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Today in Alternate History
Day in Alternate History Blog
I Was Shot
A Parallel Story to Logbook of Danny
By G. Bone
Three Grains shy of Nine Bells Night
After a spell at this dock, the ship has decided to leave. There was a drumming
in the heart. I have been given leave to dart above deck. It is a great expanse.
There is Lincoln Davis, Second Mate, who watches the island fade away. Iím not
softwood. Iíve had relations with women. The steam cog whirl pumps to the
point that the wood thumbs with a regular pulse. There is Georgic overseeing the
heart beat with sweat and heat falling off his face filled with a joy that only
the truly berserk would know at that point of high. I asked Davis, on what was
the deal with this repetition of names. Davis simply shrugged and told me that
itíll be informed over dinner at The Door.
So we had dinner at the Door Ė itís very much in the space of cargo room
that was simply lopped off at the third cube measurement thing. We were eating
some delicious dinner that I got sick from. It was grog and then Davis took me
to some place ďniceĒ. It ended up being near the bow, where the wind whips
oneís hair about, and feels all so softwood. Davis said something to the
effect that the Fleet was grand, there was something of an Empire back in the
day, and that it was just plain wrong of him to do that to me.
I do not get it. Davis was going softwood on me. I told him that I was a man.
Even though I didnít have the cannon to prove it, heís on the illusion that
I am Isobel. He thinks that Iím some spark flag to the Grand Old Fleet when itís
just this one ship in Eastern Waters that donít mean a thing when the shotís
out of the box. I had high hopes of my girl once I did a contact in the sailorís
bag that was circulating about town. Then I realized when I came back later that
she had moved on; three steps away from me really gaining the success I had in
I do not know what is wrong with Davis. He takes me up to the masts and tells
me of Texas. Itís all wrong Ė the Empire fell Ė and up came the Fleet.
Then he tells me of Isobel and I leave him. I donít want to hear this. I
already know the truth. I go to my bunk and I hack off the long useless black
locks I have been wearing in a sailorís tail. I am not that stupid in cutting
what makes me a woman.
I only got a couple of turns of sleep. I took some medicine provided by Rang
on getting rid of a headache. I ended up being awake all night. I had visions of
my old life in my head. Iím thinking that I had too much grog the previous
night. I am trying to get the sleep that I want on this stupid ship but Iím
not getting it. I plead to the Prophet just for a guidance - maybe a magic
needle to show me the way of North Ė but this is someplace other Ė and I donít
have much friends about.
There is this note underneath my door that Kansas wants to talk to me. He
doesnít do it out open because heís a Snake Head. How ironic.
Seven Grains past Seven Bells Day
Iím writing this before my shift. I remember the songs that they used to play
in the Bay. What did I do to my hair? I look like a boy in the mirror. Why am I
doing this? Iím not an alter ego of myself. I hit the wall and Perky is my
room-mate. What have I become? I am aware on what is on my chest. I donít have
it down there. Itís like Iím slipping into something that I do not want to
be. Look at these pictures Ė Iíve never been Isobel but I feel like I know
her. Why am I writing this way? I donít talk this way. I put Ďahí in every
bit of my sentences. Look at my visage and despair, the thousand bits of sand
everywhere. I hit my head against the wall. They donít have good dances here.
They have something called hard house that is fast pace. They say itís the
ashes of yesterday, yesteryear, and only now theyíre coming up to par, now
that the Fleet has been rendered into pieces. The heart where the honeycomb is
pulses with the energy of the day Ė Georgic comes as a little spider from his
small den in the heart Ė crouching as a thing called a roach on the floor, his
blind eyes all seeing, his maniacal smile at odd times of the day, being a
little gremlin in the night.
Perky is the shade of melting night. Iím doing an experiment now. I will
come later on. The ship is quite massive. What have I been doing now? Iíve got
a schedule to keep. Perky is always smiles so and I can see how Rang likes her.
They live next door and itís always Rang that comes sombre. He is old and yet
young. Look upon my visage and despair, there are no hope in the Long Roan, and
the Empire is something folly. I fall asleep in the old logbook of Methodist
Fang. Thereís an engraving of the Long Roan, a ship of the line, abandoned in
battle. There was a melody of sadness when it happened to me. I do not know
Isobel but it seems that Iím becoming her. The Wrinkles say that Iím already
adopting her traits, my Wrinkle being laced with Colonial, but just the way that
sheís saying it back when the bridge exploded with cannon fire. Iím not her
and Iím not her. They have a mistake in the bow that I am Isobel. I tell them,
that Iím Allard, Iím Allard, Iím a man, and this is a moment of fear when
the cannons rip into the other folk, their masts splintering, there is no hope
Iím Blackfoot. I hear Haggard being a worn out man. He says that there is
nothing here. He points at a chart and thereís where we are going. We are
going to rip the Snake Heads a new one (what pray tell?) and to Onion Nine. Itís
funny Ė I go up on the battle bridge and all of them wear something as
Wehrmacht Ė the words laced every so often Ė the style that I would see in
Colonial Marines, Colonial Marines, I repeat it so that I know the words.
Haggard says that Iím his favorite messenger, the sudden realization that I
saw Texas, right before the cannon blast.
Twenty Three Grains Eight Bells Morning
From The Logbook of Methodist Fang: the Long Roan; (page 38)
It behooves me to write about the Wehrmacht, since I have encountered a man that
states he is from there.
The Wehrmacht was something from the past; I had family that was of the Fleet as
it grew in its glory days. They would often state emphatically that it was the
Wehrmacht that made them do it; otherwise they would have never risen up the
Naval Seal in the first place. I took a tour of the Mod Gay, one of the former
Colonies that We had and hold, although the actual fact of holding remains to be
seen. The Wehrmacht was something ugly Ė Commander Blue for that is his name
that I had been talking to about the said entity Ė the massive troops that
forced the Fleetís hand at Gettysburg West.
I do remember the time when my father came in with the fact that the Fleet had
defeated the last traces of the Wehrmacht. It was a massive laughter and the
last thing that we ever saw of their famed Marine Core was a general retreat to
Elf territory. Although this was an urban myth of that time, the general fact
was shown to be true with the infamous battle with the Elfish Fleet, just to
show how we are default in the areas of Naval Infantry. It is a shame that we
should be at war with each other; they are more into their history to the point
that they would gladly clear up the evidence on the First Empire, the glories
enthralled in that lineage therein, and those gaps within our history that
simply cannot be explained through the lies of the Wehrmacht, even though that
is a biased statement that was procured from my father, may peace be upon his
The matter thus remains on what to do with Commander Blue. I have ensconced him
in this log for future references Ė perhaps a reserve force if I shall ever
have need for it again. He was rather direct in what I needed for the matters of
the Gar Folk. The Gar Folk have been an irritant in my journeys and I must admit
that using Commander Blueís extensive Ömilitant actions let us sayÖwas a
welcome tactic to show the force of the Fleet. Then I realized on what he had
been proposing in the future, his blue stark eyes penetrating my soul, and I
have realized the effect that my father bespoke of when he told me of how the
Wehrmacht ruled the Wilderness with an iron fist.
It can be stated that the Fleet only has this through their cannons.
One Bell after high
There was a poem told to me long ago. The poem was rather long as I remember it.
The only verses I do recall runs as this;
I welcome the rain
It ends so suddenly
I wonder if there will be thunder
It was by this Marine I think, the poet Net Newt. He was famed as a lover boy of
Commandant William True. Then he got shot at Render Bay Ė some other battle
that I lost count some years ago.
There is an undeniable truth to ships; one can get reassigned and not fired.
Thatís for landlubbers. Instead, they have re-assignments and jump ship. I
figured I got the wrong side of the boatswain who then showed just how fast his
ire (from Kansasís vocabulary book) can get. I managed to become Ė what do
they call Ė a scriber. I keep records in the ďmap roomĒ and itís pretty
much my old duties but expanded. I got called by Jones who said that it was the
best that Haggard could get me. He even gave me another logbook to read on
helping with my grammar. Itís of the Kaliningrad Ė the previous ship log
under Fang Ė with a smile on Jonesís face when I thumbed through the roster
on who was commanding. The name Danny Texas came to mind. Iím not too sure
why. I really have been busy just finding my way through the ship, getting away
from Isobel that I can, and emphatically pointing out that I am a man.
The thing about Kansas is that heís not softwood. Nay Ė he is kinder than
most. Heís known as the piper. He showed me how the ďElves did it at
LeningradĒ, climbing up the masts, and showing how his carbine worked. I was
on top of the world on the masts. For the first time I saw where we are going.
We are going into nothing, nowhere, and somewhere. The waters are different
shades of blue, islands everywhere that a woman could see and the trees Ė oh
let me tell you about the trees Ė the pinnacles that one would see only at the
East End Ė at the nose Ė and I was taken aback by the beauty. For the first
time she came unbidden, the memory of helping a stout man with his own problems,
attempting to sort of find a way out, and the blast that tore up the bridge. I
did not want it. I asked Kansas on how he got his name, just to block out the
memory, and he told me that he picked it from a book about a mighty general who
won Gettysburg West, then failed with a sniper at his throat. He patted his
carbine Ė Sharps something Ė with a smile.