Extreme Pirates
by Nicky Drayden

First Published by Flash Me Magazine, Issue 21, July 2008
All Rights Reserved

Three times Archibald Smithe had been made to walk the plank, and every time he'd deserved it. Forgetting to batten down the hatches, spilling an entire vat of steaming gruel belowdecks, and once he'd accidentally started a mutiny when he'd taken a few liberties relaying the captain's orders. But never, ever, in Archibald's thirty years of pirating had he experienced a pain this intense.

"Don't arch your back," the demon wench called, looking down at him as he struggled to stay atop this ball, this instrument of torture. "Keep straight, or I'll have you here all day!"

Archibald clenched his gut, sweat beading up beneath his beard, and he felt like he was sailing the humid seas again. He could taste the salt in his mouth already. If he passed this test, if this demon wench deemed him fit, he'd be a part of her crew. The Extreme Pirates. She was a lady, sure, but she was tough. In the forty-five minutes since he'd stepped foot into the recruitment office, she'd forced him and a handful of other hopefuls through a strenuous, though somewhat pointless regimen. Being one of the only men present, Archibald liked his odds.

"Back straight!" she yelled at him. "Feel it in your core! Your anchor. Do you think you have what it takes?"

"Aye, Captain!" Archibald barked out instinctually. The demon wench's eyes eased into slits, then looked up at the clock on the wall as the hour drew near.

"Hold it. Hold it. Three. Two. One. Release."

The recruits all breathed an even sigh. Archibald fell to the floor, the pain within him running the entire length of his existence. He watched the demon wench expectantly as she folded her arms across her chest and paced the room. The others toweled off and sipped from brightly colored jugs, but Archibald couldn't relax. He knew deep in his wretched heart that this was his last chance at pirating again.

The demon wench approached him with a smile. "You did good. Is this your first time?"

"Me? Heavens no. I've worked under the greatest. Steward. Knott. Red Beard."

She gave him a dismissive nod and started towards the doors in the back. "We'll see you next week then? Same time."

"Wait ... " He felt the soreness spreading to his nether regions as he hobbled after her. "Next week. Does that mean I'm in?"

"In?"

"On your crew. Extreme Pirates, that's what the sign said out front." He pointed at the glass wall. Archibald had never been much good at letters, but even he could make them out, three feet high each and in reverse.

"Hmmm," she said, hands on her hips. "I guess the 'l' is a little crooked. But it's Pilates. Extreme Pilates."

~~~

 

Low-Carb Cheesecake
by Nicky Drayden

First Published by Drabblecast, Episode #79, September 2008
All Rights Reserved

Microscopic explosions danced across my taste buds. I closed my eyes to savor the delectable flavors. This couldn't be right. There was no way this cheesecake could be low-carb as the menu had advertised. I flagged my waiter over, shoving a last innocent forkful into my mouth before I faced the truth and ensuing pounds.

"Yes, ma'am? Is the cheesecake to your liking?"

"Very much so," I said, patting my cloth napkin at my mouth. "In fact, I think you must have accidentally given me the regular version instead."

"I'm afraid that is impossible," he said, carefully annunciating as if his words were as delicate as lace. "This is our signature cheesecake. The only one we serve."

The joyous expression that crossed my face must have been a startling one, since the waiter suddenly looked overcome with worry.

"Are you all right, ma'am?"

"Yes, fine." I glanced around the restaurant, noting how thin everyone seemed to be, and how they were blissfully shoveling bite after bite of cobblers, cakes, and pies down their throats. Perhaps I should've dared to have more than the mixed greens salad for dinner, but it wasn't too late to indulge. I looked up bashfully at the waiter and said, "Could I get another slice, please?"

"Of course. I'll have that right out to you. And will that be all?"

"Just one thing," I said, nodding towards the cheesecake. "How do you do it?"

"I'm not allowed to say, miss. It's a family recipe."

"Oh, I see," I said, stroking my purse with an exaggerated motion, trying to imply there'd be a big tip involved if he spilled it.

He shot a series of nervous looks around the place, then pulled a rag from his apron. As he pretended to wipe a mess up from the table, he leaned in close to me and said, "Pixie dust."

"Pixie dust!" I said, and he immediately shushed me.

"It's sweeter than sugar with a fourth of the calories. The owners brought the recipe with them from the old country." He eyed my purse, the polish in his voice replaced with that of street sensibilities. "I hope you know I could lose my job for telling you this."

"I hear the going rate for tips on secret recipes is at two hundred percent these days."

The waiter looked satisfied with my offer. After all, what was forty bucks compared to a lifetime free from dieting and exercise? I took another forkful, closely examining my dessert. I could see the sparkles glistening under the artificial light of the restaurant. Perhaps I could take a trip to the old country to find pixies of my own. I imagined myself in my kitchen, my new tiny companions flapping their delicate wings as they hovered above my mixing bowl. Then we'd all laugh as they cast plumes of their magic sweetness into my favorite recipes.

I saw the waiter coming with my second piece, so I popped the last morsel into my mouth, but as I chewed, I crunched down onto something hard. I discretely spat the offending bit into my napkin, then looked at it in horror.

"Waiter, what is this?" I asked, holding up the napkin for him to see. Clearly it was a tiny glass slipper, no bigger than the nail on my pinky finger.

"Oh," he said. "Sorry about that. The blades on the blender must need sharpening."

"You mean..." I swallowed back the lump in my throat and ignored the sloshing in the pit of my stomach. "Are you telling me that I just ate a pixie?"

"Not a whole one. Just a couple of them – five seconds on chop, fifteen on puree – is enough to make three cheesecakes, easily." There it was, that concern on his face again, this time more grave. "Are you all right, ma'am? Ma'am? Can I get you a glass of milk?"

~~~