• The night was cold, and fog covered the waters around the galleon Amelita. She was a beautiful ship, once owned by the Spanish civil army before being commandeered by the ruthless man known as Augusta Bloodbones. Her sails flowed in the wind like the lightest chiffon, but held the wind like a child holds their plush bear before they drift into the deepest parts of a candy dream. The strong oak of her bow barely made a sound as it cut through the water. The siren mounted at her bowsprit looked as though it was in pain at the thought of now being controlled by the most ruthless and feared man on the tops of the ocean.

    It was unusual weather for an early summer night in the year 1619, but since the start of the general crisis in 1618, nothing could be considered safe anymore. Augusta was far from being any exception. He never showed an inkling of mercy or remorse and he was never seen to care about anyone or anything. He was a legend for being the only man whose gaze can chill the blood on your rattling skeleton with a single look.

    A large mass of bulking man, none other than Augusta Bloodbones, stomped out of his cabin and bellowed a loud call for the crew to gather on the main deck. He chortles and sneers, as he looks over the beauty he had managed to acquire. He could smell the wet oak of her body, the glide of her sanded skin against the vast blue around him, the mist she spat up lightly dampening his hair and beard.

    The men gathered, thirty or more of them, all loudly chanting at their leader and mentor with hoots, howls and cat calling whistles. When Bloodbones raised his hand in indication of a speech, the crowd of filthy bandits hushed down.

    "As ye all know, it's been a fine night." The captain started with a chuckle, lowering his hand to rest it on his ponderous, shaking belly. His other hand rose slowly, stroking the beard from his chin to his sternum. He continued, "We have a beautiful ship we can make into the devils knave, and enough food to last us unto the coming winter months! Tonight, we shall drink the rum and eat the pork until we can do so no longer!"

    His enthusiasm was followed by loud calls and hoots, fists pumped in the air with excitement. Augusta sneered, then turned on his heel to lock eyes with the less enthusiastic servant behind him. Maurice Smythe, an older mute man, stood staring at the dark eyes of his captain, his knees shook in his boots as the helms large size confronted him.

    "Ye shall watch the ships direction tonight, and be allowed the day off tomorrow with as much gin and rum as ye can drink, understand Smythe?" The nervous lad nodded, saluted and scampered to stand behind the wheel with a forlorn look on his face. The chief gave a last glance out at the fog, then retired to the gull for the evening to celebrate his victory commandeer.

    Maurice tapped his fingers on the wheel in a rhythmic pattern, watching the sails flap in the wind. Grinning, he pulled a flask from under his belt and took a swig of the strong liquor he had hidden inside. The whiskey poured hot and burning down his throat, as he took a second swig before he screwed the lid back on and stuffed the container back where he kept it stowed. Tapping his fingers to an old pirates’ folk song that sang in the distance, he peered out beside the ship at the water. He could barely see a few meters around the ship, but a light caught his eye, and as he looked up, the breath hitched in his throat, for he saw something that couldn’t even be missed in the foggiest of nights.

    He bolted from where he was stationed, to burst through the doors to the rooms in the ballast and stores of the ship, where crew members had their celebrations stationed. Augusta looked displeased that Smythe left his position at the wheel. Smythe, however, was fanatically pointing towards the door and hyperventilating, before finally passing out on the table. "His breath reeks of whiskey, capt'n." yelled a crew mate close to the mute fellow.

    Augusta stood with great irritation and sharpness. "Go see what he was ninny-hammering about, Lad!" Bellowed the long bearded chieftain. The startled mate, followed by a few others crawled onto deck to see what was wrong. "Capt'n, come n' see this," Someone called back down. With a heavy sigh, Augusta made his annoyance at having to get up obvious, and clambered slowly up to the main deck. Augusta Bloodbones’ spine chilled and blood froze as he saw the putrid colors of the nightmare beside his newest treasure.

    The ghost ship that scared Smythe into unconsciousness, was barely twenty feet away. It was much bigger than Amelita, and the eerie glow of its grimy deck was a known sight a pirate never wanted to see. The windows emanated a disturbing, yellowish lambency and the sails were tattered and ripped. The sales looked haunted, like they had the form of being filled with wind to power the ship along at the fastest speed, but there wasn't even a gust of air to be felt, for even Augusta's sales were empty. There was no way to fight, and no way to run.

    For the first time in his piracy life, Augusta Bloodbones was afraid. The fear was definite on his face, and his skin crawled as he looked at the flag that would identify the ship. The fact the flag was flowing the wrong way, against the wind instead of with, wasn’t even enough to be the part he knew he should dread most, for they could swear the skull on it had eyes glowing as bright, grungy green as the rest of the deck. The flag on this ship looked like a living entity of its own. It moved very steadily beside Amelita, as if in slow motion.

    The crew started cowering in fear, wallowing in the omen this is meant to be. They hid behind barrels and railings, wherever they could fit, because they knew it was a fight that could not be won. "Why are ye all afraid!?" Cried the mighty captain, trying to swallow the lump of his own fear. He started laughing, and between spouts of laughter, he managed to spit out, "It is just another ship, very poorly taken care of! Ye can barely call it a ship! I wouldn't even throw me trash aboard that thing!"
    The first mate crawled nervously up to the chief, and whispered to the chief in an attempt to not let the others hear him. "Sir that is the Flying Dutchman."

    Augusta grimaced and looked at the man, a third the size of himself. He spat a large glob of drool and snot on the man before using his foot to push the terrified minion back into his cowardly hiding spot. "Do ye think I am afraid? I shall not hold any fear of that ship. It looks too decrepit to cause even the slightest harm to me." The first mate sighed, and scurried closer to his hiding spot behind the mast, making the sign of a cross over his chest and praying that his life may be spared in the least.

    The men started to whisper among themselves in their crevices and nooks, creating the feeling of more ominous worry.

    "The legend of the Flying Dutchman has been around for many years! They say that it's a bad omen to see that sinister vessel!"
    "Don't they say that if ye saw it, ye were going to die?"
    "No... They said if ye saw it, a mermaid would kidnap ye and eat yer soul!"
    "Nonsense! The legend goes that if ye see it, ye suf-"
    "Shut ya boot traps, ya land loving cowards!" Augusta yells, a new vigor about him. He appeared to have his confidence back, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "There will be no deaths for us tonight, for today's been a good day to me already! Ready the cannons!"

    There was slight hesitation, but as soon as their leader lifted an eyebrow in question, there was a parade of "aye aye, capt'n!" From every man on board. If anything was more scary then the Flying Dutchman, it would be Augusta Bloodbones, and he knew it very well.

    The cannons were readied, and they lined them up with brave intent. The crew was more than satisfied to find the ship equipped with some of the finest brand demi-culverins to fire with, with only top gunpowder and cannonballs. On the captain’s order, they all fired. Bloodbones watched as his cannons flew through the small gap between the two vessels, but none of the shots made contact. They all went through, instead, and landed with a heavy plunk into the ocean water a good seventy feet away.

    The waves were high now, high enough to wet the top of the deck with the salty spray when they slapped against the boat. Amelita moaned as she strained against the smashing tridents of water, and she rocked uncontrollably. Poseidon was clearly not on their side today, for there is no sympathy for the wretched Bloodbones. As the crew scampered over the deck, hoisting the sails and trying to regain control of her, she tilted enough that seven or more of the men slipped right over the railing of the great beauty.


    Bloodbones was losing this battle; a battle against a ship not even firing back at them. He looked at the ship he didn’t want to admit he was afraid of until now, and moaned a string of cuss words under his breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to find the glowing vessel fading. It sailed much faster away from them now, and the water around Amelita calmed.

    Augusta Bloodbones felt as though he hadn't taken a breath in ages. The sense of security he felt though, he knew was false, for before the crash came, there was an augmented chill down his spine. His head turned slowly, his eyes going rounder then the moon. Everybody was so busy with the cannons, nobody noticed the glowing ship had redirected the trajectory of their path. He ran to the sternpost side as fast as he could, as the ship ground and smashed against the rock face. The galleon was torn in half, and the crew was going to perish with her. The captain removed his hat and held it to his chest, closing his eyes and praying his death come sooner than later, and whispers to himself, "the Flying Dutchman's ship is an omen of doom, after all. I have failed my men and here, the great Augusta Bloodbones, shall be condemned to Davy Jones locker. A captain must always go down with his ship."

    The last part of Amelita ever seen was the chiffon sails of her mast, torn and tattered, sinking below a cascade of bubbles, and off in the distance, you could see the faint haunted glow of a ship, the deck as gruesome and green as acid, and the windows emitting their yellow luminescence.

    "Welcome aboard, ye rotten scallywag. Ye will be in charge of cleaning the poop deck," Was the first thing Augusta heard as he opened his eyes, and he saw the grime and dirt around him. Men, with their flesh rotting off their skeleton were chained to the masts and railings as prisoners. The crew working the ship were almost fully flesh clad bones, their ankles chained in a long line of shackles.

    The bones on the men were scraped and shaved where shackles, ropes and whips spent years shaping them into the perfect slaves. His eyes locked into the most fearsome set of all: the Flying Dutchman's.

    The Flying Dutchman, despite the legends, was actually quite a handsome man. With his Spanish coat and well-trimmed beard, he did not look the part he was supposed to portray. Until he smiled. His smile was the sickest twist of red and black, his face contorting for his terrifying expression. It was a smile that didn’t need to be pursued by words, because you knew it meant you have found the rest of your eternity.

    The Dutchman smiled his evil grin, and all that could be heard over the rich cackle coming from somewhere deep in his throat was the miserable sound of his crew, made of the most sinister and vile pirates to have ever lived, whining and moaning in grotesque misery. “Augusta Bloodbones. I am the vilest pirate on this see. Welcome to eternity.”