Tuesday, December 30, 2008


“Have you ever been at sea in a dense fog, when it seemed as if a tangible white darkness shut you in and the great ship, tense and anxious, groped her way toward the shore with plummet and sounding-line, and you waited with beating heart for something to happen?"
~Helen Keller

Wednesday, December 24, 2008


~A Yule feast gifted by Libby Boswell.......

Tuesday, December 23, 2008


"He is my other eyes that can see above the clouds; my other ears that hear above the winds. He is the part of me that can reach out into the sea. He has told me a thousand times over that I am his reason for being; by the way he rests against my leg; by the way he thumps his tail at my smallest smile; by the way he shows his hurt when I leave without taking him. (I think it makes him sick with worry when he is not along to care for me.) When I am wrong, he is delighted to forgive. When I am angry, he clowns to make me smile. When I am happy, he is joy unbounded. When I am a fool, he ignores it. When I succeed, he brags. Without him, I am only another man. With him, I am all-powerful. He is loyalty itself. He has taught me the meaning of devotion. With him, I know a secret comfort and a private peace. He has brought me understanding where before I was ignorant. His head on my knee can heal my human hurts. His presence by my side is protection against my fears of dark and unknown things. He has promised to wait for me... whenever... wherever - in case I need him. And I expect I will - as I always have. He is just my dog."

- Gene Hill


To Someone Truly Special....

May all your Yule wishes come true..........


Saturday, December 20, 2008


Avast Mates!

Sendin' ye a wee bit o' Yuletide gladness an' me sincere gratitude t' all who took time from their sailin' t' venture a wee look-see at this here journal. 'Tis no finer feelin' than knowin' someone read what ye wrote from yer heart......

Wishin' ye th' thrill o' imagination....th' solace o' th' written word....an' th' magic o' bein' a pirate in th' comin' year........

I'll leaves ye wit' th' mos' wondrous thing what were said t' me in 2008:

Durin' a rainy outdoor summer Shakespeare rehearsal a wee lass came t' me wit' her umbrella and said that I was welcome t' use it t' stay dry. I noted that it were broken and was afeared she'd injure herself on th' offendin' pokey metal.

I said to her "Honey, it's broken."

To which she replied: "Yes. But it still gives shelter."

And methinks lads an' lasses.....that be all any o' us need t' really know..........

Fair Winds an' a followin' sea in 2009....

Cap'n Mimi Foxmorton

Saturday, November 22, 2008



Ahoy luvs!

'Tis wit' a wee bit o' sadness I post this final PLOT TWIST submitted by my dear new friend Libby Boswell. It has been fun recountin' th' Jacobite adventures o' Violet Moorfields and creatively sharin' along th' way. Oh, Violet ain't dead yet....jus' sailin' on a sea o' cheese.....and I watch th' horizon fer her return........

My sincere thanks t' ye all fer readin this far......

Fair Winds an' a followin' sea......



Tis Libby's last word--and she has Violet to thank for it.

And ooooh she done right for the lobsterback’s liver she did. Well, says I, here’s me opportunity to get shed of the Cameron’s, the Atholl’s and those bloody soldiers. They raised a proper hue and cry, what with the officer’s shouting for men, and then, ah yes! a messenger to send word to the coast for a pursuing ship.

Well, well, maybe fortune might smile upon me yet. Now among the many things I have to thank Greta Van der Kuiken for, one of them just happens to be the finer points of using a cudgel. You do have to know where to hit, for fastest effect.

I do. Sadly, the messenger boy now does too—or I expect he did when he came to.

They do go down with such a nice sound, I must say. But I couldn’t linger.

It was but a hurried heartbeat to strip off my skirt, to the breeches I wore underneath, grab his coat, frisk him for the coin he was given, and leap into the saddle. I figured his coat would cover my bodice well enough till I was further away.

I clapped my heels to that poor beast and we went off hell for leather.

After a few miles I got to chuckling…Violet will make a very clean get away this time—no message will go to the headland, no ship will pursue: I have no intention of delivering it.

I suppose it were the sisterly thing to do. And oh, we may be that after all—what else, I suppose, would you call a person what leaves her husband for the sea, and the promise of treasure but a pirate, hmmm?

I slowed the horse to a better rhythm, and the miles went on, as I mused. Foolish Willie. He just can’t hold his whisky!

Of course he didn’t need to.

I was holding it—and pouring it down his gullet, him being tied to the bed and all. Funny how that worked out.

Men are simple creatures really, Greta once told me—offer them anything to do with their John Thomas, and you can end up leading them by it.

Oh the stories we tell…

Of course, where the hell he thought I was going to find a willing Hessian in that lot, I will never know, but it sufficed to get me his half of the treasure key, some of his clothes, and a very sharp little boot knife with a stag handle, along with his boots to put it in, and get him foxed enough to forget his own mother, let alone where his ‘wife’ may have taken herself off to.

Soon…soon…the hooves drummed along, taking me further away from hated respectability.

Soon, we could hit the coast, and look for a ship. Then soon it would be back to Albany…the jenever cache… and then maybe a trip up the coast to deal with Greta’s turncoat nephew what sold her to the Frogs.

I wonder if Violet might be interested in a joint venture…I know where there’s a sweet little snow that just begs to spread her white wings to a good wind and what might need new owners…

submitted this day by
---Libby Boswell

Sunday, November 16, 2008



Aye well, now there we stood, eyes locked, wit’ naught but a hunk o’ cheese betwixt us. And who can say what either o’ us were thinkin’ at that moment

True love be a right waggish thing an’ life be brief enough indeed t’ pledge yer troth t’ jus’ one soul, ‘specially a landlocked Scotsman with a penchant fer war and an aversion t’ shoes. Takin’ that leap be akin t’ lookin’ down from th’ top mos’ ratlin’s in a gale force wind an’ hopin’ fer more’n an unblest outcome. But right then I knew as well as I e’er would that we had forged an unbreakable bond, one made o’ fondness, cheese an’ hope.

O’ course takin’ responsibility fer me an’ bein’ set free were two entirely different things. And all his loyalty earned him were an asylum stay beside me until the babe were born.

Now, th’ fact that there weren’t no bairn was a sitchy-ation what confused me but, like Merlyn pointed out, all that time chained up in a piss-soaked cell wit’ naught t’ occupy our time were bound t’ lead t’ somethin’.

And I figure that probably weren’t a good thing t’ remind me of.

Our trial now bein’ dismissed an’ our sentence set forth we turned under armed guard
t’ face our destiny. MacGregor reached o’er t’ take holt o’ me hand and his felt warm and strong...and somehow good. It ain’t like me t’ allow such a thing.

So ‘twere then I did th’ only thing I knew t’ put things right. I lunged fer th’ nearest Scot’s dirk and wit' a last look in me husband's eyes plunged it int’ th’ liver o’ th’ Brit what held me under guard.

Then ran like hell.

Ded Aim were waitin’ wit’ a long boat on th’ far side o’ th’ quay as I knew she would be and passed me off as a grommet t’ th’ crew. And from there we rowed from shore toward her waitin’ ship.

I knew better’n t’ look back. Know ye, I ain't entirely made o' stone.

Now, there be a great many o’ ye what keeps askin’ why fer th’ love o’ Neptune did I not jus’ shut me gob an’ play their game? “Twould o’ been easily done.

I only hav’ this in response.

When all’s said an’ done an’ th’ sun drops ‘neath th’ horizon I’d sooner hear th’ snap o’ me own neck as th’ trap door opened beneath me boots than t’ e’er betray me own self.

A piddlin’ length o’ hempen rope held by a gutless rat bast’d hidin’ behind a weapon o’ his own cowardice ain’t ne’er goin’ t’ be enough t’ see Violet Moorfields hanged.

I sail where th’ wind takes me.

For I am a pirate.


by: Violet Moorfields

* Set t’ a tune inside me head...
An’ wit’ me bein’ a musician...naught...I canna help ye more’n that...
But I do encourage all me minstrel friends t' pillage this song and sing it freely so that the legend of Violet may live on.....

Come all ye young fellows
What follows th’ Sea
And take in this tale
That I set forth t’ ye
‘Tis about a young lass
Who did pay a great fee
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

Now Violet were a pirate
Who played a fine role
Plunderin’ treasure
None o’ it she did dole
Four thousand doubloons
She buried deep in a hole
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

There was a great price now
Set upon her red head
And many’s the man now
Who wished she were dead
But not until after they’d
Asked her to wed
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

Her firey soul was what
Led to her doom
They broadsided her ship
At a quarter ‘till noon
The last thing she heard was
The cannon go BOOM!
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

Without ceremony
They held them a trial
When they asked her t’ speak now
Well she did but smile
It drove them quite mad
Oh, that pirate was vile
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

She were smug as a cat now
And calm as ye please
She looked at th’ Captain
And asked him fer cheese
They would o’ shot her right there
For she were a big tease
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

Well she ne’er would say now
Where she hid th’ loot
So they built up a scaffold
Right under her boot
Th’ rope it were hempen
They did not use jute
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

After her neck snapped
There were nary a sound
They opened the trap door
And she hit the ground
But when they got there
She were not t’ be found
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

Some say what happened
Now it weren’t couth
Th’ British had spoken
An’ took ‘way her youth
But all that was left
Were a lone golden tooth
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

So come all ye young fellows
And learn from this tale
If thou art a pirate
Ye’ll end up in jail
But play yer cards right
An’ e’ermore will ye sail
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields...

Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields...

Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet...Mooor...fields...


Legend has it that if ye possess th’ infamous Gold Tooth, treasure an’ good fortune will be yours ‘till th’ end o’ your days...which is why, t’ this very day, ye’ll see pirates flashin’ a single golden tooth in th’ hopes that it might have once belonged t’ Violet...

Some say that Violet were so evil when her body hit th’ ground she did descend straight away t’ Hell...

There are others what say her husband, Malcolm MacGregor, were waitin’ fer his one true beloved an’ took away her body to be buried in secret...

And then there are others...others who know th’ truth...

*********** ~VM

Friday, November 7, 2008



Part the third of the Boswell backstory--why Libby turned in Violet, and the proper response for unruly singing males.

“EEEEEeeww!! I’m not marrying HER”
“Fauuugh!! I am NOT marryin’ HIM!!”

Which was how I, and me prospective groom, greeted the concept of wedlock, one to the other.


I am not wandering off on tangent, dammit!! Ye did want to know why I was there to turn Violet in, don’t ye?

Well I’m telling ye—because I am…

for my sins…

married into the peripheral clan of the Camerons.

Aye well, it happens.

I tipped the Forces That Be about Violet to save me own neck. Well, technically our necks, but as I am married to good master William only under gravest duress and necessity I like to forget about him as often as I can.

Which hasn’t been easy of late—being in such close proximity with half the Camerons in Christendom about.

Ye see, Willie is one of Lady Cameron’s godsons, and loving, caring icon that she be, she has begun to ask embarrassing questions about Lack of Heirs, with many a pointed glare at my still flat (and going to stay so if ‘n I have anything to do with it) belly.

Pointed comments served with very noxious tea-like substances and oddly shaped,
charm-like nosegays have been appearing with regular frequency—or as regular as a bloody-minded Papist can stomach practicing such hexery.

So... I bethought me to get everyone’s eyes focused elsewhere for a change.

It worked.

But is it enough of a diversion to get me an Willie back to New-Yorke, before one or both of us is exposed? That will be the challenge.

I did mention that Willie and I are married only under necessity? Well, that and slightly false pretenses, besides. You see, it is just barely possible that he is married already and besides we’ve never consummated said marriage.

Oh not for lack of rum, wine or any other spirit and trying—but Willie, fair, green-eyed paragon that he is, possesses no soft rounded bits.

And I have none of the facial hair, and dangly bits he is seeking.

What we do have, each, is half of a key that leads to a fortune in finest Dutch gin and the wee black booke full of the names and secrets of merchants and shippers what are deeply in the debt of one Greta Van Der Kuiken , tavern-keeper of Albany.

Ye see, I were landed in New-Yorke as just one of a multiple of poor wretches needing to fill out an indenture. I didn’t, however, “take” at auction—maybe I spit a bit too much and I suppose the knee to the ballocks of the one turd what groped me, didn’t help either.

We, the other malcontents and I, were led out in a shuffling line by a soul-driver into the countryside, and it were there that I met up with my salvation, in so many ways—the formidable Mevrouw Greta Van Der Kuiken, relict of the late Jost Van Der Kuiken, taverneer of Albany.

Ah…yes…and fortunate me! Greta, were ne’er averse to a little bedwarming of slow winter’s eve and many was the night I drifted off to sleep pillowed deep in goosedown and Greta.

While she freely admitted that she had taken me on only because she were lookin for another doxy to liven up the tavern of an evening, she find out quick enough I wasn’t to most men’s taste, nor they to mine.

I do have other skills, such as reading, ciphering and an excellent eye for spotting a forgery, so she overlooked my penchant for braining a man with an alepot at 20 paces for taking liberties, and kept me at work behind the scenes.

O, I can tell at a glance—a glance! if a coin’s been washed or clipped, and can spot even the best German-printed counterfeit note before it hits the counter. I were an asset to the business, and was rewarded for such.

But so was Willie—William Ian Kilbourne, to name him rightly. He is quite the skilled card sharp, and can play well and play deep—thanks to his skill. He knows when to quit the cards and let the mark win, and always gives his cut to Greta, who kept him on to keep the nobs coming.

But pretty Willie, has a flaw, however--besides possibly being still married, since the woman in question went missing, and hasn't been seen since the last time the King's Light Infantry came through town....hmmmm.

But he is also a bad Scot for He canna hold his whiskey.

At all--it’s the matter of only a few drams and his sauve demeanor changes. ‘Miss Thing’ will go a-prancing, a veritable molly, fit to do a turn down the arcades of the Royal Exchange, and singing loudly and badly, all the while.

Twenty verses of ‘My Thing is Mine Own’ later and even Greta would take an alepot to his head.

And Willie knew it, too, so he chose to stay far away from home, where he could discretely make his fortune, or fail without creating a major scandal, and everyone made sure to keep him out of the whiskey.

That were the state of affairs.

Now, tonight, from this vantage point, watching the sparks from the cook fire pop and sail up into the darksome night, it seems so long ago and so good.

But all good things must come to an end...

submitted by
--Libby Boswell

Thursday, October 30, 2008



Of course, the REAL question is: Who would win in a war....FOXMORTON or ZOMBIES.......?!

(*Foxmorton indulges her Darker Side this day....
Feel free to indulge with me!*)

Sunday, October 26, 2008


October 26, 2008

In keeping with the Season we pause in this blog to remind you that today is
WORLD ZOMBIE DAY, which also asks us to reflect: Who would win in a war....PIRATES or ZOMBIES? Discuss.

Happy World Zombie Day!
Party like a Zombie!
(and do something positive to end world hunger!)


Tuesday, October 21, 2008


Libby Boswell weighs in with more backstory.

I suppose ye could say that rum had been me undoin. Oh to be sure, tis easy to blame the drink, not the drinker, but really this time I make me case. Many months I spent t’ the workhouse, before I figgered out how things were run, and where best to gain some lever-edge. And when I finally had me a nice system, what with the ‘elp of one bailiff and a headmistress, we had a right lucrative trade going in contraband rum, to foist on any jacktar unlucky enough to run afoul of it.

We had a deal with the keeper of the Sotted Swine, down by the docks, to store the stuff upstairs, and sell it to the very thirsty and very desperate. Considering the peripatetic nature of our supplies, one would have to be rather both, thirsty and desperate, and e’en then you wouldn’t want to use a metal tankard.

Having just concluded a very lucrative deal to switch several barrels of Ol Rotyergut, for some pilfered good Barbados dark, we were celebratin., and havin a right good knees-up. Sadly, I ignored me own advice about drinkin the profits and whilst doin a hornpipe to the rather tortured fiddle of a semi-sober Irishman, and regrettably I were on a rickety table, when I heard again that VOICE.

"Belly up lads--drinks on Mad Peg!" "What?!!!"

Dame Fortuna can be a real bitch sometimes. Now, the fact that wee Violet and her crew of mates, newly pirates all, should pick this particular ale hell, this particular night while I was as drunk as David’s sow, and enter it ought not to have caused such a stramash. But it did. In shock at hearing Violet's voice again, I lost me shoe, which knocked out a largish sort offn’ a Bristol merchantman, and he knocked over a column what were rather dubiously supporting the paper thin floor above. Caught mid kick wi’ only one shoe, me table crashed over backwards into another column.

The resulting noise, what with the shouting of the Assize men, come to raid the tavern, the subsequent collapse of the ceiling, rum barrels all a-roll, and the shouts of ‘Pirates! Pirates!!! Take Them!” as Violet and Mad Peg were spotted meant that I was now under part of a rotted wooden floor, amidst the wreckage of ‘alf a hogshead of Rotyergut (and inexplicably a large jar of fishpaste), and weltering in me own gore.

When I came to the next morning, and rose tottering from the splinters, to the yowling of some six dozen cats who were somewhat nonplussed to see their break-fast suddenly grow legs and leave, it were to find meslf taken up for being a definite public nuisance and possible vagrant. Since I couldn’t explain the smell, my presence in a recently collapsed building or give a coherent answer as to where I ought to be, I was summarily headed for Newgate.

Enroute however, as a possibly familiar street doxy distracted my guard with a well-placed chamberpot, I managed to slip me irons—thanks to the oils from the fish paste--, and get instead loaded with a group sent off for extended indenture to the colonies.

And so, reeking and reeling, I said good riddance to Mother England, and prepared meself for what fresh new hell this voyage might produce-- but vowing to avoid demon rum at all costs.

--Libby Boswell



Well, th’ Captain were naught but exceedingly punctilious throughout th’ remainder o’ th’ trial and whence he determined I might expire then and there from a too tight silken scarf and a shakin’ from th’ guards like t’ rattle loose me gold tooth he give th’ order t’ unbind me.

Though it pained him t’ be sure he did finally come t’ terms wit’ me bein’ Anne Bonny...naught. And bless Neptune fer that small courtesy as I pictured Bonny sniggerin’ at th’ thought she’d no longer be a wanted pirate plus plottin’ how she could get her mitts on me bloomers again though I were thinkin’ after th’ hangin’ they’d not be in th’ best o’ shape.

He did meticulously inscribe me full name, Violet Louise Moorfields, in careful script upon a parchment wit’ his fancy quill pen, though I had t’ spell it out fer him and me thinkin’ he were smarter than that.

“Violent?” he queried.

“Aye. If ye prefer.” I agreed and give ‘em all a bit more fuss though there were too many o’ ‘em t’ fight off. Seems they’d grown wise t’ me antics.

Let this be a lesson t’ me I thought. This be th’ last time I leaves me flintlock and faux Letters o’ Marque in me other knickers.

‘Twere then they fired th’ next broadside. Seems now I were declared wit’ child.

News t’ me.

Glancin’ t’ th’ Captain’s left hand I then saw one o’ Lady Cameron’s minions sittin’ like she had a hawthorn stick up her arse and testifyin’ how , in her professional opinion, (As what? Arse Kisser an’ Scone Baker?) I were wit’ child.

And they could tell that from a fart? Impressive. Course it were an impressive fart.

Well, this were getting’ daft as th’ time I attempted concoctin’ me own gunpowder in th’ candle cupboard back at convent school and woke t’ find Sister Mary Suppressyercreativity whackin’ me wit’ her yard stick, both me eyebrows missin’ and in a committed relationship wit’ th’ new Spanish gardener lad.

Though I wonder what e’er happened t’ that tall, angry lass what were crappin' feathers a good four days afore they shipped her off t’ th’ workhouse.

It were then that Merlyn stepped forward t’ speak.

I has t’ give ‘er her due knowin’ how she can pitch a fit liken unto a she-cat in heat tanglin’ wit’ a reluctant skunk in a back alley at midnight but she were th’ soul o’ innocence and did simper an’ posture t’ th’ Captain wit’ a grace I ain’t ne’er seen afore. Mesmerized me a bit it did as I ain’t ne’er been one t’ bow an’ scrape.

Since she were pleadin’ me case in an effort t’ save me neck I let slide th’ fact that she pointed out I were older’n her an’ also that I might, in point o’ fact, be quite daft; both bein’ true though th’ one hardly needin’ t’ be pointed out in mixed company and th’ other pretty obvious unless ye were blind.

Well, th’ law states ye canna hang a woman wit’ child so who were I t’ argue th’ point?

O’ course, th’ law also states ye can shackle ‘em t’ a wall in a piss soaked, straw strewn cell in a dank lunatic asylum whilst pokin’ ‘em wit’ a stick an’ forcin’ ‘em t’ endure their bedmates off-key repeated rendition o’ Braes o’ Birniebouzle an nightly visits from six displeased rats and a Basket Keep wit’ a gob key named Fergus (th’ Basket Keep not th’ gob key) whose eyes do na point in th’ same direction whilst everyone be waitin’ fer th’ aforementioned bairn t’ pop out.

And then they hang ye.

“Mistress Moorfields.” spake th’ Captain all th’ while scratchin’ wit’ his quill.

“Have you anyone then to lay claim to the unborn child?”

I did some quick mental calculations, numbers not bein’ me strong suit...divide by 9...carry th’ 12...aye, bloody Prince Charlie be of no help at this juncture, not since I relieved him o' his sword an' forced him t' smile like a doxy lookin' fer double pay... and that left...uh, no one....

And just as I were about t’ throw another hissy fit in order t’ buy some time me husband, Malcolm MacGregor, stepped forward and spake t’ th’ assemblage.

“I will.”

And I knew he meant it fer whence he reached t’ take me hand in his he gently slipped me a hunk o’ cheese.



Wednesday, October 1, 2008


*A message from Foxmorton:
Every now and again really cool stuff happens in my life....in this case it involves a wondrous lass I met at last year's reenactment. You know how when you meet someone and you just know immediately they're a kindred spirit? Well, this was the case. In following Violet's blog she apparently had a few tid bits of her own to add.......
And so, forthwith, unbeknownst to Violet, a PLOT TWIST written and sent to me by me new friend and fine mate: Libby Boswell.
I present it to you with humble gratitude to her for allowing me to share such a fine gift! Ain't creativity grand?!


Aye well....little Violet may well wonder who set her up for the lobsterbacks.
Twere me...

You see we goes back a long ways....quite a long ways....not that far back dammit!! (cough) just to convent school. Aye... that far back.

You see while I were sittin making nice, tryin to worm me way into the inner circle of Lady Ath-ole, what should I hear from the back of the Lovely Ladies Tea (where I remember not to drop my haitches, and hoist me pinky)? I heard that VOICE!!! Well, that and th fart--I'd neer forgit either.

You see whilst sufferin through the purity o the Sisters of Perpetual Penance and Guilt's School for Possibly Redeemable Girls, I had discovered certain nooks and crannies where I could go to be more myself, like, and mayhap bring a friend or two of similar mind.

The broom closet...Sister Pancratia's armoire...The candle cupboard. Ah the memories! I had had set me sights on Carmen Bombazella--oh sweet mercy the sound of the creaking of her bodice strings on every inhaled breath were the stuff of me fevered dreams for weeks!!! So there we were..in the candle cupboard..about to discover the staying power of a #12 Advent Special when I heard that VOICE....

You see, I had no idea that the wee Miss Violet, dreaming of all things piratical e'en then, had been experimenting in the candle cupboard with making her own gunpowder...under the theory, I suppose, that no crew of self-respectin pirates would e'er turn down a lass what could produce her own ammo.

Aye well then. Wee Violet has ne'er had a head for the mathmaticks, so just as I struck me steel to flint, the better to see and appreciate Miss Bombazella's soon to be freed bounty....

I heard the fateful words "I wonder if that's too much sulfur?"

The flash and bang what resulted drove out the walls, and blew an 8 armed candelabrum through the ceiling and up through the retired nuns dormitory, where it skewered Sister Hepatica's pet parrot like a Christmas kebob. #8 Paschals rained down on frightened
juniors like cordwood, a thick grey ooze from smoldering lard covered the floor and the massive doorknob flattened the parson's ass

what he used to ride to visit the sick. The blast also ripped me drawers off, exposing a rather incriminatin tattoo....what were rather hard to explain. But worst, worst of all were the five pounds of feathers what were ripped from Carmen's bodice. She was STUFFED!!!

Or rather had been. What surging magnificance I had envisioned were as flat and hard as the stomach and abs of the new Spanish gardner boy what Violet landed on out in the yard. Oh aye SHE made out all right. Really. I mean she made out--arrrgh!! Enough o' her!! That wench!!

So I were summarily expelled, and sent to the work'ouse as being completely irredeemable. And I have ne'er forgot that voice....

submitted this day by Libby Boswell

Sunday, September 28, 2008

Stay tuned for Part th' Seventh.....

Stay tuned for Part th' Seventh in TH' SAILIN' o' VIOLET MOORFIELDS: Th' Noose Ain't Loose..............

Or catch up with th' tale an' MANY MORE images at www.MySpace.com/foxmorton

Saturday, September 27, 2008

TH' NOOSE AIN'T LOOSE: Part th' Sixth


Steppin' int' th' tunnel I immediately sensed somethin' dank an' foul an' soulless…..but then I come t' realize that were jus' me.

I though then how it were jus' a few short strides from bein' a carefree cheese- eatin' pirate t' a captured freebooter doin' a Hempen Jig fer th' amusement o' th' British.

Life be funny that way.

So whence th' Captain give orders fer "Halt!" I executed th' pirate version….I turned an' hauled arse out o' there!

I made it as far as our blanket where I found a deficit o' both cheese an' husband.

Screamin' Lily Rose were still screamin' (no surprise) an' De'd Aim were keeping back at 45 paces, not trustin' herself at th' faultless 44 nor th' 43 or less -her bein' only a true aim at precisely four an' fourty. The Lady Shawna in her pure and honest way allowed as how I looked pretty but could she have more cheese, please. Mad Peg were jus' lickin' th' face o' a Scot an' tryin' t' get him t' eat her potatoes.

Clearly I hadn't been missed.

I managed a cup o' rum then (fine, several) afore two red faced, heavily breathin' (and I be thinkin' severely chastised!) British lads come back t' fetch me. A great deal wiser t' me antics this time they hauled me back through th' tunnel and presented me t' th' court.

Now, I figured upon me arrival there'd be all manner o' chaos ensuin' but that were naught t' be so. Fer there were me bes' mate Merlyn standin' huddled next t' Lord Talon, meek and subdued and sayin' aye, sir and nay, sir and if ye please, sir like one o' them fancy women at one o' th' Lady Cameron's doin's.

Now this did confuse me greatly as I weren't accustomed t' such from th' Mighty Merlyn. I met her gaze then and she did relieve me a wee bit by givin' me a wink and tellin' me in silent pirate speak t' play along.

Aye well, and good luck wit' that.

I knew not what happened afore me arrival but I weren't goin' t' swing wit'out causin' a great deal o' uproar.

Well, after that there were a lot o' girlish screamin' an' cryin', and that jus' from th' guards, and a good deal o' bayonet pokin' an' madam shut yer gob and th' like but the down slide o' th' upthrust were that I were t' hang fer th' crimes o' Anne Bonny.

Well, I bloody well weren't!

And no matter how many times Merlyn give me th' play along signal I steadfastly ignored it, preferin' t' squirm and caterwaul and cause misery in general t' th' assembled.

So 'twere right afore th' guards contained me wit' th' Captain's own silk scarf-a right fancy touch, I though and mayhap a wee bit enticin' in other circumstances-that I felt a poke in me backside and heard an "Oi!" what I recognized.

There standin' behind me an' glarin' liken unto an unpaid doxy on a bustlin' Friday e'en at a dirty quayside tavern wit' a long line o' jacks still t' go were me own husband.

"I be here." he spake, steppin' forward t' stand by me side.

"Aye ye bloody, buggery, pusillanimous, rat bast'd! An' I thought ye were disavowin' me?" I sputtered in an apoplectic-like fit.

The effrontery o' th' man! I internally raged. Th' egregious nerve t' effectuate such an' appallin' set o' circumstances in me darkest hour! I shuddered. Th', th', th'………

"I changed me mind." he allowed quietly.

Th' stinkin', filthy….softhearted, forgivin', tender, wee sweet heart o' a man…..I thought.

"Husband, I…."

The black silk scarf wound 'round me neck then as they yanked me away from him and tied a knot what would choke th' cud outten a Hi'lan' koo.

Aye then, so this be what it'll feel like I thought, stretchin' up on me tip toes an' strugglin' fer breath, me husband lookin' deep int' me eyes.

"Now, Madam. Now ye know what 'twill be like to hang." spake th' Captain smoothly.

Aye. And me ne'er even havin' th' chance t' tell me own darlin' husband I'd kill him if he'd et all that cheese.


*Stay tuned for Part th' Seventh

Sunday, September 21, 2008


Well, I could na say as I blamed him...about th’ shoes I mean, though I were right put out about his denyin’ me. But too late, fer he’d brung observance down upon his wee head.

Th’ Captain turned and took note o’ him.

“State yer name.” Th’ Captain says as I latched onto me husband’s arm in an effort t’ look supported an’ innocent.

“Malcolm.” He says, lookin’ sgian dubhs at me.

“And your Sir name.” Sighs th’ Captain.

“MacGregor.” Me husband mutters.

Hmmm. That were news t’ me as we hadn’t yet got t’ that part what wit’ me bein’ gone an’ all.

“Aye! An’ that would make me th’ La-day MacGregor.” I says givin’ a mock curtsy.

“Ye did na e’en know ye were th’ Lady MacGregor until jus’ now.” Me husband growls in me ear. I admit, I likes it whence he growls.

“Aye. But I did know th’ Malcolm part.” I shot back in a whisper.

“Silence!” that from th’ Captain.

“You are the husband then?” he inquires.

“Aye!” I replied fer him. “This be me husband, one Malcolm MacGregor! Now if ye’ll excuse us we’ve married life t’ be attend’ t’ an'..."

“Madame, shut your gob.” Says th’ Captain.

Aye well, it would na be th’ last time he’d say that t’ me this day.

“Fine.” I says. But I didn't.

Well, I debated it back an forth wit' th' Captain an' e'en demanded an audience wit' th' Price, which earned me no distinguished marks. But me somewhat vociferous protestations only served t' rouse th' Colonel an' he arrived lookin' rumpled wit' a chicken bone in one hand, a goblet o' port in th' other an' me death warramt along wit' some half-chewed meat an' a bit o' his beard on his tongue.

Th' Colonel do na like being roused owin' as t' how he be excessively lumpish an' generally in a nefarious mood by nature. Though iffen I'd o' saved some o' them scones I might o' been able t' distract him.

Scones? I thought. Scones! Drat! Th' Lady Cameron an' her tight arsed, fancy ilk were behind this! An' know ye, th' Lady Cameron be no lackin' in behind.

I were kind o' perplexed thinkin', can ye really be hanged then fer fartin' at th' Ladies Tea? And how then will this look in th' history books?

“Seize his weapon.” Came th’ Duke's order as th’ guards stepped forward t’ relieve Malcolm o’ his dirk, which now that I thinks on it were probably a lucky thing fer me as th’ look he shot me could o’ withered a fresh thistle.

But they were na content wit’ jus’ that and th’ Captain turned t’ me mates Merlyn and Lord Talon who’d been watchin’ th’ arraignment from the blanket.

Me other mates, Mad Peg, Screamin’ Lily Rose, th’ Lady Shawna an’ Bloody De’d Aim, who were me favorite an’ mos’ accurate wit’ a blunderbuss at 44 paces-though that weren’t helpin’ me now-sat lookin’ unarmed an’ helpless.

“Pirates.” He proclaimed.

And so it were that under guard we three, meself, Merlyn an’ Lord Talon, were marched off t’ adjoin wit’ our fate.

I looked back one las’ time t’ see me husband settle his arse upon our picnic blanket- th’ verra picnic meant t’ celebrate our handfastin’-as Mad Peg passed him a wooden bowl.

“Cheese?” she politely inquired.

He picked out a hunk an’ began t’ delicately nibble upon it givin’ great care t’ lickin’ all th’ edges first fer ants, his eyes ne’er leavin’ mine until I were yanked offen me boots by an insolent an’ scraggy guard an’ marched at bayonet point t’ th’ British outpost.

Th’ last thing I heard afore they shoved me int’ th’ tunnel leadin’ outside th’ walls o' th' Fort were Mad Peg sayin’ “We’ve Irish Potatoes as well.”

Like I said, Mad Peg ain’t much o’ a liar.


*Stay tuned for Part Th’ Sixth

Friday, September 19, 2008



Afore I’d e’en swallowed me first cup o’ rum...alright then, me second...fine, third! and flicked th’ ants offen me victuals, boot steps crunched on th’ gravel path leadin’ to our group and I looked up t’ see th’ Captain o’ th’ British garrison approachin’ our crew, flanked by armed British guard and a group o’ Scots...Black Watch no doubt from th' scowls they give me. His deadlights were set directly upon me. Give a tickle it did...though it might o’ been th’ ants.

Now, I ain’t ne’er been in a position similar t’ this where it turned out waggish. Them bayonets is pointy. So, it surprised me naught when th’ Captain ordered, “On your feet, Madame. You are under arrest.”

Which is ne’er a good thing t’ be said t’ ye whence yer tryin’ t’ eat yer cheese.

So, I hoisted me arse up offen me blanket an’ met th’ Captain full on.

He were a well-spoken, handsome man wit’ a certain roguish glint in his eye but full o’ twaddle as he read off a list o’ crimes, piratical in nature, I was t’ be sent t’ trial fer. An’ me lookin’ like laced mutton that day. Go figure.

Seems th’ crux o’ their wee onslaught on me person were that I matched all known descriptions o’ that other, slightly less infamous pirate, Anne Bonny!

Anne Bonny fer blood’s sake? Anne Bonny? Drat that pirate wench! I knew e’en as I were sayin’, “Aye.” That I ne’er should o’ let her borry me lace bodice an’ third bes’ bloomers. Especially not after I seen th’ state o’ me drawers whence she returned ‘em. Know ye, that Rackem’s got some strange tastes. And I’ve no doubt Read were paradin ‘round in ‘em as well. Took me a whole half a day day t' air 'em out!

Th’ Captain kept insistin’ I were Bonny which only made me mad as she ain’t half as purty as I am added t’ th’ fact she be havin' atrocious table manners!

I belched a wet one then and stared th’ Captain down.

I figured I had two choices: Convince him I weren’t Anne Bonny and thus avoid a hangin’ or, well, actually I had only th’ one choice: Avoid a hangin’.

‘Twould have been a simple thing t’ bat me eyes and play th’ coy and innocent lass.
And I intended t’ do jus’ that. Right ‘till me gob opened up and came blurtin’ out,
“Aye then ye daft British bugger...I be no Anne Bonny! I be Violet Moorfields, pirate th’ Eglantine! Scourge o’ whate’er I touch an’ more likely t’ slit yer throat from gizzard t' gut wit’ a rusty cutlass an’ then write home t’ tell yer Muther what I done fer th’ pure amusement o’ it then t’ bid ye a good day!”

There now I thought, that sounded scary.

“Pirate you say?” the Captain politely inquired wit’ a smile, seemingly unruffled.
I admit, he were right good whence it come t’ that.

“Aye! Pirate!” I spit back.

Murmurs o’ “no!” an’ “uh-oh!” an’ “here, put this cheese in yer gob!” came from me unarmed mates standin’ watch behind.

“You freely admit before this guard to being a...pirate?” th’ Captain asked.

“Aye! That I do.”

“Seize her.” He gave th’ command as eager Red Coats an’ Black Watch Scots surrounded me as I caught a glimpse o’ me husband standin’ on th’ side o’ th’ guard.

“Wait! Wait! I may have misunderstood th’ question.”

Hey, it was worth a shot.

“Pirate!” He pronounced with that quietly smooth , yet deadly way he had o’ speakin’. ‘Twould o’ been kinda excitin’ in other circumstances. I though t' tuck that away fer future reference.

Aye. Pirate. I thought inside me mind as th’ old, familiar thrill o’ pride rose up from me boots followed by an e’en more profound thought: Ohhhh....crap.

Me husband caught me eye at that moment.

“Aye well, if ye stayed home o’ a night this sort o’ thing would na be happenin now would it?”

His comment caught th’ Captain’s attention.

“You know this lass? And I use the term...slackly.”

Me husband looked me directly in th’ eye.

“Nay. I’ve ne’er seen her afore in me life.”

I figured he were jus’ cranky fer his shoes had been pinchin’ his feet.


*Stay tuned for PART THE FIFTH

Tuesday, September 16, 2008



Th’ sun peeked int’ me cabin just as I pinned me mob cap t’ me curls, smoothed me skirt and gave me bodice an extra tug fer good measure. Beltin’ me arasaid round me waist I hoisted me picnic larder and stepped off th’ ship a proper lady right down t’ me kerseymere drawers. Fer me husband’s sake I would travel as neither lad nor pirate this day.

It was t’ be a grand day at th’ Fort! Word had gone out t’ th’ pirate ships that I was ashore and freebooters o’ all manner, fine and cherished mates all, gathered t’ celebrate me return t’ polite society as well as me year an’ a day handfastin’ anniversary. A coterie o’ pirates turned out at th’ gate leavin’ cutlass and flintlock behind, garbed in an arrary o’ tartan plundered from unsuspectin’ Scots whilst they slumbered in th’ heather.

Now know ye, ye can get up a pirate in plaid but that don’t make him a Scot, so it were comical t’ note th’ looks on th’ faces o’ th’ British guard as we swaggered up, th’ tell-tale rollin’ gate left o’er from th’ ship’s deck still evident in our stride.

As th’ soldiers were about t’ discharge their duty and mayhap a round o’ fire as well I made mention t’ th’ cockiest of an affront t’ me flock th' e’en afore that had vexed me greatly. Th’ guilty look on his face bespoke o’ him being justly charged and made fer doubly good mirth as o’ yet I had ne’er seen a flock o’ ewes aboard a pirate ship. Ye might say th’ lad looked a bit….sheepish.
Arr! Arr! Arr!

They gave us trouble naught after that.

Lucky guess.

I entered th’ Fort wit’ th’ warm glow o’ bein’ reunited wit’ good friends, in particular me kindred mate and long-time partner in piratical crime, Captain Merlyn from th’ Lusty Avenger. It were good t’ hav’ a peacable length o’ time t’ spend in her company wit’out continually duckin’ cannon fire from an ongoin’ plunder. There were other treasured mates as well in our band o’ merry Scots and it gave me great pleasure t’ know I had such fine kith an’ kin.

Th’ banquet cloth were spread and victuals aplenty appeared . ‘Twere an exotic feast fit for a Pirate King and we dug in wit’ much merriment, huggin’ and kissin’ each other like th’ reunited mates we were.

‘Twere then that I took note o’ me husband showin’ off his battle skills wit’ a much larger Scot though appearin’ t’ hold his own, wieldin’ targe and broadsword like a master. A wee shiver o' proudness went through me.

“Good-day t’ ye, Husband!” calls I. “Me cot were right cold last e’en!” I taunted.

“And where were you?” he shot back a bit o’ a sour look on his face, givin’ his opponent an opportunity t’ score an’ unexpected hit.

“Worry not, mate!” calls Lord Talon, another o’ our own fine pirates. “Me thinks her cot were not as cold as she complains!”

This did bring uproarious laughter from the crew wit’ Merlyn nearly chokin’ on a hunk o' beefstick in her mirth!

“Aye! Good answer!” she shouted back. And it were then that she remembered how much she missed me.

“Aye, ‘tis a fine day indeed, us all together!” she spake and did lean t’ give me a sisterly kiss.

"Hear! Hear!” we all cried in unison and raised our tankards t' th' sky.
We all agreed heartily that there be no grander feelin’ than reunitin’ wit’ cherished mates.

I looked 'round our circle at the familiar faces I’d known and loved for many a year and felt at blissful peace.

I crammed a whole one o' Mad Peg's Irish potatoes in me gob and belched around it wit' satisfaction.

And then it got ugly.


*Stay tuned for PART THE FOURTH

Sunday, September 14, 2008



Me loyal mate, Mad Peg O’Dunana, also disguised as a lad had crept ashore earlier that ‘morn t’ survey th’ situation from land and t’ give th’ All’s Well signal for th’ landin’. It came t’ me then that me husband knew full well he bathed fer more’n his sweet-smellin’ self.

As it turned out…I were right.

“I know ye.” He spake t’ Mad Peg whilst still on land. Her tellin’ me this immediately upon our reunion ashore.

“Aye. Ye do.” Replied she.

“Then where is she?” he shot back knowin’ full well we rarely travel apart.

Mad Peg, a great pirate but a very poor liar replied, “On the ship.”

The die, it seems, were cast afore I e’er reached shore.

We sailed, close hauled then, back t’ port where I made me leave o’ th’ ship’s fine crew and headed toward th’ Fort.

Me nautical garb afforded me passage past th’ British guard, them bein’ young an’ easily confused. I went then straight t’ me husband.

We raised more’n a few eyebrows as we hurriedly embraced, me bein’ a lad an’ all, but he knew me straight away from th’ red curls escaped from me head rag and th’ insolent yet affectionate way I greeted him.

“Ahoy, ye rat bast’d! It be good t’ lay eyes on ye again!”

“Have a care then wife or I’ll get ye wet.” He replied referrin’ t’ his sodden plaid.

“One can only hope.” I admitted referrin’ not t’ his wet garb.

“I be promoted t’ Cap’n now!” he boasted stickin’ out his chest wit’ pride an’ lookin’ e'er so cute.

“An’ how do ye like it?”

“Well, I hate wearin’ th’ shoes.”

I had t’ smile. Fer that, I suppose, were th’ real reason I married him.

The rest o’ th’ day passed quickly wit’ British militia throwin’ their perceived insult o’ “pirate!” about each time I passed though I took it as a compliment and not wit’out some pride as well. A battle e’en ensued th’ British attackin’ wit’ th’ ferocity o’ wild boars an’ Scots a plenty screamin’ fer their mothers an’ teddy bears and fallin’ down dead at me feet.

Me husband though were fearless and, what’s more safe and fer that I breathed a sigh o’ relief. I weren’t nearly done wit’ him yet.

“Twere in th’ calm after th’ battle that Mad Peg and I made what would turn out t’ be a mos’ grievous error and attracted more attention t’ ourselves by acceptin’ an invitation t’ th’ Ladies Tea.

Now, th’ words ‘ladies’ and ‘tea’ should o’ given me a heads-up right away but I were anxious t’ take suspicion as t’ why he were moonin’ o’er a young lad away from me husband. And besides, Mad Peg wanted tea in a fancy cup. In sooth, she don’t ask fer much so we politely accepted ne’er givin’ thought that we were supposed t’ be lads.

Aye, th’ Ladies Tea! All th’ scones ye could cram int’ yer gob albeit under th’ disapprovin’ eye o’ th’ Lady Cameron, wife t’ th’ clan’s chief, whose size bespoke o’some serious samplin’ durin’ th’ biscuit-bakin’ process. Garbed in an ostentatious plaid she had th’ look o’ a Yule gift wrapped wit’ too little paper and did give me th’ Evil Eye fer refusin’ t’ comply wit’ th’ rules. Seems farts ain’t allowed at a ladies tea though th’ Lady Cameron looked as though she could o’ outdone me in that department iffen she’d a mind to. Mad Peg fit right in though an’, fergettin’ herself, took her place up front an’ sipped tea like a fine lady. Like I said, Mad Peg do na lie verra well. I stayed in th’ back t’ keep an eye on things all th’ while getting’ yelled at fer puttin’ me feet on th’ furniture. But th’ Lady Cameron appeared t’ hav’ our number and by th’ squinty eye she give us I could tell she knew our secret. Though th’ question remained: What would she do about it?

I cringed as Mad Peg stuck her pinky in th’ air.

The Prince joined us then and all th’ ladies did fuss o’er him greatly which were probably due t’ him lookin’ like a china dolly wit’ poseable parts. I kept silent though fer th’ Lady Cameron had her eye on me. Plus, I had it in mind t’ plunder a few more scones.

They was good scones.

We accosted th’ Prince as he were takin’ his leave demandin’ payment o’ th’ two sovereigns he kept promisin’ us but he put us off wit’ borin’ talk o’ his coffers an’ bade us follow him t’ his quarters. But I weren’t in th’ mood fer a hangin’…or worse…so I ducked t’ th’ privy whence his back were turned . Mad Peg followed through though, brave or daft I weren’t sure, an’ as I emerged from me hidin’ place I found meself alone wit’ me husband.

Me year’s absence had done naught t’ improve his disposition at bein’ abandoned on his handfastin’ e’en, men bein’ whiney like that. But I suppose that’s th’ chance ye take whence decidin’ t’ marry a pirate. I canna say fer sure though as I’ve ne’er been addle-pated enough t’ try it.

Aye, men can be such a chore sometimes. So, after a few winks and promises and secret pinches and a full round o’ See! Look At This Boo-Boo I Got In Battle, he softened a bit….though that weren’t exactly th’ result I were lookin’ fer. And whilst he were still smilin’ and happy t’ see me and pointin’ to a scab I took my leave and returned t’ th’ ship thinkin’ it best not t’ have him accused o’, what were sure t’ be seen by th’ tight-arsed Powers That Be, unnatural crimes wit’ a red haired lad.

I also figured it more kind t’ get him used t’ me leavin’ at th’ odd moment fer were I not a pirate and belongin’ t’ th’ sea?

As th’ sun fell I turned wit’ more'n a twinge o’ guilt an’ disappeared int’ th’ night.


*Stay tuned for PART THE THIRD

Saturday, September 13, 2008




~Set forth by Violet Moorfields, Piratess th’ Eglantine

A True Recountin’ o’ th’ 1745 Jacobite Rebellion
(more or less…)

I knotted up me slops, wrapped th’ ivory rag ‘round me noggin and stepped back to survey me transformation.From th’ depths o’ th’ speckled and cracked lookin’-glass Dougall MacMoorfields, me own brother, sent me a cocky wink.

Th’ rest were easy.

Boardin’ th’ ship in th’ calm o’ that early ‘morn our crew stowed gear, readied sail and squinted int’ th’ sun as fancy-heeled footsteps came mincin’ down th’ quay; His Grace, Bonnie Prince Charlie, flanked by th’ Duke o’ Atholl had arrived. And wit’ nary a guard in sight.

Oh, wee Charlie had his slender French sword daintily secured t' his side but methinks I had little t’ fear from that fer his chief concern appeared t’ be th’ securin’ o’ his tricorn , seriously too large for his royal pate. It were my job t’ sail his grand arse t’ the shores o’ Glenfinnan for intense negotiations an’ other military hoo-ha I cared about naught.

I bowed politely though and held me tongue, for was I not Violet Moorfields, pirate?
Violet, named after th’ purple flowers what grew wit’ wild abandon in th’ Spring an’ Moorfields as an afterthought fer th’ putrid swamp jus’ north o’ Bishopsgate Wit’out an’ Bedlam, where I were born.

And had I not, a year t’ th’ day afore, chased his Royal Self ‘crost th’ waves flyin’ th’ false colors o’ th’ British, leavin’ a wake o’ cannon fire and th’ concealin’ smoke o’ black powder? Though th’ wee bugger escaped and damn him fer that for it would have amused me greatly t’ see him blown t’ smithereens wit’ naught but his curled wig left behind as proff that he had lived.

In sooth I cared not a whit fer which side I fought though I confess me desire black powder o’er naught.

Aye. Th’ firin’ o’ cannon. Th’ sound o’ which shakes ye t’ yer boots an’ some secret places betwixt an’ between, like th’ bottom o’ yer wildly beatin’ heart an’ th’ core o’ yer blackened soul.

And so it were that we set sail, uneventfully, until th’ cry o’ “Land Ho!” Th’ Fort were in sight!

Th’ Landin’ Party were waitin’ on th’ rocks as we sent our grommets t’ row first th’ Duke then Charlie his self t’ shore from th’ moor’d ship. I remained behind, secretly smirkin’ t’ see th’ scramble t’ keep His Lordship dry.

I spied th’ bravest grommet waist dep in th’ sea as kilted Scots swarmed th’ long boat in an effort t’ haul th’ Prince ashore. Tartan from a half dozen clans floated atop th’ water as I entertained briefly what a grand view must be available t’ any passin’ kipper wit’ a weather eye and a mind t’ look up. As th’ Landin’ Party led th’ Royal Procession up th’ rampart and th’ grommets began th’ return heave-ho t’ th’ ship I made note that one lone Scot remained behind in th’ waters.

I trained me spy glass upon a suddenly familiar tartan and caught a fleeting glimpse o’ a fine, white arse flashin’ above th’ water. As that singular Highlander bent t’ perform his leisurely ablutions it struck me like a broadside from a heavily loaded four pounder; that arse belonged t’ me own husband!

Aye. A year t’ th’ day it were as well since I’d handfasted t’ one Malcolm MacGregor, a true Scot an’ pure Jacobite, then promptly set sail aboard th’ pirate ship in search o’ that which I knew not. In sooth, th’ very ship what aimed cannon at th’ man my betrothed had sworn wit’ his life t’ protect.

Cross purposes, it would seem, fer such a union.

Aye, destiny and folly in equal measure.

And now I had returned.

~VM '08

*Stay tuned for PART TH' SECOND....

Monday, September 8, 2008


"Aye, I do heartily repent. I repent that I had not done more mischief, and that I did not cut the throats of them that took me, and I am extremely sorry that you ain't all hang'd as well as me.

- Convicted pirate speaking to his judge

Friday, July 25, 2008


Or go to: www.talklikeapirate.com

Monday, April 28, 2008

Pirates of CHAOS

Ahoy Mates!

Ye can pop on o'er to www.MySpace.com/piratesofchaos4 for a full helpin' o'
chaotic piracy! But in the meanwhile.....here be our autumnal schedule o' fun stuff!


SEPTEMBER 19, 2008
International Talk Like A Pirate Day!
Please comply!
We will!

SEPTEMBER 26, 2008

Bus trip from the Town of Clay to Oswego, NY
(bus leaves from Route 57 'Old' Wegman's)

Brightstar Productionz presents
a night of Dinner Theatre at King Arthur's Restaurant

Which, quite frankly, is bound to be extremely funny......
not to mention a fun night out....plus, you don't have to drive....

Includes round trip transport, dinner choice, show
$52/person payable to Town of Clay
limited tickets-first come-first served
(315) 652-3800 ext 137 to register

OCTOBER 14, 2008


sponsored by the Town of Clay

Welcome Center
Route 31 Clay, New York
$5/person Please register
Refreshments to follow
Drums provided or bring your own.
info: cclancy@townofclay.org
(315) 652-3800 ext 137

OCTOBER 21, 2008

Life Skills for Personal Spiritual Growth
Day long workshop using focusing on Native American Animal Totems
w/ Laura Vahn
sponsored by the Town of Clay
Clay Welcome Center Route 31 Clay NY

10-1 worshops
12 noon luncheon provided
1-3 workshops
$25/includes full luncheon
(315) 652-3800 ext 137

OCTOBER 23, 24, 25, 26


~Mostly regular fairytales run amuck.......
plus pumpkin trails, owls, magic, fun stuff and more........
Enchanted dressing encouraged!

Beaver Lake Nature Center
8447 East Mud Lake Road
Baldwinsville, New York 13027
(315) 638-2519
for schedule

DECEMBER 10, 2008

Royal Fairytale Children's Theatre


~The story of Harold...an Angel...who gets his wings.........
plus there's a bus and some hotdogs in the show, too.....
oh, and a Bad Elf......(no surprise that, really.....)

original script & direction by chrissy clancy
c. 1994

Showtime: 6:45pm
in the Clay Welcome Center
Route 31 Clay, NY

Tickets at the door:
$2 adults
$1 kids (16+)
info: cclancy@townofclay.org


"Do something for the sheer joy of it today.....
then pray you won't get punished!" ~S. Cahn

~And finally, we pause to remind you...

"When in doubt.....poke it with a stick......"

For more CHAOTIC information & silly musings
contact creative director Chrissy Clancy

Friday, April 11, 2008



It appears that pirates have held hostage yet another group of tourists whilst they were cruising
off the coast of *Somalia but it's not like they didn't let them go again.

*See: Foxmorton's Essential Vacation Tips: Location! Location! Location!

You'd think they'd learn.....the pirates, I mean.....
I've spent a week on a ship with the 'Cruising Set'.....I know why they released them.......

I've said it before and I'll say it again....you cannot get that much milage from a single pair of silk
underwear I don't care what they said in Heloise Hints!

But imagine being on vacation and being captured by pirates!**
(sigh) Some people have all the luck!
Once I took 50 senior citizens to a third world island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and all
that happened was we got dirty looks from the skinny pigs when we were eating our lunch.
And skinny pigs are unpredictable too. You don't ever want to turn your back on one.
But it's not the same as pirates.

**(Please dispense with the: "Real pirates are really bad people and will kill you or worse etc." emails. Thank you.)

But I think I'd be a good person to have on board if the ship were ever attacked by pirates.
I'd just say something like: "Take me to your leader." Or maybe just "Arrrrr!" and then leave the rest to fate.

I bet I'd get a good seat at the Captain's table, too!


I think they were probably going to talk about those pigs......but I had to get into the shower........

Till next time....

Friday, February 22, 2008


"I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections and the truth of imagination."

Thursday, January 31, 2008

Foxmorton's Really Big Newspaper Interview

Ok....so Big Pirate Small Ocean......or something like that.

Had the honor of being interviewed as a pirate by a local newspaper.

Oddly....the article was titled: FACES.........but they neglected to publish a photo....which, in my small mind, rather defeats the issue of 'people you see in your neighborhood' though mayhap they were thinking it more like a treasure hunt.........sort of like Where's Waldo only with my face.....


Wonder what debauched piratical deed I'd need to do to get the front page.......

Enjoy if ye've a mind to!

Fair Winds....

The article as it appears in the Liverpool Review (sans photo):

Name: Cap’n Mimi Lily Rose Foxmorton
Piratess, The Bloomin’ Bloomer
but ye can calls me ‘Foxmorton’…everyone else does……

Aye well, me crew be me Brethren but I’ve a lover-ly lass of a daughter and three grandchildren whose names I’ve changed… for one thing to sound more piratey but mos’ly to annoy their Mum…
and me own heart and soul me scurvy Yellow Dog…who be as loyal and faithful as ye can ask for…
Violet, me second cousin thrice removed who looks quite a bit like me but she’s not as nice..and me own Mum,
Nana Daisy Rose Foxmorton who’ll be 97 this year provin’ pirates is hardy stock though she’ll be yellin’ at me whence she reads the 97 part…

Where do you live?
Inside me mind in a reality of me own makin’…and I doubt ye’ll find anyone to argue the point…

How long have you lived in the area?
Since pirates landed on the shores of Clay….1745 I believe…give ‘er take…

What is your career/occupation?
Pirate Captain…Master o’ Quill & Pen…Goddess o’ Frivolity and Fourth in Line to the Pirate Throne…

How long have you been in your career/occupation?
Aye, I be a pirate by blood by nature and by choice…

What are your responsibilities within your career?
Aye well….besides the obvious pillagin’ and plunderin’
there be raids, festivals, treasure seekin’, tall tale tellin’ and the occasional gathering of the Nine Pirate Lords for tea
and a rousing game of BUNCO.

What are the highlights of your career?
Hooks down ‘twould be winnin’ the 2006 TALK LIKE A PIRATE DAY
BUCCANEER BACHELOR writing contest… which were a good thing as it ne’er occurred to me to lose…….

What are the challenges?
Well…avoidin’ the British Navy…findin’ just the right kicky little pirate accessories…and worm rot…ye can never be too careful when it comes to worm rot…

What do you most enjoy?
Aye…me and me Yellow Dog standin’ side by side at the bow of a ship with the wind in our hair and the spray of the sea on our face…in sooth I ask for naught more than that…

What are your hobbies? Sword fightin’…treasure huntin’…scurvy tales… and crocheting chair doilies…..

Do you have a favorite book? What is it and why is it your favorite?
Under the Black Flag: The Romance & Reality of Life Among the Pirates by David Cordingly…..and all the Pooh stories. The former bein’ the definitive code for pirates and the latter bein’ everything ye ever wished to know about livin’ yer life. Though for double quick-like reference I keep Pirattitude by the Pirate Guys handy at all times. That’s more than one book, isn’t it?

If you could have dinner with anyone, living or dead, who would it be and why?
Aye well…..that would be Grania O’Malley the Pirate Queen and She-King of the Irish Seas…for she were as graceful as she were courageous…and a wondrous role model…well, assumin’ ye overlooks some of the piratin’ bits that is…

What is something people wouldn't know about you?

I be terrified of water what be over me head…but don’t tell anyone….

How do you deal with tense situations?
Aye then….that be the beauty of it……when there be a pirate in the room everyone else is always a wee bit more tense than yer ownself…….failin’ that there be No Quarter (mercy) Given in me life fer tense situations…..I jus’ broadside ‘em!

What are your personal and/or professional goals?

Stayin’ true & honest to meself ‘till Neptune calls me home…..

~Foxmorton encourages everyone to embrace his or her ‘Inner Pirate’ and discover the Gift of Freedom
your imagination can bring! She believes imagination to be the most supreme power one can possess and hopes you’ll use yours often…..

International TALK LIKE A PIRATE DAY every September 19th,,,,,,Please Comply.

You can contact Foxmorton at (email deleted)org where she spends time disguised as a senior events coordinator and director of the Royal Fairytale Children’s Theatre and
CHAOS Productions Pirates for Hire Street Theatre troupe.

MLRF '08