An Interview with Sinclair

Written for the 30 Characters Challenge. It seems as though you've acquired an audience with the strange and mysterious Miss Sinclair--and she certainly has a lot to say.

Now, listen here, good Sir and/or Madam: I don’t have much time for something like this. Captain Mowler is expecting his crew any minute now, and if I’m even a second late, he certainly won’t hesitate to toss me off the sky-ship’s deck the second we’re flying. Trust me in that; I’ve seen it done before and will probably see it be done at least thirty more times before I’ve finished working for him. The last bloke didn’t even have time to scream before he crashed through the roof of some ancient inn! Now, because of my dear Captain and these homicidal tendencies of his, you’ll do best to be quiet while I, er, enlighten you about this story of mine.

I was born on a Monday. January 15^th, 1855, to be exact. Born to a Father who didn’t want me and a Mother who couldn’t have me. Same old story you’ve heard a thousand times over, I’m sure. We’re quite common nowadays, we superfluous children. Born out of wedlock, I was. My Mother had no choice but to hand me over to my Father and disappear--probably for the better. No, I’ve never met her, nor do I know her name. I’d imagine she’s some raven-haired beauty who spends most of her time gallivanting with a bunch of good-looking men and forming questionable relations with every one of them now that she’s forgotten the daughter she had to give away. The type they’d write a book about, you know? Anyway, my Father didn’t want me, as was previously stated, but for good reason: he was (and still is) a Professor of Aeronautics. Studied beneath the very man who’d been a part of the team that created sky-ships and the like. Very intelligent man, but with very little patience and absolutely no people skills. So, rather than toss me into an orphanage, he sent me off to his old friend, Sir Oswyn Leander Tyland. Another intelligent man, very logical and precise, but much kinder than my Father could ever hope to be, and with a family of his own. I spent the first 6 years of my life with Oswyn and his family, and was shipped back home once my Father felt that he could handle me. What my Father was expecting was a sweet little angel, a polite girl who would curtsy and call him Papa and wear dresses and sip tea like a lady. What he got, of course, was a rowdy little tomboy who arrived with messy hair and dirt on her face. I slurped my tea and soup and ran around with bare feet and called him Mister, and--can you imagine what it must’ve been like for him? Must’ve been a shock, being introduced to this little heathen what was supposed to be his daughter!

Despite that, he kept me, and we spent the next ten years trying our best to not rip the other’s throat out. Left when I was sixteen, but of my own accord this time. Fancied myself an adult, a big girl who could fend for herself without a man by my side. I cut off my hair, bound my chest, put on a pair of Father’s trousers and ran. Wasn’t until I got caught stealing and had to work for a relative of Captain Mowler’s that I realized how stupid I was. A girl like me, who’d been spoiled her entire life, out on her own? Laughable! I’ll tell you that I don’t regret a thing, although I do wonder how different my life would have been if I’d just done what was expected of me.

Why don’t we skip over the next few years, eh? Things happened, lessons were learned, and these scars that I know you’ve been trying your hardest not to stare at were earned. Met Captain Mowler when I was nineteen, and fell in love. Not with the Captain--no, I may be a lady, but I’m not so desperate as to court a man who’d shoot me as soon as he’d marry me. No, I fell in love with the lifestyle: flying high above the clouds, seeing exotic things and meeting exotic people. I begged him to let me on, told him I’d take any job he had available aboard the Jolly Habbard (that was his ship at the time, you know, with such a strange name). And he did, but only after I signed a contract in blood. That’s just an expression, mind you. Didn’t really sign a contract in blood. So, there I was, 19 years old, unmarried, no children or money to my name, giving my life away to the Captain of a sky-ship. And that’s where I’ve been for the past fifteen years.

Still haven’t married. Still haven’t had any children. Don’t intend to--what’s the use? My life is perfect as it is; not a thing I’d change about it. I know that I’m getting on in years, and that most people would see me as an unproductive member of society. “You’re thirty-four years old”, they would say, “And what have you done? You’ve nothing to your name, nothing to show for how you’ve spent your life other than several unbecoming scars and an embarrassing accent”.

You know what I say to those people? I look them in the eye and tell them, I say: “No, I haven’t much to show off or parade around like some big-headed trollop, but I do have one thing you don’t. You know what that thing is? The opportunity to look back on my life and know that I had a hell of a good time living it.”

And that’s all I’ve got to say. Maybe we’ll meet again, and then you can tell me your story--a fair deal, eh? Now, if you will excuse me, I’ve a sky-ship to catch and a deck I’d much rather not be thrown off of.

Author's Note

This was written with dialect in mind, so any grammatical issues are more than likely there for a reason.