Madam Petulengro leaned forward, examining the ancient skeleton with interest. Bones here was found in an isolated cabin rotting away in the Barataria Preserve in Louisiana.
“I ain’t got all day, boy.”
Bones’ skull turned in the gypsy’s direction.
“That’s more like it,” she said. “What’s yer story then?”
“Cursed, of course. Jean Lafitte’s crew, a smuggler. One of your ancestors took a dislike to me, because my bones have been in the bog for more than a hundred years.”
“Well, you probably deserved it.”
“Madam, does any soul deserve to linger forever without rest? I never wanted to be pirate crew anyway, all I ever wanted to be—”
“If you say ‘Lumberjack’, you’re going right back in the bog,” Madam Petulengro scowled.
“What? Don’t be ridiculous. All I ever wanted was to act. On the stage.”
The gypsy rubbed her chin and said, “Done!”
After a few mystic passes and some magic dust, Bones regrew his flesh. He stood before her and bowed, restored. And broke into song:
“For I am a Pirate King!
And it is, it is a glorious thing
To be a Pirate King!”
“Oh, no no.” Madam Petulengro covered her face and sobbed. “Not Penzance.”
Apologies to Rodgers & Hammerstein
Inspired by this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt:
ParkInkSpot 