I'll Tell You a Tale

APRIL 2025

Now off the clock, the waitress shyly takes the empty seat across from the mysterious redheaded woman. Quickly growing self-conscious, she looks at her hands, which rest in her lap. She stays silent.

Her tavern wench costume—cheaply made—looks dull in comparison to the woman’s medieval gothic attire—handsewn. The waitress’ black hair flows to her shoulders in straightened locks. Her eyes are the color of the sun; hazel. Her mildly tanned face contains acne scars. Nothing paints her pale pink lips; she isn’t wearing make-up.

While this confident lady in front of her is lean and sexy, she lacks that confidence, is average at best, and is maybe a bit too skinny. She feels too simple in comparison.

The mysterious woman, who she should really learn the name of so she can stop referring to her as “the mysterious woman”, gestures at the bread and cheese (which is just pull-apart cheese bread) lying on the table, offering it.

She accepts silently, soon quietly munching.

The mysterious woman watches her in shared silence, grabbing herself a piece and placing it almost seductively in her own mouth before deliberately chewing slowly. Shortly thereafter, she pours herself some red wine and makes a point to make a noise of satisfaction after taking a sip.

Even the way she eats and drinks is classy, the waitress thinks, looking down shyly again. What about me caught her interest?

“I don’t bite,” the woman teases, breaking the silence. “Unless you ask.” She winks.

She blushes in response, the flirting catching her off-guard again. Where was her false confidence when she needed it? “S-Sorry. I… I just can’t help but be a bit nervous…”

The woman leans back in her chair. “For a storytelling session with a stranger?”

“Yeah… But now that you’ve stated it aloud, I feel a little dumb…” She trails off, her insecurities showing more blatantly.

“Why?” the woman questions. “If you’re nervous, you’re nervous. If you’re excited, you’re excited. And so on. You can’t help, nor control, your emotions. Your actions, on the other hand, are different but that’s irrelevant.”

She hums as a reply, smiling shyly; she didn’t really know how to respond to that.

“So, you’ve got a name or shall I just call you fair maiden for the duration of our time together?” the woman asks with another wink.

Blush returning to her cheeks, she finally reveals her name. “O-Oh, uh, I’m Elaine. My friends call me Lainey.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Lainey.” The woman leans forward, elbows on the table, chin against her palms. The remainder of the light meal remains untouched. “I’m Anette, but you may call me Nettie.”

Lainey nods shyly. Anette… Nettie… I finally know her name… She clears her throat to distract herself from her thoughts. “So, about this story I was promised…”

Nettie snorts. “Ah, yes.” She briefly grabs her wine glass to sip what remains. “I suppose I’ve been beating around the bush. My apologies; you’re a very lovely distraction.”

Lainey blushes deeper than before. “...S-So, the story?”

Nettie gets serious, sitting properly in her chair again. She crosses a leg over the other. “Oh, I’ll tell you a tale; the story of the villainous, infamous Anne Bonny,” she says with authority, completely capturing Lainey’s attention. “We begin with the end.”

Around them, the men continue to roar and the other waitresses run about for them, ignoring the existence of the two women who are becoming captivated by a beautiful, yet tragic story.

1782

Our story begins with the end.

It was the early months of 1782, the exact date unknown. Anne Bonny was in her early-to-mid eighties, having successfully lived a long, meaningful life. As she did every day of each passing year, she went out to the docks near her home. Only, that day in particular was going to turn out differently than the others…

Upon the horizon of fiery crimson, near the setting sun, many ships have drifted out to sea, the calm waters alluring. To steal, to sell, to roam; she did not know. The docks are empty, save for her and unused boxes. Darkness will soon coat the skies, but remain there, she does.

She grins as the breeze hits her wrinkled face; her long gray hair, damaged and unwashed, blows with the gentle wind. Her tired green eyes stay looking out to the seas, longingly. Her bodice dawns a petticoat suited for a commoner, something she’s been for many years.

She briefly closes her eyes, content with the silent moment.

Two minutes later, she mumbles to herself. “Jack. Mary. My heart remains with you both always.” Living in Charles Town has given her a southern dialect, though hints of her Irish accent still come through.

Suddenly, the voice of a male comes from behind; he, too, has a dialect that is southern, only it doesn’t reveal hints of a different accent. “Madam Fowey?”

Her eyes slowly open, revealing no surprise in them; she has expected this, yet not so soon. “…I am she.” She faces him, forever fearless. “And what about yourself?”

“Thomas Landrake, Miss Fowey.” He does a slight bow at the waist, arms extended slightly. “How do you do?”

She eyes him for a moment before doing a curtsey, though it’s a bit of a struggle due to her age. “Well met.”

He gestures to his satchel. “I have come with a proposal.”

“Proposal of what sort?” she asks.

“I am but a novelist of low stature,” he begins. “I seek knowledge. There be hearsay of you not merely being Annabeth Fowey.”

“There is,” she states.

He looks surprised. “You know of such feats?”

“Indeed, for I created them,” she says nonchalantly.

He looks even more shocked. “But for what purpose would you create fabrications to lessen your status?”

She folds her arms across her abdomen. “I am but an old woman, days away from leaving this world. So be it that my truth become known.”

“May you lay your truth upon my own ears?” He takes from his satchel a bottle of ink, a quill pen, and a leather journal; he wishes to record his findings.

“I may.” She walks past him, making her way off the docks. “Come.”

They approach her home, which is much larger than necessary for a recently widowed, elderly woman. Inside, he admires the decor; her deceased husband must’ve been rich.

Settling down into chairs in the living space, he gets his equipment ready. After a minute, he speaks. “Begin however you please, madam.”

Instead of beginning, she gazes out the window, looking at the sea. She smiles. “It has been sixty years or more, yet the call of the sea is as clear to me now as it was then. The smell of rum and brine, ship rocking under feet, fondest memories they are to have.” She looks at him. “I am Annabeth Fowey of Charles Town, and I am Anne Bonny of the Bahama Islands, and I am Anne McCormac of Ireland. Different titles, same behavior, same woman. Evil, nefarious, immoral, corrupt; the many words of those who did not understand. Then, nor now, am I the woman civilization aspires for.”

“Were you not forced upon the seas?” he asks, taking notes.

“I was free as Anne Bonny,” is all she says as an answer.

He silently writes, allowing her to tell the tale on her own terms.

“I am as they have written, only they do not know the tale to its fullest,” she states.

She doesn't continue, but he doesn’t mind; she’ll tell him everything in due time. Instead, she pauses, looking back out the window, almost like she’s reminiscing.

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My work was stolen. That’s insane. Hopefully, it gets reported some more and is taken down. We don’t stan content stealers; we condemn them.

Here's the link to part one of this series.