Pirate Story

Here's the latest installment of my new story. I promise to try and post some of Maedaeria soon (BTW, I think I'm going to change its name to Elvaeria...what do you think?). I have a lot more of it written, but I haven't had a chance to type it out on the comp yet! (Yes, I actually wrote it in a notebook!!! hehe)

Anyway, please tell me what you think!! Some that you haven't read yet, Kateri!! hehe! Anyone who doesn't know what's going on, you can read the beginning of the story here , or, if you've read the beginning but haven't read th second chapter, you can read that here. BTW, this story, like Kateri's, is still unnamed, with nothing more than "Pirate Story" to describe it!! Any ideas for a name??

Ciao!!

xoxo

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Emma Camille stood on the gangplank, taking one last look at the scene before her. Her father, Mr. Camille, a tall, handsome man, stood beside her younger brother Matthew on the docks, waving. Matthew, his plump cheeks stuffed with sweetmeats, gazed absentmindedly into the sky.

Emma, tearing herself away from this sight, quickly boarded the St. Bartholomew, on which Mrs. Montclair and her daughter Viviane stood waiting for her. Mrs. Montclair looked sympathetically into Emma’s eyes as the young girl reached them.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s come over me,” Emma murmured, blushing, as she brushed a stray teardrop from her cheek.
“Oh, dear girl, you’ll see them again soon,” Mrs. Montclair laughed, giving Emma’s shoulders a squeeze.
“Come on,” Viviane smiled, linking arms with her friend. “Let’s explore the ship!”

As the two girls walked along the deck, arm-in-arm, Viviane tried to cheer Emma up.
“Don’t worry, Emma; you’ll see them all in a few months! And you’ll be so busy bashing it up in France and Italy, you’ll never know where the weeks have gone!”
“Of course, I know you’re right,” agreed Emma, trying to smile. If only she could explain to her friend that it was not pining for her family that made her heart ache. Indeed, she scarcely felt she would miss any of them at all. But no, admitting such would be unforgivable. Even Viviane would never understand what Emma meant, for she had grown up with a dotting mother who loved nothing more than to be with her daughter.

Later that night, Emma lay on the bottom bunk, Viviane fast asleep above her. Emma, curled under the warm covers, silently scribbling into a small, leather-bound journal.

“Dear Diary,
"So far everything has been so amazing. This ship, the St. Bartholomew is enormous, and filled with the most interesting people I’ve ever seen. I know that this is going to be one of the most amazing and unforgettable times of my life. Ahead of me are three months full of new and exciting places to see, new people to meet, whole trunks full of the loveliest gowns, hundreds of balls, and amazing adventures! Isn’t it strange, than, that I am not completely and entirely happy?

"But I can’t help it, you see, because I know I am not loved. How can that be, you may ask, when I have hundreds of friends and admirers all around me? I think there is one thing that every girl longs for more than anything else. Probably most girls don’t know how much they long for it, because they have it already, and have had it all their lives. But I know it. And I long for it more than words can tell.
What is this thing, you may well wonder, which is highest in the desires of my heart? It is simply this: a mother. Oh, but you do have a mother, you say. True, I do have a biological mother, someone who gave birth to me. But that fact alone does not make her my real mother. A real mother, you see, feels something for her daughter.

"It is so hard, it is so unfair! All around me are girls who take their mothers for granted. Some even complain to me about how irritating it is that their mother is always trying to spend time with them, how she always has to know everything about them. They tell me how irksome it is that their mothers are always trying to be their friend!

"I suppose it’s not fair of me to judge them for this. They don’t know what it is like to have a mother who could care less about you. They don’t know how much I wish I had a mother who actually wanted to spend any time with me, who wished to know anything at all about me. A mother who actually wanted to be my friend? Unimaginable! Unthinkable! Oh, how longed for!

"It would comfort me to know that the reason my mother cares so little about me is simple because she is not a maternal women. Or, perhaps, she loves me a great deal, but she is simply the kind of woman who does not show her feelings easily. But this cannot be so, for I have never known a child more dotted on, more lathered with affection, than Matthew, my own brother! My mother absolutely adores Matthew! It seems her whole life revolves around him. She can scarcely stand to have him out of her sight for two whole minutes at a time.

"So what is so wrong with me, than, that makes her care so little for me? If only I knew. Perhaps I could change it. Perhaps I could get rid of whatever offends her so! If she dislikes my hair, I would cut it off! If she dislikes the way I dress, I would throw out my entire wardrobe! If she dislikes my laugh, I would never laugh again!

"Dear Diary, listen to me complain! I am surely on of the luckiest girls in the world. I have everything, some would say. My father is rich, my house is large and elegant, I always have the latest fashions and loveliest gowns to wear. I go to dozens of balls and parties a week, I enjoy scrumptious food. I only lack one thing. A mother.”


* * * * * * * * *