by Words (lit)
Table of Contents
Definition and Etymology - 2
This Sweet Trade by A. Leigh Jones - 3
What to Do On a Friday Night by Misa Izanaki - 9
Shattered Silence by CB Potts - 19
Contributors’ Bios - 33
Definition: (noun) 1. a unit of language, consisting of one or more spoken sounds or their written representation, that functions as a principal carrier of meaning. Words are composed of one or more morphemes and are either the smallest units susceptible of independent use or consist of two or three such units combined under certain linking conditions, as with the loss of primary accent. Words are usually separated by spaces in writing, and are distinguished phonologically, as by accent, in many languages.
Source: Dictionary.com http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/word
Etymology: O.E. word "speech, talk, utterance, word," from P.Gmc. *wurdan (cf. O.S., O.Fris. word, Du. woord, O.H.G., Ger. wort, O.N. orð, Goth. waurd), from PIE *were- "speak, say" (see verb). The meaning "promise" was in O.E., as was the theological sense. In the plural, the meaning "verbal altercation" (as in to have words with someone) dates from 1462. Wordy is O.E. wordig "verbose." Wording "choice of words" apparently was coined by Milton (in "Eikonoklastes," 1649). Word processor first recorded 1970. A word to the wise is from L. phrase verbum sapienti satis est "a word to the wise is enough." Word of mouth is recorded from c.1553.
Source: Online Etymology Dictionary http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?search=word&searchmode=none
This Sweet Trade
by A. Leigh Jones
December 1661 - June 1662
The Caribbean Sea
Dearest Bello,
If I could find the words, I would tell you of all the things I've seen, the men I've met, the color of the sky at night and the sounds of the sea birds in the morning. Even then, truly, there would be no way to explain how it feels to be at sea like this, one man among many on a ship bound for Port Royal and the wilds of Jamaica. The sea is relentless, pounding against the ship day and night, storms and sunshine, and always there is the sea, always, and always I know there is nothing but rum and wood, just the remnants of former trees, to keep the whole of us afloat.
They say the Isle of Tortuga does eat men alive, and a man such as myself, a passenger, must not disembark, but I shall try nonetheless. Even if I should not obtain the shore, I will endeavor to have the Captain post this letter for me when he makes delivery of certain cargo.
These men, these sailors, this is not the Royal Navy, Bello. Some are barely more than children and many have been conscripted, and have been at sea for most of their lives. Some have wives and some have not, and many have not seen a woman in more moons than they can count. A good many of them are like me, like us, but also, they are not. Thus far I have seen no tenderness among them, although they rut like the sun might not rise tomorrow if they do not, cocks hard beneath their breeches by day, bare backs in the moonlight by night, their sounds riding high on the salt air, mixing with the sounds of the sea. Every gasp, every grunt, every groan, waves slapping the sides of the ship and men's thighs slapping into each other.
Even when I was dizzy with seasickness and flux, as I was at the first, desperately ill and at the rails more often than not, my cock would stiffen to hear them and I would want, I would want. I would slide my hand down the front of my trousers, silent, for I share a berth with three others (hammocks strung from wall to wall, moving with ship, always moving as I am always wanting), my gut in seven kinds of turmoil, and still my seed would spill for you, hot over my fingers, sticky in the palm of my hand.
I know this voyage is meant by my father to be a punishment, as is my banishment to Jamaica, just as your father has sent you to live amongst the monks until such time as he calls for you again. I am not at all certain this missive will find you, especially given its contents, but as yours found me in London before this ship set sail, I must assume the reverse route will also find you well. I have never felt so free as I do right now, and I pray you are continuing to find what solace you may in your studies, in the Italian countryside, and also in yourself.
My memories of our first fumblings in your father's stables have given me great comfort, as did your letter recounting our last time together. I confess I have read it over and over again, listening to the men as they fuck where they may, your words as vivid as my memories, your cock in my hand, your lips, the scent of horses and hay on your skin. There is nothing on all the ocean that smells like you, not even your letter, not anymore. You wrote these words and I hear them at night when I close my eyes:
I can still feel you inside me, if I try, although my fingers are nothing of your cock, two of them together, three, and still it is not like you, your breath on my neck, your cock inside of me, the heat of it, the stretch... I left my fingerprints on your hips, on your arms. I sunk my teeth into your flesh. I was selfish in my desire to be with you for as long as I could, remembered pleasure pulsing through me, the taste my own seed so much like yours and not at all the same.
Forgive the ink-pools, Bello. I have spilled clumsily and forgotten the sand, so carried away in these few moments of privacy, writing your words and carrying them from my fingers to my cock, dark along my shaft, my own thumbprint right at the head, right over the slit, a tease, a tease where your tongue should be, your mouth. Bitter ink stains my lips now, too, my lips, my cock, my fingers. You make me dizzy with need, and this life at sea, the salt air, it makes me wild, reckless, wanting.
I must go above deck now, stand my turn at watch. I will take up this letter once more when next I find myself alone, and will endeavor to find my thoughts again, if the wind has not carried them all away.
Days go by, weeks. Night after night I think of you, your letter concealed with these pages, hidden in the pocket I did sew inside the leg of these trousers long before we set sail. I am meant to disembark when we reach Jamaica and take up the post my father has arranged. To listen to the men, my services would indeed be heartily received, but they say, as well, that the ships sailing in and out of Port Royal are in near-constant need of a Surgeon's services.
Though I am not formally trained I have already proven my worth on this voyage, tending the wounds of the sailors after the Surgeon with whom we set sail fell ill of the flux. He was buried at sea while the air was still cool and I had yet to find my sea legs; it was soon after we had first left port. You see, they do not boil their water as we learned to do on the banks of the Seine, and the flux takes many men both at sea and after, landfall no certain guarantor of life.
I remember when we learned that essential truth, you and I on the run from the Castle guards, you shirtless still and I pulled from sound sleep, the Count you had been courting at long last well-buggered and the Countess outraged. Just as I began to fear for our horses and our lives, the smoke of the Romany fires did guide us to safety, their wooden rafts tied along the riverbank, lanterns strung between the brightly colored tents, children playing and men singing, and the wine, oh, there was so much wine!
I remember the woman we shared those nights along the Seine, so beautiful, her laugh, her breasts, soft and full, dark nipples sweet on our tongues… Do you remember her, too, Bello? She was lovely, but it was your body I wanted most, your hands in my hair and your cock in my mouth, though I did enjoy her, too, the creamy insides of her thighs, the slick heat of her cunt and the way she rode you, moaning softly into my mouth. I enjoyed the way your eyes found mine as you came inside her, and I enjoyed her, as well, I cannot lie. Moreover, I would not, even if I could. She was delicious, a rare treat, and yet, I do not crave her, do not long for her, do not wish for more.
No, I favor men, Bello, and I say this to you now: I will not marry as my father wishes, wi
ll not court the fine daughters of the Landed English should I live to see Jamaica's shores. I will not, though it would win me much good grace back home. I am not being noble in my refusal, nor is this a boyish rebellion against the ties that bind a son to his father, me to mine and you to yours. I simply do not wish to marry. I am stubborn, as you well know, strong-willed even when I am wrong, and God alone can save me when I know I am in the right, and though my back does bear the scars of it, I do not care. I am willing to suffer these marks, to be looked upon with disdain, to be ugly in the eyes of other, lesser men, if that be the price I must pay to wear my own skin.
Bello, I beg you to understand. I will not return to England. I will not return at all.
Just over a fortnight ago, we were nearly boarded off the coast of Curacao. Such a near thing, I could see with my own eyes the paint on their bodies and the gold in their ears: Spaniard Pirates, every last one. There was a powerful fog that morning, thick and heavy, and the sun had just barely taken the horizon, pale light hanging in the air, impenetrable, so that we did not see them until it was almost too late, and only our absolute silence saved us from certain peril. We manned the ship's guns and armed ourselves with pistols and daggers, those with the skill to wield a cutlass doing so fearlessly. Bello, our adventures together did serve me well that morn! So close did our ships pass, I could have reached out and picked a Pirate's pocket if I so chose, though even I am not so foolish. We fought hand to hand and ship to ship, the sun burning through the fog just as we struck, many of us wounded and many more of them.
I learned thus one of the men I have stood watch beside these many weeks, Cohen, is a Jew, escaped from the slavery of the Spaniard ships some years previous and eager still to take his revenge. He fought for his life and mine, too, for his honor and for this ship, and he stood beside me in Surgery afterward, his own wounded arm messily stitched, and assisted me as he was able. We lost two men overboard, their injuries unknown to me, three on deck were dead before I reached them, and one we lost to the Spaniard's guns long after we sailed on, his arm blown off by the powder and burns across his chest, more blood lost than my skills could overcome. We took their cargo and their coin and left their ship behind, damaged beyond seaworthiness, and now, Bello, you are learning the truth of the matter.
I did not go ashore when we reached Tortuga, nor did I give this letter to the Captain, despite knowing full well he was bound for the post, though I did give him what coin I had promised. I am a man of my word, as always I have been. I entrusted the ship's Master with a letter for the man who was to meet me at the Jamaican port, a barrister and a man all aboard who have had cause to know him say is trustworthy. The letter was only to explain to him in far fewer words what I am explaining to you now. There were many ships anchored in Tortuga's Bay when we arrived, and to hear tell, though these ships do fly England's colours they are not at all like the ship upon which I set sail. No, these were Buccaneer ships, many of them, roving just this side of lawlessness, seeking treasure wherever they may find it, and I would be lying if I said the idea did not instantly appeal.
I could hear the men aboard these ships carousing late into the night, the rum flowing as free as the song, French and English together, fist-fights and laughter floating over the water of the bay, so clear you could see the bottom even by moonlight, so blue by day it rivals the clearest summer sky. It sounds a paradise, I know, and it looks one, too, the land lush with all manner of greenery, and yet, there is heat like you could not imagine. The wetness in the air when the wind stills is enough to suffocate a man where he stands, and as I said, the men speak of Tortuga in hushed tones, as if the island itself might hear them, might come for them whilst they slept. And thus, those of us not bid to do so by the Captain himself felt no need to venture ashore despite our lengthy journey.
We were anchored two nights already and set to sail for Jamaica the following morn, the decks below too stuffy to countenance and nothing but drink to alleviate my boredom as I sat beneath the stars, my legs stretched across the deck and back against the hold. I know not how long I waited before Cohen sat down beside me, his bare arm brushing against mine, his skin damp with sweat and heated through. When at last he did speak, he said he knew the Captain of the ship anchored just starboard, the Katherine's Bounty. He was certain her Captain and most of these others would sail into Jamaica's Port Royal a fortnight hence, two at the outset, and would welcome me aboard if I should wish to rove with them, and right then my head began to spin. Me, a Buccaneer!
I could barely contain my heart within my chest it did beat so fast, the thrill of the possibility and Cohen so close, his skin flushed, his desire to keep my company beyond the last days of our voyage plain to see. Whether it was just friendship he sought or more, I could not be certain, though we had become closer since our encounter with the Spaniard ship. Just friendship, I thought, though my cock stiffened to see him thus, bare-chested in the moonlight and his tongue darting out over his dark lips. I had imagined him many times, Bello, naked and writhing against me, your words in my head and his body covering mine.
I had to pull myself together quickly then, just a swift rub of my palm against my crotch to steady me, as Cohen said he thought it possible that the Captain might forego Jamaica if he could acquire substantial crew here, as there was still plenty of time for a smart Captain to take a prize before the issuing of New Orders required his return to Port Royal. I admit I was not certain what precisely he meant at the time, but as I wished to meet this Captain before I considered his idea further, we and three others rowed a small boat alongside her. We were greeted heartily by her crew, once Cohen and the others were recognized, promptly plied with sweetened rum and tales until the Captain spotted us, beckoned Cohen into his cabin, and myself as well, as I had already quite attached myself to Cohen's hip.
And so you know now what I am to say next, I know you do, Bello. If you are able to flee the monks and reach the shore, I would beg you board a ship bound for Jamaica and seek out my barrister, for I have left him instructions pertaining to your arrival, be it six months hence or six years. He will know where to find me, and what to do with you until such time as I am able to collect you up again and hold you close. Yes, I am at sea, as you must certainly have ascertained by now, and serving as the Surgeon to this ship's crew and her Captain. I am not nearly the sailor Cohen is, though I am learning as I go, and I do have it on good authority I will always be welcome aboard a roving ship, this or any other, so long as the men in my care do not die at an alarming rate. And lo, men do yet die, with regard for any Surgeon's skill, but that is to be expected.
This is a dangerous life, Bello, though perhaps not more so than life on Jamaica itself, where men die so quickly it's nigh impossible to work a plantation without slave labour. Most men do not trouble their morals over such things, not as I do, and not as I know you would. I have spent but a few days there myself, long enough to send a short note to you advising of this longer missive to follow and interspersed with every other pertinent detail, the code of which I hope amused you, and as well to make my barrister's acquaintance, as fine and trustworthy a man as I had been led to believe.
As well, I did survey with Cohen the parcel to which he sought the deed when last he was in port. It is in the mountains, high above the sea and so lush we had no choice but to tether the horses we had borrowed for the day and walk the last of the distance ourselves. Roving is at once brutal and brilliant, costly and lucrative, and the men who take this risk be every bit as rough as the sea herself, but a life such as this is a freedom I have never known, and I cannot imagine I would ever be willing to give it up without a fight.
Cohen lies beside me as I write this, no desk have we aboard this ship, with his hand curved around the inkpot and his breath warm on my skin, the ink staining my fingers and the deck of the cabin we share with two other of the crew. He is learned, quick with sums and fluent in the language of the Spaniards, as valued for this ability as for his skills at sail. He doe
s read to me sometimes, when the winds are still and there is naught to do, or we speak of ideas, philosophies, mathematics; we speak of you, of you and I and of your words, and we take our pleasure together, our bodies slick with sweat, our gasps muffled in each other's skin, not for secrecy but for privacy, for this is still a new thing between us and the men are as bored as we, enjoying a good tease at our expense almost as well as a good romp of their own.
Just now Cohen whispered in my ear, bade me tell you how he found me watching him this morn, naught but a length of cloth wrapped around my waist and my cock standing straight out like a sail in a stiff wind, but I cannot, Bello, for I did but hardly notice. Cohen was at the watch, the sun rising up over the horizon and I had just woken, the ship quiet and the sea a glassy still. Though I knew I would see him at the lookout, I was still taken aback by his form. All lean muscle is he, tall and wiry, wet breeches clinging to his body and his dark hair tied back with a crimson square, long curls hanging down his back in a thick rope. He was stunning, Bello, his cock outlined by the rising sun, soft and vulnerable, the ridge accentuated by the practices of his people, and of a sudden I had a notion to protect it, to protect him, so beautiful and bare.
And his mouth, Bello, when you are here, if you should come, you will taste it for yourself, the plush heat of him, the sweetness. I could not help but kiss him then and there, press him back and back until there was only cool damp wood of the mast and the heat of his mouth, his body, his naked cock, shorn of its foreskin. I had to take it in hand and line it up to mine, slit to slit, and draw my own foreskin forward until it slid over the dark head of my cock and onto his, wet already with early seed. Oh, he did shiver then, his whole body, and I could feel his heartbeat, feel it beat as if it were my own. One slow stroke and then another and another, Cohen moaning with such abandon I almost lost myself in the sound of him, the feel of him, his cock throbbing inside my skin, spurt of hot seed against my open slit, filling my foreskin and spilling over, so intense my vision blurred, my own seed shooting forth like an echo, so overcome with sensation it seemed an afterthought to me, although the feel of it did drive Cohen as wild as his pleasure drove me.