The Lieutenant’s Logbook, The End Of The End.

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Austen Parody, creative writing, jane Austen, Mermaid Myths, Mermaids, Period Drama, Regency period, Sailors, short stories, Spoofs, The napoleonic wars

The 21st Day of September. The Year of Our Lord 1803.

My sudden declaration that we ought, sans permitting another moment to pass, construct a raft, was not immediately met with the awing wonderment that the deviser of such a scheme might expect.

“A raft?” Repeated Young Frank with youthful incredulity. “What accursed madness is this?”

Despite Frank’s objections and continued cries of “Folly, t’is accursed lunacy, for no raft could survive such a perilous stretch of such deuced strong tides!” It was not too long until the crew were wholly persuaded and we had begun to construct a vessel large enough for the elegantly elaborate arch and all of our company (who would form our wedding party). As the crew sought the finest trees for the hull, from beyond the golden sands, I too made my way towards the tree line. However t’was not sea fairing timbers that I sought but fruits and other such delights. For no marriage can be considered respectable if one’s wedding party is not extended the courtesy of a wedding breakfast (such a want of sweetmeats occurs only in Cheapside, I am certain).

The Lieutenant’s Logbook, The Middle Of The End.

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Austen Parodies, creative writing, Frances Burney, jane Austen, Master And Commander, Master And Commander Parody, Napoleonic Wars, Period Drama, Regency period, short stories

The 21st Day Of September, The Year of Our Lord 1803.

I yet stood fast and was quite decided upon remaining thus until the coquette before me answered the question I had put, candidly, before her. How was it come to be that we had discovered her upon the reef in the guise of a mermaid?

The lieutenant’s Logbook, The Beginning Of the End.

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Austen Parodies, creative writing, jane Austen, Mari Antoinetts, Master And Commander, Period Drama, Pirates, Regency era, Regency Fiction, short stories, The French Revolution

September 21st. The Year Of Our Lord 1803.

I stood upon those aureate shores, so longed for whilst out at sea, yet now so loathed as they had revealed the impossible. For the siren was no siren at all. She was no maiden of the sea, no ethereal creature. She was human, quite as human as you or I. With a brace of legs and no more mystery surrounding her existence than a footman’s powdered wig. The sole questions that remained were how she came to be amongst us, and what had led her to guise herself as such a seraph!