The Powder Rush

Keanan Pucci

The ocean spray licks at your gunpowder coated hands, aching from the day's work. Even as you watch the last sliver of the sun vanish into a turquoise sea, the peaceful moment is tarnished by that cursed ringing in your ears. It always takes hours away from the canons for it to cease. But someone has to do it, and that someone gets paid.
"Qǐmáo!", yells the captain and some crew scramble from the railing to drop the anchor. You file down into the stores to unload today's plunders. This wasn't a great haul, just one British military sloop you caught with its sails furled, but at least you won't go hungry today. You heft a crate of powder into your arms and head out of the muggy belly of the ship.
Over the tip of the crate you can barely judge your footing, and the noise of the docks add to the assault on your ears. But, you hear your foot thud on a plank of dry wood, and know that you've made it off the ship.
Rest on the docks
It's time for a drink