in the crew's quarters, she found herself gazing up at the wooden ceiling and musing upon the question that pervaded her mind. She twiddled her fingers, theorizing on the origin of the ship, impatient for an answer. She decided that she had to appease her curiosity and resolved to find a way to meet these ends.

She hopped gently from her bed and made her way across the room, treading carefully so as not to disturb the few crew members who were dozing away in their bunks. As she came closer to the door that led to the adjacent room below deck, she heard laughter through the walls. She turned the handle cautiously and poked her head round to investigate.

There she saw Jonah and Sam-Fillipe, who appeared to be in hysterics over some hilarious subject, Sam waving his hands in the air and Jonah roaring with laughter, tears in his eyes as he slapped his large hands on the floor.

Upon noticing the girl, the two made some effort to collect themselves and, still snickering, greeted her fondly. "Hey Samson, we thought you'd gone off to sleep." said Jonah, red in the face as he struggled to his feet and dried his eyes on his sleeve.

"I couldn't rest." Jerudiah replied, eyeing up the pair. She raised an eyebrow, still halfway around the door. "What are you laughing about?" she asked, a curious girl by nature.

"Ah," Jonah began, chuckling. "Sam was just explaining to me the finer points of a very strange anatomy..."

"It's squid." Sam chimed in, grinning. "You see, it's been said that the squid around these waters have eight..."

"I actually had a question." Jerudiah interrupted. She stepped around the door and shut it behind her. Her expressionless features showed no patience for the boys' jokes.

"Of course, of course!" cried Jonah, and he bumbled over and led her to the table in the centre of the room, where many a hand had been dealt and many a coin had found it's way into the crew's pockets, only to find it's way out again at the turn of lady luck. "Would you like a scone? Gubbs made a fresh batch before, luckily none of the other crew have been in here yet to see 'em." He winked down at the girl and grabbed one of the pastries, stuffing it in his mouth and letting the crumbs fall to the floor. Jerudiah thanked him and took one of the scones, taking a bite as she sat round the table. Jonah and Sam-Fillipe sat with her, and the trio feasted silently a while from the silver platter, until only a few of the delicacies remained.

"Where's the rest of the crew?" asked Jerudiah, looking from one man to the other, feeling content now that her belly was full.

"Not too sure." Replied Jonah, as he sat back in his chair and stroked the ginger curls along his round chin. "We spied that old reverend as he came through on his way to the quarters some time ago... of course, we hid the scones when we heard the old fart coming." He winked again at the girl before continuing. "Steggi was bumbling about up deck earlier, and that crazy old fool DeCartwright is most likely up there with him."

"What about the others?" asked the girl, as she took another scone from the platter for good measure. Jonah thought for a moment.

"I believe Homer's still in the captain's quarters, likely discussing navigations or something else tedious, and Gubbs and the other cooks are probably preparing tomorrow's meals."

"You missed out Buckthorn." Sam pointed out, resting his legs on the table-top. Suddenly Jonah's cheeks reddened and he became flustered as he shouted out, crossing his arms.

"Ha! Didn't even think to mention him! and why should I care where that lout's gone off to? probably causing someone no small amount of grief, I imagine!" He scoffed and settled back into his chair.

"You really don't like him, do you?" chuckled Jerudiah.

"Is there a reason why I should?" retorted Jonah. "The man's a bully and a cheat, and he picks on me because he believes I'm an easy target."

"But you are..." Sam chimed in, scratching his head with a perplexed expression, tact not being his strongest asset.

Jonah began barking at Sam, his head wobbling with passion as he wagged a podgy finger at him. An argument ensued, and Jerudiah decided to slip out unnoticed rather than stay and enjoy the theatrics.

She reached the ladder and climbed up through the hatch, her new objective to locate the other crew members fresh on her mind.

Sam and Jonah had been no help, as the girl had expected, and she began to wonder if her query was worth all the trouble. The crew could be hard to communicate with even at the best of times, as most had the attention span of a wet mackerel and the rest were obtuse and abrasive.

She smelt the cool, fresh air on the deck and sighed wistfully, her thoughts turning to her home far away, and to her mother and siblings. Jerudiah's father had died when she was very young, and her mother had only briefly mentioned him now and again, claiming many suitors in the time since. Jerudiah had asked of her father in the past, and had only been told that his vessel had ran into the rocks one night when returning from a business trip. None of the crew were believed to have survived.

The girl put these thoughts aside, as they stung bitterly through her memory and were best saved for the quiet nights alone in the solace of her bunk.

She decided that her best bet would be to seek out Cristoff and see if he could give her any clue as to the nature of the ship's genesis.

Cristoff DeCartwright was an old drunk, who did nothing useful and liked it that way. He often seemed half-demented, although it was most obviously apparent that this was merely an excuse to carry on being as belligerent and useless as he possibly could. He claimed to be a pirate back in his day for some upstanding crew, although knowing his propensity for lying, the men could hardly believe a word of it. He could usually be found drinking on the deck, attracting the gulls and flies that hovered above his station.

Jerudiah crept across the deck, the moonlight marking her steps as she made her way across the wooden planks. Finally, on the far side of the stern, her nose caught the unmistakable whiff of whisky, along with a pungent aroma of sweat and clothes that had not been washed for far longer than was necessary.

She turned the corner and found the old man sat, leaning his back against the outer wall of the captain's cabin. He clutched a bottle of whisky in one hand, whilst his other stroked his overgrown grey beard tersely. He did not seem to notice Jerudiah, so she stepped in closer, much to the dismay of her poor nostrils, which flared up aggressively as if affronted by the foul odour before them. He was humming some indiscernible sailor's tune under his breath, murmuring softly as his head swayed, his skinny yellow neck straining to support his air-filled head. Under the light of a nearby lantern hanging from the wall, the girl could see his eyes, half shut and sticky with a crusty yellow discharge that had yet to be cleared. She felt a tinge of sympathy for the old man.

"Mr. DeCartwright", she whispered, attempting to gauge his response. But Cristoff only continued murmuring his strange song, his vacant gaze plastered at odd angles.

She kicked him gently, which brought him back to the land of the living with a start. He grumbled and turned his head to squint up at her, grinning a toothless grin upon recognising the girl.

"My boy! my boy!", he exclaimed between hiccups, slowly waving his arms as if in some sort of trance celebration. "Wanna whisky?", he proposed, thrusting his bottle out towards her and smacking his lips.

"No thank you, sir," she replied, holding back a grimace. "I was actually hoping you could help me with something..."

"Help? heh, not many folks come asking ol' Cristoff for help these days... mind you, people needed me for all sorts way back when. Swish-buckling, swab-deckerry, you name it". He suddenly held an expression of grave offence, and his thin, dry lips slapped shut smartly. After a few moments and a swig of tonic, he looked back up to Jerudiah with a grudging caution. "What ye after, lad?"

She looked left and right, then down at her feet, hesitating. "Well, there's a question that's been on my mind since I arrived here, and I was wondering if you'd be able to give me an answer... I'd ask the captain, you see, but I've only been on board a few weeks, and I wouldn't want to cause a fuss. I tried asking Jonah and Sam-Fillipe, but they weren't any help, you know what they're like..."

Jerudiah stopped and flushed hotly, as the old man had given up his recent attempt at sobriety and had began snoring loudly. She tutted impatiently and placed her hands on her hips, leaning towards Cristoff.

"DeCartwright!" She bellowed in his ear, and the old man once more demonstrated a profound rejuvenation, sitting up again suddenly.

"Wha? Eh? Where's the booty!?" He garbled, groping for his bottle, which had slipped from his grasp and lay across the floor, half the contents lost to the gaps in the planks beneath them.

Jerudiah had learnt her lesson, and got straight to the point before the void claimed it's victim once more. "Where did the ship come from?"

"Aha! Oohoo! Aye," Cristoff remarked with a certain cocky air, attempting to tap his nose but missing and simply wafting a long, crooked finger before it.

"You've come to the right man, my boy." He beamed with importance. "Only ol' Cristoff knows the answer to that question, and ye'd do well to listen. 'Tis a long story, filled with mystery and adventure, an' ol' Crissy here loves to tell a good story."

Jerudiah was intrigued. "Yes, and I really do enjoy hearing your stories... sir... we all do"

"Ah well, you gotta do a favour for ol' Cristoff if you wanna hear this story, kid" He smirked, awaiting her inquiry.

Samson sighed under her breath and rolled her eyes. "And what might that be sir?"

"Well..." The old man began, "It seems that my whisky has gotten away from me." He tapped his fingers on his chin in an unconvincing display of mock-thoughtfulness. "Luckily, I know just the way to solve this little issue o' mine." He chuckled, giving way to a hacking cough before continuing. "I' seen the chefs using this little bottle of port to flavour the food. They keep it on a shelf in the pantry below deck, behind the kitchen. You get me that bottle, and I'll tell you all I know about this vessel." He hiccuped again and the girl considered his offer for a few moments before reaching her decision. "Alright, I'll get it for you, but you have to promise you'll tell me about the ship after."

"'S'a deal!" he exclaimed merrily, reaching his hand out to the girl, who shook it reluctantly.


As she hurried back along the deck, Jerudiah was filled with anticipation. If the old man really did hold true to his word, her mind might finally be able to rest, at least until the next bout of wanderlust came to disturb the peace.

Nevertheless, she did not feel at all comfortable with the prospect of stealing from the ship, as she must not draw any attention to herself, lest the men start raising brows and blow her cover. But she had a fiery spirit, and for such an enticing question as hers, the ends justified the means.

She reached the hatch, and checking that no one was following her, she opened it and climbed swiftly down below the deck. As she made her way towards the pantry door that stood on the far side of the room, she heard raised voices approaching from the other side and hastily ducked down behind a cluster of barrels.

The door of the pantry was flung open, and out stepped Homer, the towering dark-skinned deck hand, dragging Stenn by the collar behind him. He threw the man down onto the floor with a thud. Jerudiah poked her head out from her cover, straining to get a view of the commotion.

"Why, you great oaf!" Buckthorn growled, rubbing the bruise on the back of his head and scowling up at Homer with contempt. Homer glared back down at him, fists clenched.

"I should have you strung up and fed to the fishes!" He spoke with a thick Jamaican accent which boomed out across the room, although it was apparent that the two were trying not to be conspicuous. "Or maybe I should go to the Captain and tell him what I' seen..."

"You mad dog," Stenn spat onto the floor. "Nudging your great nose in where it doesn't belong." He scowled up at the giant.

"And I suppose the contents of the kitchen ain't my concern, hmm? So I should just let a thieving dog like you take whatever you desire? We're short on rations, won't be seeing land again for at least a few days, and yet you still ain't satisfied with your share."

"Keep your voice down!" hissed Stenn, glancing about him before making his way to his feet. "Why should I be happy eating gruel like the rest of these mutts? We haven't seen a fresh meal for too long, and all because Gubbs and his pack of layabouts 'been savin' it all for 'emselves."

Amidst the hushed argument, Jerudiah noticed that Homer had left the door of the pantry wide open. All she needed was a distraction and she could slip through unnoticed.

Suddenly she heard a smack, and when she looked over, she saw that Homer had struck Stenn, who snarled and leapt at his assailant. The two grappled furiously, grunting and straining, throwing fists wherever they might land.

She used her chance and hurried silently through the pantry door during the chaos. The two men didn't notice her through their rage, and once she was safely through the door, she quickly found another hiding spot between the sacks and barrels and waited for the two to cool off and disperse.

Once the dust had settled, and the girl could hear only silence through the open door, she crept out from her spot and took in her surroundings. The pantry was a small, square room, filled with sacks and barrels that contained all the necessary assortments of food for the crew's meals, each labelled carefully. Jerudiah had never been in the pantry before, as it was almost always off-limits to the crew, save the cooks. There was a door leading to the kitchen on one side of the room, which was silent and empty at this time of the night.

Once she felt certain that the coast was clear, she began scanning the shelves above her for the little bottle of port. At last, after several minutes of searching, she found the half full bottle behind a cluster of spices atop a shelf on the far side of the room. She tucked it hastily into her breast pocket, and left the room, making sure to close the door behind her.


Cristoff was humming to himself in a stupor when the girl returned with his prize. He nodded eagerly when he saw her and motioned for her to sit next to him. She did so, retrieving the bottle from her pocket and handing it over to him.

"Ah, many thanks lad!" He grinned, uncorked the vial and took several gulps before wiping a hand over his mouth. "And what was yer query again my boy?"

Jerudiah rubbed her hands together and asked him of the history of the vessel.

Cristoff began his story, and Jerudiah listened intently, hungry for the knowledge he could give her. But after several minutes of listening, she realised that the old man wasn't speaking a word of sense, and as his story carried on, it became more and more ludicrous and far-fetched, much to the girl's dismay.

After some time, the old man trailed off into a deep slumber, and she was left feeling disappointed and let down. The story had clearly been fabricated, and she let out an exasperated sigh as the old man snored and grunted beside her.

She made her way down the deck and sat on the edge of the ship, dangling her feet over the side and watching the moonlight cascading down upon the ripples of the water, contemplating the night's events. She realised that the answer to her question may be harder to find than she had first assumed, and reproached herself for her naivety.

After some time in thoughtful silence, she found her way back to her bunk in the crew's quarters, and resolved to seek more information from the captain, perhaps when she felt more settled on the vessel and had made more of a name for herself with the crew.

As she lay in the quiet of the room, she could hear one of Stype's records playing quietly, which soothed her active mind until she drifted off to sleep.

© 2017 EverythingCoconut


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What you're doing is something I see in about half the stories from hopeful writers: you, the narrator, are explaining the story to the reader, primarily in overview. So your goal is to inform the reader on the details of the story. And as such, your English teachers, and any creative writing teachers you've had would be proud.

So,, like a historian, you open by explaining Jerudiah's situation and past. For you, setting the scene and introducing the protagonist. For the reader, though, you open the story and then talk about things that happened before the story began. But if they matter for what's happening in the present opening scene, why not start earlier, so the reader experiences it rather than hearing it from a voice they can't hear? Remember, only you can hear the emotion in the narrator's voice. And while you can tell us how she speaks a line you can't tell the reader how you do. Have the computer read the opening to you, aloud, and you'll hear how different that is from what you hear when you read it.

But that aside, in all, before she decides to ask her question, 394 words have passed. Were this a standard manuscript submission, page one would have about 80 words of story, while the rest have 250. So before she begins doing anything we're 60 words into the third page, and the only thing that's happened is her waking and deciding to ask where the ship came from.

Did you have to tell the reader that she has an upper class background? Won't they see that by how she acts, and how she's treated? Do you have to tell the reader how sailors behave? Won't they notice by what they do when she's around?

In short: everything till she wakes is history, not story. And who wants to study history when they came to you to be entertained?

The problem, as well as the solution, is simple: In our schooling, as has been done since public schooling was instituted during the industrial revolution, we learn the skills employers find useful. And in the case of writing, it's to write clearly, concisely, and factually, so as to inform the reader. So our skills are fact-based and author-centric, just as this opening is. That would be great were our reader paying to be informed. But...

The fiction reader wants to be entertained, from the opening page through to the closing. And that's an emotional goal, not factual. The reader isn't interested in learning about the character and the events. They want to be made to live the story in real-time, as-the-protagonist. And that takes writing skills that are emotion-based and character-centric—skills they didn't mention as existing in our school years.

How much time did your teachers spend on the role of the scene-goal? Did they explain how to use tags, and why a scene ends in disaster for the protagonist? How much time did they spend on the structure of a scene in fiction, as against in film and stage work?

See the problem? If your teachers weren't fiction writers the odds say the answer is zero.

I know, this is a hell of a time to find out that your teachers not only didn't prepare you to write fiction, they gave the impression that writing is writing, and you have that part taken care of.

So, the why of the problem is, as I said, simple. Though given all the time, effort, and emotional commitment you've made to the story, not good news at all. But take heart in knowing that pretty much everyone comes to writing fiction with the same problem, So you have lots of company. And given that every field has its specialized knowledge and craft, it's no big deal that writing does, too.

As to the solution, that's simple, too, though not easy. It's simple in that all you need do is acquire the skills of writing fiction for the page and use them in place of the nonfiction skills we learn in school. The not easy part comes in because it is a full system of techniques, as complex and time consuming to perfect as the set you presently own.

But since any field has its tricks of the trade and specialized knowledge, how can we complain? It would have been nice, though, if they'd told us about it before we spend so much time writing a story with our nonfiction skills. And I know how you feel, because I've been there. I wrote, edited, and submitted six novels before I learned that I was thinking cinematically in a medium that reproduces neither sound nor vision.

It never gets easier. But with study and practice we do become confused on a higher level, and the ratio of crap to gold changes for the better.

As for how to acquire those skills, your local library system's fiction writing section holds the views of successful writers, teachers, and publishing professionals. My favorite is Dwight Swain's, Techniques of the Selling Writer. It's an older book, and he talks about style issues not at all. But he does make clear what the issues are, and why, and he talks about the nuts-and-bolts issues of constructing a scene and linking your scenes into a cohesive whole. And that's a great place to begin.

For a kind of overview of the issues, you might dig around in the writing articles in my blog. For the most part, they're based on the work of Dwight Swain.

So hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/

Posted 6 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

EverythingCoconut

6 Years Ago

This was the first chapter I wrote in this story, so the explanation of past events was kind of used.. read more
JayG

6 Years Ago

• I imagine that in later chapters there'll be more of a real-time perspective, as the character's.. read more
JayG

6 Years Ago

Actually, he didn't say that, I thought I'd copied the quote got the wrong thing, and accidentally p.. read more


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Reviews

Hi there. Gosh, what a lot of effort, and there's clearly a plot to unfold. However, I'm with JayG and confess I gave up after about 3 minutes. It may help you to know why
- a young woman masquerading as a young boy, apparently for some time, does not sound credible. She seemingly sleeps in a neighbouring bunk where there are several others all occupied by men, so the others presumably undress in front of her and would eventually find it odd if she chooses to avoid any exposure of what's beneath her outer clothes
- when she eats the scones she starts by interrupting to say she has a question; then she never asks it and the two crew members don't query what her question was

So, twice in the opening bits of the opening chapter, I have failed to believe in what's written. So, I stopped.

I'm attempting to write a 'long short story' myself, and I'm into re-write 27, so I know it can be hard to get this right. Good luck with your next try.

Regards
Nigel

Posted 6 Years Ago


EverythingCoconut

6 Years Ago

Thanks for pointing out those points, as they're both pretty credible, especially the fact that she .. read more
What you're doing is something I see in about half the stories from hopeful writers: you, the narrator, are explaining the story to the reader, primarily in overview. So your goal is to inform the reader on the details of the story. And as such, your English teachers, and any creative writing teachers you've had would be proud.

So,, like a historian, you open by explaining Jerudiah's situation and past. For you, setting the scene and introducing the protagonist. For the reader, though, you open the story and then talk about things that happened before the story began. But if they matter for what's happening in the present opening scene, why not start earlier, so the reader experiences it rather than hearing it from a voice they can't hear? Remember, only you can hear the emotion in the narrator's voice. And while you can tell us how she speaks a line you can't tell the reader how you do. Have the computer read the opening to you, aloud, and you'll hear how different that is from what you hear when you read it.

But that aside, in all, before she decides to ask her question, 394 words have passed. Were this a standard manuscript submission, page one would have about 80 words of story, while the rest have 250. So before she begins doing anything we're 60 words into the third page, and the only thing that's happened is her waking and deciding to ask where the ship came from.

Did you have to tell the reader that she has an upper class background? Won't they see that by how she acts, and how she's treated? Do you have to tell the reader how sailors behave? Won't they notice by what they do when she's around?

In short: everything till she wakes is history, not story. And who wants to study history when they came to you to be entertained?

The problem, as well as the solution, is simple: In our schooling, as has been done since public schooling was instituted during the industrial revolution, we learn the skills employers find useful. And in the case of writing, it's to write clearly, concisely, and factually, so as to inform the reader. So our skills are fact-based and author-centric, just as this opening is. That would be great were our reader paying to be informed. But...

The fiction reader wants to be entertained, from the opening page through to the closing. And that's an emotional goal, not factual. The reader isn't interested in learning about the character and the events. They want to be made to live the story in real-time, as-the-protagonist. And that takes writing skills that are emotion-based and character-centric—skills they didn't mention as existing in our school years.

How much time did your teachers spend on the role of the scene-goal? Did they explain how to use tags, and why a scene ends in disaster for the protagonist? How much time did they spend on the structure of a scene in fiction, as against in film and stage work?

See the problem? If your teachers weren't fiction writers the odds say the answer is zero.

I know, this is a hell of a time to find out that your teachers not only didn't prepare you to write fiction, they gave the impression that writing is writing, and you have that part taken care of.

So, the why of the problem is, as I said, simple. Though given all the time, effort, and emotional commitment you've made to the story, not good news at all. But take heart in knowing that pretty much everyone comes to writing fiction with the same problem, So you have lots of company. And given that every field has its specialized knowledge and craft, it's no big deal that writing does, too.

As to the solution, that's simple, too, though not easy. It's simple in that all you need do is acquire the skills of writing fiction for the page and use them in place of the nonfiction skills we learn in school. The not easy part comes in because it is a full system of techniques, as complex and time consuming to perfect as the set you presently own.

But since any field has its tricks of the trade and specialized knowledge, how can we complain? It would have been nice, though, if they'd told us about it before we spend so much time writing a story with our nonfiction skills. And I know how you feel, because I've been there. I wrote, edited, and submitted six novels before I learned that I was thinking cinematically in a medium that reproduces neither sound nor vision.

It never gets easier. But with study and practice we do become confused on a higher level, and the ratio of crap to gold changes for the better.

As for how to acquire those skills, your local library system's fiction writing section holds the views of successful writers, teachers, and publishing professionals. My favorite is Dwight Swain's, Techniques of the Selling Writer. It's an older book, and he talks about style issues not at all. But he does make clear what the issues are, and why, and he talks about the nuts-and-bolts issues of constructing a scene and linking your scenes into a cohesive whole. And that's a great place to begin.

For a kind of overview of the issues, you might dig around in the writing articles in my blog. For the most part, they're based on the work of Dwight Swain.

So hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/

Posted 6 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

EverythingCoconut

6 Years Ago

This was the first chapter I wrote in this story, so the explanation of past events was kind of used.. read more
JayG

6 Years Ago

• I imagine that in later chapters there'll be more of a real-time perspective, as the character's.. read more
JayG

6 Years Ago

Actually, he didn't say that, I thought I'd copied the quote got the wrong thing, and accidentally p.. read more

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Added on May 9, 2017
Last Updated on May 9, 2017
Tags: Humor, Ship, Adventure, Comical, Fantasy

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EverythingCoconut
EverythingCoconut

Jersey, Channel Islands, United Kingdom



About
20 years old from Jersey (Channel Islands) recently started writing, genre non-specific. Hoping to find inspiration. more..

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