Threads of Peace - a short story (action/fantasy/realism)
“I’m going to have a look.”
The artillery explosions had ceased. Geoff turned his neck to see his roommate, Han, pulling himself out from under the couch where they’d hid all through the night.
“Mistah, don’t do it,” said Geoff’s houseboy Theo, peeking across from his hiding place under a tribal drum, the only bit of decoration in the house aside from Theo’s fabrics.
The boy’s head was still, holding the same intensity he applied to his tailoring on the sewing machine Geoff had bought him. The boy had expressed interest in supporting his family.
“He would know,” said Geoff to Han. Theo’s country had been wartorn for all twelve years of his young life. But Han, a contract pilot for their operation here, preferred action to its alternative.
And they’d been under a couch all night.
Geoff watched him walk stiffly into the next room. For balance, he ran his hand along the bullet-holed table. He reached the iron shutters.
“Mistah,” said Theo, “please.” The boy started to take a piece of cloth out of his pocket. The shutters creaked as Han opened them.
Gunfire. Geoff heard collapsing, gasping, groaning.
Geoff and Theo scrambled to Han, staying crouched below the shutters. With his cloth, Theo wiped the blood from the man’s chest, looking for the wound. He tried stopping up the wound with the cloth. “Your kindness is in it,” said Theo to Geoff, “but I don’t know if my skill was enough.” The cloth collected blood. Han whimpered.
Just as dawn crept into the house, the last thread of Han’s life left him. Theo folded the bloodied piece of cloth with bloodied hands, pocketed it. Geoff watched, regret rising within. He could have stopped Han.
// you can read the rest of the story here: *https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Fwcy2b3sQ4uj3mk3UQjVG-4aacvfEXPvbSox8SoYQIc/edit?usp=sharing*