Gun shots. Sirens coming up the street. A man in a torn red t-shirt and jeans clutches at the shadows, clawing the cracked plaster and finds a hole to push through, leaving the night air behind, the floor rising up to meet him as he falls to his knees on the dirty rug before turning back and pushing a broken board back in place, muffling the noise and blocking the smell of smoke on the wind, the flickering of the fire in the distance as the old marketplace burns.
Peace. For a moment. And darkness. He pulls his t-shirt up and wipes his face. Scars line his torso, old wounds never healed. He inhales and relaxes for a moment, until he turns and sees her.
A face as black as night, eyes like bright distant stars, she leans out of the shadowed corner in a filthy red dress, her hair piled high on her head like laundry, her breasts beaded with sweat, the fabric clinging to her body like a second skin. Flashing lights pierce the gloom, lick the high wall over her and glint off the gray barrel of the pistol she holds out straight-armed, steady, her gaze boring into him.
He stares and waits for the crack of the shot, on his knees still, ready for the execution as sure as the one should they catch him, sweat trickling down his back from the running, his breaths almost steady now, but he counts each one as if it were his last, eyes locking on hers as the seconds tick by.
She motions. Out. He shifts, hands up, motioning as gunshots ring out into the night again. He points to himself and closes his fist over his heart. She hesitates.
Before he can move, footsteps pound the concrete outside, and he raises his finger to his lips, a small knife in his other hand and backs away from the hole he’d pushed through, away from her and the cocked pistol. Muffled voices, then shouts in the distance, and more footsteps leading away. He keeps his eyes on her, his finger to his lips, and she leans back, letting the shadows swallow her again, the muzzle of the old 45 steady, then dropping out of sight.
The board creaks, and the room holds its breath, waiting, watching as a shaved head pushes through, followed by an arm, then shoulders, and a finally black combat vest scarred and worn, battle-tested and scorched from fire. The man pauses, eyes adjusting, taking his measure of the room, and then he pushes through and rises, a rifle hanging loosely in his grip.
He freezes, his eyes on the far corner.
The pistol glints in the light, silent as the grave before the rifle clatters to the ground, the body landing with a thud next to it. The man in the red shirt leans over the body, wiping his knife across camouflage pants. He grabs the soldier and pulls him to a far corner, leaving a red smear trailing over the carpet underfoot, loots pockets, pulling the combat vest from the dead man and laying out his inventory on the floor away from the growing crimson pool and the footprints marked in blood.
He sits back on his haunches and surveys his supplies before he sees the pistol again, shaking in unsteady hands at the end of a long, wiry arm. It dangles like a tease from her slender fingers, and when he slips it from her grasp, fingers trace the length of his arm sending a shudder through his body. He looks away, then turns back, finding her standing there, waiting, her hands tight by her sides. Eyes meet in the moment, and she looks away then back, and he follows and nods and points past the wall with one hand while the other slips through the collar of his tee shirt and pulls out a small silver chain, where a silver ship’s wheel dangles. He searches her eyes, stands and reaches out, pushing the pistol back into her hand, and then he leans down and fills his pockets, buckling the military vest and slipping his knife into a pocket.
Without a glance back, he steps over and pulls on the plank, hesitates and looks back, eyeing the woman standing, waiting, the pistol dangling from a trembling finger. He closes his fist over his heart again, and turns, but not before she steps forward, reaching out. Gunshots ring out in the distance as a vehicle races by, and suddenly the night goes quiet — a beat and then a scream, and silence again. He hesitates, listening, watching her as she squeezes her hand into a fist and holds it over her heart, leaving him frozen in time.
Eyes searching for light in darkness, she peels the straps of her dress from her shoulders and lets it fall away from heavy breasts, revealing rounded hips, her gaze never leaving him as she slides to the floor, the pistol an afterthought as she bends and turns on all fours, looking back. His eyes follow her every movement, the board in-hand all but forgotten, his fist still curled up and pressed to his pounding heart as he watches her offer, and his shoulders relax, body turning toward her darkness.
Author’s Notes: I ran into this song — Trenchtown by Vibe4Soul — on my commute last week, and I couldn’t stop listening to it. I listen to a lot of reggae on YouTube music. I didn’t realize this was AI-generated music, but every time I listen to it, I love it nonetheless. And this story sprung from this song. The moment I heard it, I knew there was a story there.
From a writing standpoint, I was pushing for long, winding sentences that make you pause and breath again to hear them come out in a long stream. Why? I don’t know. I just wanted to try something different and let the moments flow together.
I hope you like it.
I liked it enough to create this song below based on the short story: