I am now the proud owner of Dixit! For those of you who don’t know, Dixit is an award-winning game akin to Apples to Apples or Balderdash, only done entirely with pictures. It works like this: someone lays down one of the six cards from their hand and gives a clue. It can be anything: a word, a phrase, a dance, whatever. Then everyone else lays down a card from their hands that matches the clue. The cards get flipped over and everyone guesses which was the original. It’s a ton of fun, and best of all, the artwork is gorgeous. It’s also screaming to be used as a writing prompt. So, for the next 84 days, I intend to do just that.
So today’s card had a picture of a scale with a feather weighing less than a bag of coins. It ended up playing off of my love of Peter Pan. And my apologies at for some historical inaccuracies.
Warning for mentions of violence and alcohol
The ancient Egyptians believed that in the afterlife, a man’s heart would be weighed against a feather. If the scales did not balance, his heart would be fed to a crocodile. My heart is not as light as a feather, for I am a pirate. I cut any life I can sever.
The first man I killed was my very own father. He said he saw a gentleman in me, and just to prove him wrong, I ripped out his heart. I have carried it with me on my ship ever since. I carried the box into port one day and two men, thinking it contained riches begged me to share enough for a meal. But I cut out their tongues and paid the barkeep with them as my crew and I laughed into our drinks.
And when the beggar’s bodies were found, I let the privateers take my crew. They never caught me, for I was still abed. When I chose to wake, I gutted the one man who got away to ensure I’d have the more exciting tale and like a coat hung delicately on a rack, I handed him to the law enforcement to collect the reward, which I gave to a black-haired woman for the service of…
Well, in the end, I turned the blasted iron hook upon myself. My eyes flashed red in the mirror as I sunk it into my chest. I never learned foregiveness.
And now I captain a ship of ghosts through this afterlife, tormented by a boy the very image of myself. And he tore off my hand and fed it to a crocodile, which I now hear behind me at all hours, ticking off the people on whom I turned my back, the apologies I never spoke, the debts I still owe, the debts I will still own when the clock runs down and the croc comes for me at last. My only comfort now is that the boy does not guilt himself for his crimes. His heart is not as heavy as a feather. And when the crocodile has satisfied its taste for me, it will consume him next.