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solidfoamsoulI FINALLY GOT A SILVER EGG!!
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kittencuffs story!
Monkees' Island, Chapter One, part 5 of 6. Rated M for adult suggestiveness, mild drug use and a couple 'fuck's.
[ part 1 - Peter | part 2 - Mike | part 3 - Mona | part 4 - Davy ]
It was my fault.
No one can argue that point, this really was entirely my fault. Things were getting kind of bad up until that point, but I really sealed the deal and signed our death certificates. At least we'd had a chance of finding our way back home and continuing life as normal. But once I lost my grip on the map, man, that was the end.
The storm lasted longer than Micky had predicted, a good hour or two. I'm sure it helped, though, that the wind and waves kept pushing us along with the storm, keeping us right in the eye. Maybe if someone among us had had the common sense to drop the anchor, it would've passed overhead in a few minutes. (Hell, I don't know if we even had an anchor. Next time we go boating, we need to take someone who actually knows something about boats. Maybe that was our first mistake.)
Mike threw up twice before it was over. Fortunately, Peter found a bucket under the table (well, not so much “found it,” as much as “got his foot stuck in it”); he upturned it on the table, dumping out a bunch of oily mechanical parts I'm still praying were spares, and set it next to the bunks. Mike crawled down from the top bunk, and he and Micky fought for room in the bottom bunk. (Micky's back started to hurt after his fall, and he was milking it hard.)
We waited in silence for a few minutes, each of us lost in our own thoughts and prayers and nausea. Peter got up and began moving around the cramped cabin, pulling out all the life preservers he could find and setting them out, “just in case.” Mona pulled our deck of cards from our shoulder bag and started to play a game of solitaire, but quickly realized we had lost the six of diamonds somewhere and had replaced it with a second ace of spades from a completely different deck. (I didn't confess, but that was my fault. Micky had goaded me into teaching him some of Mumford's card tricks one night when we were smoking, and things got a little out of hand.) Instead, she doled out the cards and we played a few hands of bridge, Mona and Peter against Davy and I, while Mike groaned and Micky grumbled at him to move over.
With each sloshing wave, Mike would groan a little harder than the last time. Around the sixth or seventh groan, he would lean over the edge of the bunk and position his head over the bucket, and shudder, trying to fight the desire to vomit. Micky, at the opposite end of the bunk, reached out to try to rub his back, but couldn't reach any farther than Mike's backside. Mike gave a kick that planted the heel of his cowboy boot between Micky's ribs; Micky gave up after that.
The storm clouds had completely obscured the sun; it looked like it may have been eight or nine o'clock at night outside, but Peter's watch said it was only a quarter to six. The wind was blowing hard and whistling through the seams of the acrylic-glass windows, creating drafts. All the guys were still without their shirts, and my swimsuit top, which had been perfectly suited to the weather an hour ago, wasn't offering much insulation, either. Mona, who, of the six of us, was the most appropriately dressed, helped Mike and Micky pull the sheet out from underneath themselves and threw it over them (Mike made Micky promise not to try any more “funny stuff”), then got the sheet off the top bunk for Davy and I. While Davy jokingly checked with Micky for approval to be under the sheets with me (Micky told him to keep his hands above the table and all would be groovy), she shook out the beach towel I'd used to dry Micky off and wrapped Peter up (but didn't complain when Peter unwrapped himself to envelop her with one bat-wing-toweled arm).
I suggested playing a rousing game of Never Have I Ever, but Mona shot that down immediately. (Not at all surprising, given that my first declaration is always “Never Have I Ever done the deed with a boy in the backseat of a car,” and the game only gets worse from there.) Peter suggested I Spy, but that was quickly ruled out as Micky and Mike were facing opposite directions and neither one was capable of turning around to see what the other might be spying at the moment. Micky grumpily suggested charades, and Mike added a suggestion of What's My Line? before throwing up again.
With nothing left to do and spirits flagging all around, we settled in to wait it out.
It was another hour of near-silence, occasionally interrupted by Mike's retching or Micky's grumbling, before we noticed the rain starting to slack off.
“Good,” Mike croaked when Peter pointed this out, biting back a nauseous burp. “Why didn't one of you guys remind me I get seasick?”
“We assumed you were bright enough to remember your diseases on your own,” Micky said, and adopted a grandmotherly voice. “You're a big boy now, little Mikey, it's time you started taking on some big boy responsibilities.”
“Knock it off,” Mike grumbled, aiming another kick in Micky's direction. (Fortunately for Mick, the toe of his boot got entangled in the sheet, stopping him short.)
Micky, who was facing our table, looked to the four of us, and frowned. I looked to my left and right, and found that Davy had slumped onto the table, using my arm as a pillow, and Mona and Peter were leaning against each other with their eyes closed.
“Raise your hand if you're sleeping,” Micky instructed.
Both Mona and Peter raised a hand, cracking their eyes open. Davy remained silent.
“Gee,” I mused, “this is the first time a guy has fallen asleep on me after we got under the sheets.”
“His loss,” Micky said simply, and pulled himself up into a seated position. (I knew his back hadn't been hurting him as much as he was trying to claim!) “Better for us, anyway; he smokes up all the pot. Break it out, baby.”
“I'll wake up for that!” Davy announced, sitting up as I rooted through our bag for Micky's stash. “And I do not!”
“Then who does?”
“You!” we all chorused at him.
“Hey, wait a second!” Mike said suddenly, sitting upright. We all froze, waiting. “I think the storm has passed.”
We all craned around to look out the nearest window, and saw that the rain had slacked off significantly, no more than a patter now, and the waves were quickly returning to normal, manageable sizes. There were even breaks forming in the grey clouds, showing patches of a pinkish-orange pre-sunset sky.
“Come on, let's go see if we can get back on course. Put that away,” he added, gesturing to me and the stash as he swung his legs over the edge of the bunk.
“Aw, man,” Micky pouted, frowning as I stowed everything in our bag again.
“Maybe later, babe,” I soothed. “How's your back?”
“Be a lot better if I could get a good buzz going.”
As the others followed Mike out on to the deck, I held my hand out to help him up. He took it, grunting with the exertion of pulling himself upright, before we followed the others.
“Be careful, it's slippery up here,” Mike was saying as we stepped off the ladder.
The boat was, essentially, no worse for wear. Nothing was broken or dislodged, nothing had washed away, everything was just a little wet. The guys' shirts were not so lucky. Mike's and Davy's had both come untied, and were nowhere to be seen. Micky's had split at the seam, and now half was tied to the wheel while the other half was tied to the guard rail, the severed ends flapping loosely. Peter's was the only one that had stood up to the challenge, but it had been pulled so tightly that the knots had doubled over on themselves, and there was no way we were going to be able to untie it.
“That was my favorite shirt, too,” Peter sighed, touching one of the rock-hard knots sadly.
“Move over, shotgun,” Mike urged, nudging Pete aside to climb up onto the back of the captain's chair again. (Again, Pete latched on to his calves to keep him steady.) “Damn,” he muttered, turning to look in all directions. “Damn!”
“What is it?” Davy asked, and his voice trembled just a little.
“No land.” Mike stepped down, putting his feet in the seat and sitting on the backrest. “No land, no landmarks. We're out in the middle of the ocean.”
We were all very quiet, watching him for clues as to what would happen next. He pulled the boat key from his pocket and attempted to crank the ignition. The engine wheezed and groaned in response, refusing to catch and turn over; at the stern, the motor made a noise that reminded me of blowing bubbles in a glass of milk as the propeller frothed the water. Another try had the same results.
Mike leaned forward and propped his arms on the edge of the windshield, and sighed. “I don't suppose you know anything about boat repair?” he asked, looking to Micky.
“Sorry, man,” Micky murmured, biting his lip and looking guilty. I knew he was thinking himself an idiot for never having learned about boat engines now, and I slipped my hand into his, hoping he caught my offer of reassurance.
“What are we gonna do, Mike?” Peter asked quietly.
Mike sighed again, and tipped his head back, staring up at the sky. Clouds were still heavy, but slowly breaking up as the wind picked up again and pushed them away.
“Sun sets in the west, we left from the north side of the island following a clockwise route,” he mumbled to himself, moving his fingers around as if moving objects in his mental map. “We were almost at the southern tip when the storm came up, I set us to move north, wind was blowing east...” The volume dropped out of his ramble but his lips kept moving silently, his fingertips still tracing patterns.
Micky slowly eased the map out of Mike's back pocket while he was working things out, and unfolded it, scrutinizing it closely. I think he was trying to follow Mike's muttered recap up to where we'd run into the storm.
“The island should be that way!” Mike finally announced triumphantly, pointing toward the northwest. But then his face fell as he dropped his arm. “But it doesn't matter, because we can't start the damn boat.”
“I don't suppose I should ask about paddles, should I?” Davy offered softly.
“We have one,” Peter said. “One. It's behind the cabin door. Saw it when I was pulling out the life preservers.”
“Great,” Mona grumbled, scrubbing a hand over her face in exasperation. “They send us off in a clunker with one paddle and no instructions on how to fix an engine.”
“When we get home, you gotta call Dad and get him to find us a lawyer,” I told her; she nodded in agreement.
“If we get home,” Mike amended. He reached forward and flipped a switch next to the throttle. At the bow, the running light began flashing, now an emergency beacon.
No one said anything.
“Can I see that?” I asked, nudging Micky and gesturing for the map. He handed it over. I took it and turned, moving toward the ladder, trying to shield the map from the wind so I could examine it.
Our island was the big one, in the middle, but there were a dozen smaller islands scattered around the edges of the map. Isle Keaka, Isle Pekilenike, Isle Opu Paloku and Isle Opu Ke Lanakekualaka were all marked, the others just nameless flecks of brown and green. But... I couldn't help but notice, there was something like an island bar that curved up the eastern edge of our island, a series of small flecks, not more than half a mile apart if the map's legend was correct, that led all the to the northern point of our island. If Mike's mutterings had been accurate, we might be somewhere close to the end of that bar; if we could get to one of those islands, maybe we could find something we could use as paddles, and island-hop our way back home!
“Lemme see the map,” Mona said, coming up next to me.
“No, wait. Hey, Mike?“
“I just want to see it for a second,” she whined, reaching for it. I shifted, moving out of her reach.
“What?” Mike asked, not turning around.
“Hold on,” I said to Mona, turning again as she moved to my other side to grab the map. “How far off shore do you think we are?”
“I don't know, a few miles. Too far to swim, if that's what you're thinking.”
“No, no, that's not it. Where on the map would you say we are? General area, I mean.”
“I'd say somewhere between where we should be and that lala-keekee-kaka place.”
That put us within a mile of the bar's tail.
“Can I please see the map?” Mona sighed, frustrated.
“Not yet!” I snapped, whipping it away from her in one hand.
And at that exact moment, the wind kicked up again, and I suddenly realized I was clenching empty air as the map became airborne. We watched in helpless horror as it spun over the edge of the steering deck, over the sub-deck, skimmed the guard rail at the stern of the boat and took a dramatic upswing on a stray current before pinwheeling into a nosedive right into the water.
“Oh, fuck...”
“Now look what you've done!” Mona shrieked, smacking me on the shoulder as I covered my eyes with my hands.
“Please tell me you didn't just drop the map overboard,” Mike deadpanned, still not facing us.
“She did!” Mona answered, smacking me again.
There were a series of thuds, and I braced myself to be smacked by one of the guys. But the air swirled by me, and I heard a massive thump as someone hit the sub-deck below.
”Davy!” Micky shouted, suddenly appearing at my elbow. “Don't!”
I uncovered my eyes just in time to see Davy dive headfirst off the stern of the boat.
(OOh da suspence!!!! Also, Ali, you should pimp dis on CAPSLOCK)
and new part of
kittencuffs story!Monkees' Island, Chapter One, part 5 of 6. Rated M for adult suggestiveness, mild drug use and a couple 'fuck's.
It was my fault.
No one can argue that point, this really was entirely my fault. Things were getting kind of bad up until that point, but I really sealed the deal and signed our death certificates. At least we'd had a chance of finding our way back home and continuing life as normal. But once I lost my grip on the map, man, that was the end.
The storm lasted longer than Micky had predicted, a good hour or two. I'm sure it helped, though, that the wind and waves kept pushing us along with the storm, keeping us right in the eye. Maybe if someone among us had had the common sense to drop the anchor, it would've passed overhead in a few minutes. (Hell, I don't know if we even had an anchor. Next time we go boating, we need to take someone who actually knows something about boats. Maybe that was our first mistake.)
Mike threw up twice before it was over. Fortunately, Peter found a bucket under the table (well, not so much “found it,” as much as “got his foot stuck in it”); he upturned it on the table, dumping out a bunch of oily mechanical parts I'm still praying were spares, and set it next to the bunks. Mike crawled down from the top bunk, and he and Micky fought for room in the bottom bunk. (Micky's back started to hurt after his fall, and he was milking it hard.)
We waited in silence for a few minutes, each of us lost in our own thoughts and prayers and nausea. Peter got up and began moving around the cramped cabin, pulling out all the life preservers he could find and setting them out, “just in case.” Mona pulled our deck of cards from our shoulder bag and started to play a game of solitaire, but quickly realized we had lost the six of diamonds somewhere and had replaced it with a second ace of spades from a completely different deck. (I didn't confess, but that was my fault. Micky had goaded me into teaching him some of Mumford's card tricks one night when we were smoking, and things got a little out of hand.) Instead, she doled out the cards and we played a few hands of bridge, Mona and Peter against Davy and I, while Mike groaned and Micky grumbled at him to move over.
With each sloshing wave, Mike would groan a little harder than the last time. Around the sixth or seventh groan, he would lean over the edge of the bunk and position his head over the bucket, and shudder, trying to fight the desire to vomit. Micky, at the opposite end of the bunk, reached out to try to rub his back, but couldn't reach any farther than Mike's backside. Mike gave a kick that planted the heel of his cowboy boot between Micky's ribs; Micky gave up after that.
The storm clouds had completely obscured the sun; it looked like it may have been eight or nine o'clock at night outside, but Peter's watch said it was only a quarter to six. The wind was blowing hard and whistling through the seams of the acrylic-glass windows, creating drafts. All the guys were still without their shirts, and my swimsuit top, which had been perfectly suited to the weather an hour ago, wasn't offering much insulation, either. Mona, who, of the six of us, was the most appropriately dressed, helped Mike and Micky pull the sheet out from underneath themselves and threw it over them (Mike made Micky promise not to try any more “funny stuff”), then got the sheet off the top bunk for Davy and I. While Davy jokingly checked with Micky for approval to be under the sheets with me (Micky told him to keep his hands above the table and all would be groovy), she shook out the beach towel I'd used to dry Micky off and wrapped Peter up (but didn't complain when Peter unwrapped himself to envelop her with one bat-wing-toweled arm).
I suggested playing a rousing game of Never Have I Ever, but Mona shot that down immediately. (Not at all surprising, given that my first declaration is always “Never Have I Ever done the deed with a boy in the backseat of a car,” and the game only gets worse from there.) Peter suggested I Spy, but that was quickly ruled out as Micky and Mike were facing opposite directions and neither one was capable of turning around to see what the other might be spying at the moment. Micky grumpily suggested charades, and Mike added a suggestion of What's My Line? before throwing up again.
With nothing left to do and spirits flagging all around, we settled in to wait it out.
It was another hour of near-silence, occasionally interrupted by Mike's retching or Micky's grumbling, before we noticed the rain starting to slack off.
“Good,” Mike croaked when Peter pointed this out, biting back a nauseous burp. “Why didn't one of you guys remind me I get seasick?”
“We assumed you were bright enough to remember your diseases on your own,” Micky said, and adopted a grandmotherly voice. “You're a big boy now, little Mikey, it's time you started taking on some big boy responsibilities.”
“Knock it off,” Mike grumbled, aiming another kick in Micky's direction. (Fortunately for Mick, the toe of his boot got entangled in the sheet, stopping him short.)
Micky, who was facing our table, looked to the four of us, and frowned. I looked to my left and right, and found that Davy had slumped onto the table, using my arm as a pillow, and Mona and Peter were leaning against each other with their eyes closed.
“Raise your hand if you're sleeping,” Micky instructed.
Both Mona and Peter raised a hand, cracking their eyes open. Davy remained silent.
“Gee,” I mused, “this is the first time a guy has fallen asleep on me after we got under the sheets.”
“His loss,” Micky said simply, and pulled himself up into a seated position. (I knew his back hadn't been hurting him as much as he was trying to claim!) “Better for us, anyway; he smokes up all the pot. Break it out, baby.”
“I'll wake up for that!” Davy announced, sitting up as I rooted through our bag for Micky's stash. “And I do not!”
“Then who does?”
“You!” we all chorused at him.
“Hey, wait a second!” Mike said suddenly, sitting upright. We all froze, waiting. “I think the storm has passed.”
We all craned around to look out the nearest window, and saw that the rain had slacked off significantly, no more than a patter now, and the waves were quickly returning to normal, manageable sizes. There were even breaks forming in the grey clouds, showing patches of a pinkish-orange pre-sunset sky.
“Come on, let's go see if we can get back on course. Put that away,” he added, gesturing to me and the stash as he swung his legs over the edge of the bunk.
“Aw, man,” Micky pouted, frowning as I stowed everything in our bag again.
“Maybe later, babe,” I soothed. “How's your back?”
“Be a lot better if I could get a good buzz going.”
As the others followed Mike out on to the deck, I held my hand out to help him up. He took it, grunting with the exertion of pulling himself upright, before we followed the others.
“Be careful, it's slippery up here,” Mike was saying as we stepped off the ladder.
The boat was, essentially, no worse for wear. Nothing was broken or dislodged, nothing had washed away, everything was just a little wet. The guys' shirts were not so lucky. Mike's and Davy's had both come untied, and were nowhere to be seen. Micky's had split at the seam, and now half was tied to the wheel while the other half was tied to the guard rail, the severed ends flapping loosely. Peter's was the only one that had stood up to the challenge, but it had been pulled so tightly that the knots had doubled over on themselves, and there was no way we were going to be able to untie it.
“That was my favorite shirt, too,” Peter sighed, touching one of the rock-hard knots sadly.
“Move over, shotgun,” Mike urged, nudging Pete aside to climb up onto the back of the captain's chair again. (Again, Pete latched on to his calves to keep him steady.) “Damn,” he muttered, turning to look in all directions. “Damn!”
“What is it?” Davy asked, and his voice trembled just a little.
“No land.” Mike stepped down, putting his feet in the seat and sitting on the backrest. “No land, no landmarks. We're out in the middle of the ocean.”
We were all very quiet, watching him for clues as to what would happen next. He pulled the boat key from his pocket and attempted to crank the ignition. The engine wheezed and groaned in response, refusing to catch and turn over; at the stern, the motor made a noise that reminded me of blowing bubbles in a glass of milk as the propeller frothed the water. Another try had the same results.
Mike leaned forward and propped his arms on the edge of the windshield, and sighed. “I don't suppose you know anything about boat repair?” he asked, looking to Micky.
“Sorry, man,” Micky murmured, biting his lip and looking guilty. I knew he was thinking himself an idiot for never having learned about boat engines now, and I slipped my hand into his, hoping he caught my offer of reassurance.
“What are we gonna do, Mike?” Peter asked quietly.
Mike sighed again, and tipped his head back, staring up at the sky. Clouds were still heavy, but slowly breaking up as the wind picked up again and pushed them away.
“Sun sets in the west, we left from the north side of the island following a clockwise route,” he mumbled to himself, moving his fingers around as if moving objects in his mental map. “We were almost at the southern tip when the storm came up, I set us to move north, wind was blowing east...” The volume dropped out of his ramble but his lips kept moving silently, his fingertips still tracing patterns.
Micky slowly eased the map out of Mike's back pocket while he was working things out, and unfolded it, scrutinizing it closely. I think he was trying to follow Mike's muttered recap up to where we'd run into the storm.
“The island should be that way!” Mike finally announced triumphantly, pointing toward the northwest. But then his face fell as he dropped his arm. “But it doesn't matter, because we can't start the damn boat.”
“I don't suppose I should ask about paddles, should I?” Davy offered softly.
“We have one,” Peter said. “One. It's behind the cabin door. Saw it when I was pulling out the life preservers.”
“Great,” Mona grumbled, scrubbing a hand over her face in exasperation. “They send us off in a clunker with one paddle and no instructions on how to fix an engine.”
“When we get home, you gotta call Dad and get him to find us a lawyer,” I told her; she nodded in agreement.
“If we get home,” Mike amended. He reached forward and flipped a switch next to the throttle. At the bow, the running light began flashing, now an emergency beacon.
No one said anything.
“Can I see that?” I asked, nudging Micky and gesturing for the map. He handed it over. I took it and turned, moving toward the ladder, trying to shield the map from the wind so I could examine it.
Our island was the big one, in the middle, but there were a dozen smaller islands scattered around the edges of the map. Isle Keaka, Isle Pekilenike, Isle Opu Paloku and Isle Opu Ke Lanakekualaka were all marked, the others just nameless flecks of brown and green. But... I couldn't help but notice, there was something like an island bar that curved up the eastern edge of our island, a series of small flecks, not more than half a mile apart if the map's legend was correct, that led all the to the northern point of our island. If Mike's mutterings had been accurate, we might be somewhere close to the end of that bar; if we could get to one of those islands, maybe we could find something we could use as paddles, and island-hop our way back home!
“Lemme see the map,” Mona said, coming up next to me.
“No, wait. Hey, Mike?“
“I just want to see it for a second,” she whined, reaching for it. I shifted, moving out of her reach.
“What?” Mike asked, not turning around.
“Hold on,” I said to Mona, turning again as she moved to my other side to grab the map. “How far off shore do you think we are?”
“I don't know, a few miles. Too far to swim, if that's what you're thinking.”
“No, no, that's not it. Where on the map would you say we are? General area, I mean.”
“I'd say somewhere between where we should be and that lala-keekee-kaka place.”
That put us within a mile of the bar's tail.
“Can I please see the map?” Mona sighed, frustrated.
“Not yet!” I snapped, whipping it away from her in one hand.
And at that exact moment, the wind kicked up again, and I suddenly realized I was clenching empty air as the map became airborne. We watched in helpless horror as it spun over the edge of the steering deck, over the sub-deck, skimmed the guard rail at the stern of the boat and took a dramatic upswing on a stray current before pinwheeling into a nosedive right into the water.
“Oh, fuck...”
“Now look what you've done!” Mona shrieked, smacking me on the shoulder as I covered my eyes with my hands.
“Please tell me you didn't just drop the map overboard,” Mike deadpanned, still not facing us.
“She did!” Mona answered, smacking me again.
There were a series of thuds, and I braced myself to be smacked by one of the guys. But the air swirled by me, and I heard a massive thump as someone hit the sub-deck below.
”Davy!” Micky shouted, suddenly appearing at my elbow. “Don't!”
I uncovered my eyes just in time to see Davy dive headfirst off the stern of the boat.
(OOh da suspence!!!! Also, Ali, you should pimp dis on CAPSLOCK)
