Everything on the big island was mellow – the sunshine, the rain, the surf, the land. Nothing was troubled. Until Henry arrived with his big revolver and a willingness to use it. He terrified every islander who had only known peace. Which suited Henry just fine. He didn’t want to be mellow, he wanted to be rich and he’d take it from whoever he could.
Then Kofi arrived. You could see the war-torn terrain of the country he had left behind in his eyes, but he never spoke of it. Kofi wasn’t mellow, but he was calm, but he made islanders nervous. He was nothing if not gracious, though, so he was treated with respect from a polite distance.
Until Kofi was sitting, looking at the startlingly small classified sections of the local newspaper, trying to find a job. Henry came marching in, demanded a beer from the shopkeep, and then all the cash from the register. Kofi sighed in a way that spoke of deep familiarity. He folded up his paper and went outside.
Henry, seeing the eyes of the shopkeep plead with Kofi, followed the other man outside, where he yelled at him, questioning his ancestry, his bravery, and the tightness of his asshole. When he pulled the revolver, the two men struggled in the dusty street. It was Kofi who came back up, the knife no one had seen him carry embedded between Henry’s ribs.
Everyone agreed it was an accident.
See the author’s published work here.
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