Fiction, Goodluck

Jones was out trying to figure things out; this time though, it was Brett’s turn to save his life. Hissing and grunting in pain, Brett dragged himself as he could out of the tent, went as far as a large stone that was sitting by the fire; there, he rested and waited for his breath to catch up. He clamped his jaws down, wishing he had something between the teeth and began peeling his bloody shirt up off his rugged skin. He looked at it, picked and poked through it, assessing the gravity of the injury and decided he needed to have a better look. One quick, sharp and completely justifiable yelp got away from him, when his two fore fingers penetrated the wound. It was nearly unbearable, but he had to know how far it might have gone, and whether any organs had been damaged or not. He retrieved his hand and leaned over his left shoulder, reached back and began looking for an exit wound. There wasn’t one.

Jones returned covered in ash, his hair and clothes were singed, and he was carrying a bag.

“Matthews!” He called out, forcefully under his breath.

There was no answer. There was no fire. A pair of boots, a knife and a note; that’s all there was.

 This is all I had, but them got good tread. Get as far as you can.


Jones looked up, stuffed his inheritance in the bag and began walking again.


5 thoughts on “Goodluck

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