Thursday, December 26, 2013

A Christmas Miracle

My mother would kill me... well not literary kill me, but kill me sufficiently enough that I get damaged. Damn it! I cursed. You know what I mean, you've probably experienced it too. My feet were moving as fast as I could move it. Retrace, retrace, retrace. The words furiously repeated in my mind. Step after step, my sandal skipped on the black tar road and hopping on to the tumbled footpath. The only thing left to do was retrace my steps if I hoped to find it.

The grocery bag was getting heavy in my arm. You’d think she’ll be happy that I’m getting some work done, but nooo, she won’t. I needed to find what I lost.

My eyes darted left and right, swiftly scanning the street. Could it have flown somewhere? Could someone have picked up and kept it for himself? Cars, motorcycles and wind were puffing on the street, it could have been blown away? If it was wind, then where would it have been blown? That garbage dump, the shop corners? The thoughts and theories stumbled across my mind and to each I had no answer.

I was getting closer to home, until I finally arrived in front of the elevator. All hope was lost, now I had to face her wrath. The elevator came down and as I stepped in, I remembered, there was a last bit I still had to retraced – the staircase. I had walked down when I left home. No, it won’t be there, I convinced myself, if it was going to be anywhere, I would have found it on the street.

There’s no harming in trying, another soft voice seemed to whisper. The bag had grown quite heavy under my arms and I longed to go up the elevator, however, if there was even a slight chance...
My feet were already taking me up the stairs.

On the third floor, it lay silently on the ground as if waiting to be found by me. My mom’s favourite cloth bag, it must have slipped out of my pocket. I slipped it inside and continued to my house, like nothing ever happened, like nothing ever got lost, it was just another Christmas Miracle.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Number One Title

Pete stood his ground, with his feet stretch apart and his head staring straight ahead. Raul stood across him, forty meters in front, staring back at him. The silver star glinted in the moonlight, the number one title. I will have it, Pete assured himself. He had practiced too hard to fail. His right hand was above his waist, hovering over the butt of his revolver which was holstered in his belt.

“Kid”, Raul shouted from across, “it does not have to be this way. I will kill you.” Pete tried to ignore that threat. The whole town was watching them, he knew. They may not be out on the street, but they were hiding inside their wooden houses, cautiously peeping through their windows. Pete adjusted his stance, and his leather boots crunched on the dry gravel.

He flexed his hand. The dry wind stung his face, but he could bare it. There were still staring at each other. Perhaps, Raul thought the first person who made the move would die. But he would not. Pete practiced too hard and long. He had to go back to his father; he would prove to him, that he could be more than just a miner’s son. Raul still stare at him. His face was impassive as his hand hovered over, his own holstered revolver at his face.

Pete felt his eye start to grow heavy. They would water soon and he would need to blink.
He did it, the gun jerked out from his hostler. Maybe it was two shots that rang out or maybe it was one shot that rang out. He felt himself throttle backward, hitting the ground. The revolver slipped from his hand, he did not even know if he managed to pull the trigger. Dust seemed to erupt into the air and into his face. Then the pain washed over him. He lifted his head up. He could see a wet red slick pouring out from his gut. His brown shirt was drenched in his blood, spreading over. He stretched out his hand and pressed his found. He felt a moan of pain escape his lips.

He heard boots approach him. He lifted his head up. It was Raul. He squatted down near Pete. “You think it easy being me, boy?” he asked. There was pain showing on his face. “You fools always come for glory, and each time I have to put a bullet in you. But no matter one day someone better than me will come and put a bullet inside me... that’s the burden of the number one title.”

Maybe it was during or maybe it was after Raul finished speaking that Pete drew his last breath.