Special Notes: This is just intermission for the Destiny story. This short story popped into my head and I needed to get it out, it was distracting me. I wrote this in twenty minutes. The Writer Morning light spilled across the cobblestone street, casting a warm glow on the bustling avenue of commerce. The writer's stomach growled, a hollow reminder of his meager circumstances as he weaved through the crowd. He passed by the window displays of bakeries and cafes, rich aromas of freshly baked bread and roasted coffee beans wafting into the air, teasing his senses with what he could not afford. His coat, frayed at the edges and bearing the subtle marks of one too many patches, did little to ward off the chill. Hands buried deep in his pockets, he felt the absence of coin against his fingertips – a stark contrast to the weight of words that burdened his mind. Each step he took was a silent testament to the reality of his profession; stories were his trade, yet the marketplace for dreams seemed ever out of reach. It had been over six months since his last short story found a home, tucked away within the pages of a modest periodical. The payment had been a pittance, barely enough to cover a fraction of his living expenses, let alone sustain him until his next tale could be sold. As he ambled past storefronts, his gaze fell upon a sign that seemed almost out of place amidst the colorful displays – a stark, black-and-white placard that read 'Help Wanted.' It hung in the window of a shop seemingly in need of hands, the kind that could afford a steady paycheck rather than the sporadic gold of inspiring prose. For a fleeting moment, the sign beckoned to him, an oasis of stability in the desert of his financial desolation. The call to surrender to the mundane, to abandon the quixotic quest for literary success, tugged at his weary heart. Yet within him, the flicker of hope that his pen could still ignite the world's imagination refused to be snuffed out by practicality's cold grasp. With a quiet sigh, he pressed onward, the sign becoming nothing more than a blur in his periphery. His feet carried him forward, guided not by the promise of immediate relief but by the relentless pursuit of a dream that seemed to dance just beyond his reach. The writer trudged on, the rhythm of his worn-out shoes against the cobblestones a metronome to his internal debate. Each step seemed to echo the question that gnawed at him: Should he stray from the path he'd chosen? His pockets were empty, as was his stomach, but it was the hollow in his chest, where his dreams used to fuel his days, that felt the most profound. Passing the 'Help Wanted' sign, he imagined for a second what it would be like – the weight of coins in his pocket, the scent of a hearty meal, a life free from the constant clawing need. Yet, as quickly as this fantasy appeared, it dissipated, replaced by an even more vivid image: a window display with his name etched on the cover of a novel, a queue of eager readers stretching around the block. "Another day," he whispered to himself, conviction lacing his voice with a threadbare strength. He couldn't give up, not yet. His dream still clung to him, stubborn as the ink stains on his fingers. Turning away from the main street, he ducked into the familiar gloom of the narrow alley that led to his abode. It was more a crevice between buildings than a proper thoroughfare, and it offered no respite from the city's relentless pace. The shadows here were thick, clinging to the grimy walls like a second skin. His apartment lay at the end of this alley, a basement that could barely qualify as living quarters. Its single window was little more than a slit that allowed grudging slivers of daylight to invade the perpetual dusk of the room. The rent was ludicrous for such squalor, but the market was cruel, and anything cheaper was either a fantasy or a hovel too foul for rats. "Home," he muttered, the word tasting of irony on his tongue. He fumbled for his key, the cold metal a reminder of the stark reality he faced. His fingers brushed the cold brass of the doorknob when a voice, brittle as autumn leaves, whispered from the shadows. "Can you spare a dollar, Sir?" Startled, he turned to confront the source—a beggar woman materialized from the alley's murk, her form shrouded in tattered garments that hung on her like the remnants of a storm. He hesitated, the weight of his own poverty anchoring his hand in his pocket where a solitary dollar bill lay folded. It was the last vestige of his dwindling funds, yet in the presence of such destitution, his plight seemed a king's ransom. With a resigned sigh, he extracted the bill and extended it toward her outstretched palm. "Thank you, Sir, you have a kind heart." Her voice carried an unexpected warmth. Closing the gap between them with surprising agility, she pressed something into his hand—a pencil, worn down to a testament of its former utility. The writer's gaze fell upon the humble offering, a stark contrast to the dollar bill now cradled in her fingers. A half-used pencil, its wood stained with the ghosts of words past, held more value than currency in his world of ink and paper dreams. His supplies had ebbed away to nearly nothing; no ribbon for a typewriter he could not afford, no modern computer to ease the burden of creation. The last of his pencils had been reduced to a nub, barely fit to jot a final thought. "Thank you," he echoed, his gratitude genuine despite the lopsided trade. He managed a weak smile, one artist recognizing another's need, even as the act left him financially barren. The pencil felt right in his grasp, an instrument of potential, and somewhere within the graphite's core, the faint heartbeat of his next story quickened. The key turned with a reluctant creak in the lock, and the writer stepped into the bleak embrace of his apartment. The door swung shut behind him, its click echoing off the barren walls—a hollow greeting from a space that offered little more than shelter from the elements. He surveyed the room with a familiarity that held no comfort: a bed that promised rest without reprieve, a thin blanket that never quite banished the chill, a stove void of warmth or the scent of a hearty meal. His gaze drifted to the crude sheet draped haphazardly in the corner. It served as the only veil of privacy for the open toilet, a reminder of the concessions he'd made in pursuit of his craft. The sink stood sentry beside it, doubling as a basin for both culinary and cleansing rituals, its porcelain stained with the residue of frugal living. But there, amidst the disarray, sat his sanctuary. A small desk cluttered with wrinkled sheets of paper—the tombstones of aborted tales and forgotten verses—waited silently for his return. He pulled out the rickety chair and seated himself before the littered surface, the groan of the wood under his weight a familiar refrain. In his hand, he clutched the half-used pencil given by the beggar woman, its form gnarled by the grip of past dreams. He rolled it between his fingers, considering the stub of potential that it represented. Could such a meager instrument bear the weight of the worlds trapped within his mind? Determination set his jaw. He smoothed a crinkled page before him, the creases protesting under his palms. The graphite tip touched down on the virgin expanse of the page, poised at the precipice of creation. He began. "Waves crashed against the war galleon as it crested another wave in its chase," he scrawled, the words spilling forth as if drawn by some unseen current. "Slowly closing the distance to the pirates attempting to flee..." Line by line, the story unfolded beneath his hand, a tempest of imagination conjured from the depths of his fervor. Each stroke of the pencil birthed a new facet of the narrative; the salt-laden spray of the sea, the creaking timbers of the mighty vessel, the desperate haste of hunted marauders. Within the confines of his dreary abode, he was no longer anchored to his plight. He was the master of this realm, charting its course with the nub of graphite that danced across the page. And for a fleeting, precious moment, the world beyond his walls ceased to exist, swallowed whole by the epic sprawl of his creation. The shadows in the room swayed as though keeping time with the rhythm of his thoughts, cast by the lone, flickering light bulb that hung from a frayed wire above. Its dim glow was a beacon amidst the encroaching darkness of both his room and the uncertainty of his future. The pencil moved tirelessly, driven by necessity and passion intertwined, etching out the fate of his characters upon the pages before him. It was a meager instrument, yet it held on, defying its impending end with every word it formed. "Treasure beyond measure," he scribbled, describing the prize the galleon sought, "guarded by the tempest's wrath." His fingers cramped around the pencil's ever-diminishing form, but he pressed on, driven by the spark of hope that this adventure might be his salvation—the key to unlocking a life less defined by want. "The end," he finally penned, the pencil reduced to nothing more than a splinter of its former self. He leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight, and exhaled a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his world. A good tale, an escapade on the high seas that could perhaps earn him enough coin to clear the cobwebs of debt. But then, without warning, the room lurched violently to one side. Sheets of paper fluttered like panicked birds caught in a storm. Water surged down the wooden staircase, flooding into the room with the force of a tidal wave. The taste of salt invaded his mouth, sharp and immediate, as drops splashed against his face. "All hands to arms!" The shout cut through the chaos, followed by the heavy thud of boots. A rugged man burst into view, his eyes wild with urgency. He thrust a musket into the writer's unprepared hands. "Let's go, mate," he bellowed over the cacophony of splintering wood and roaring water. Staggering to his feet, the writer clutched the musket as another swell rocked the space. The walls of his apartment seemed to dissolve, leaving him somewhere he should not be. Disoriented, he tried to comprehend the unfathomable transformation, his heart pounding a fierce rhythm against his ribs. "Move it, dog, you can write your love letters later." An older man shoved him, his voice gruff and impatient. The writer glanced down at his desk, now just a small wooden fixture amidst the disarray of his once orderly abode, papers soaked and scattered like the aftermath of a squall. With the musket's weight anchoring him to this surreal reality, he stumbled toward the commotion above, where the shouts of men and the boom of cannons awaited. Climbing the stairs, each step unsteady and slick with seawater, the writer's senses were besieged by the acrid tang of gunpowder. The air vibrated with concussive booms as cannons roared from the ship's side, sending tremors through the planks beneath his feet. Grasping the railing for support, he emerged onto the deck where chaos ruled under a sky marred by billowing smoke. The writer was pressed into a line of men whose faces were etched with determination and fear in equal measure. He felt the weight of the musket in his hands, its wood unfamiliar and foreboding. As he raised it to his shoulder, the ship heaved, testing his balance and resolve. "Steady there," called the first man, his grin incongruous amidst the din of battle. "Aim well, William, with the bounty we get from this one, we’ll all have a full purse of coin." His words cut through William's trepidation, a reminder of dreams that seemed so distant now. He tightened his grip on the musket, feeling the roughness of the wood, picturing the desk he had left behind, the pages of his story still damp with seawater and unrealized hope. William squinted through the haze, focusing on the enemy vessel—a dark silhouette riding the crests and troughs of the open sea. His heart hammered against his ribs, a tempo matching the rhythm of the waves and the pounding of cannon fire. "Fire!" The command echoed across the deck, and a collective breath was held before the thunderous response of muskets erupted. Smoke enveloped him, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the recoil of his weapon and the fleeting image of his adversary engulfed in the tumult of battle and brine. William’s face settled into an expression of resignation, this was only the opening chapter. The King’s Galleon, nor any of the men aboard were the hero of this story; the Pirate King standing on the deck of the ship facing them was. The galleon would slip beneath the waves before the next chapter.