There are heroes amongst us. These people do the extraordinary. They take the dangerous risks. Somewhere at the top of the chart are those who risk their lives to rescue others.
Here is a short story by me. It was originally a 300 word flash fiction I crafted for last year's Etisalat flash fiction competition. I have expanded and tweaked the story a little bit, just for your pleasure.
TV channels were buzzing with the news of a minor earthquake that occurred at Harlem estate, Crosby city, in the early hours of the day. Arthur, who just moved out of the estate the previous day sat up with a long face when he saw the news. In shock, he swiftly made his way to Harry’s room and asked, “Is your mom’s photo album here?”
Harry, the first of his three sons looked dumbfounded. He had left the photo album in his wardrobe while they packed and had no response to his father’s question but an apologetic face.
Arthur jumped into his car in annoyance and sped off his new compound to Harlem estate. He could hardly believe it was where he once lived as he slowly approached the vast expanse, which was crowded by ambulances, police vehicles, pressmen and sympathizers. The police officers had taped the scene to ward off sympathizers and pressmen and had specific positions manned to prevent any movement past the tapes.
Arthur parked his car by the side of the road about 80 metres from the estate. He hopped out of his car and approached a police officer who told him no unauthorised person would be allowed to go past the tapes. He could hardly bear the scenes he saw. His blonde hair curled on his face and his spirit drooped, astonished at how beautiful houses could crumble into debris by acts of nature.
He returned to his car from where he viewed rescue activities and contemplated on what would be his next move. He shook his head furiously as he ran out of ideas and thought how hopeful he was to think he would locate a photo album in that whole mess. He got fed up waiting endlessly for sign of a probable idea and left for home.
Arthur returned to the estate before dawn while the police officers were fast asleep. He tiptoed past them and began to walk towards his former apartment with the aid of his phone’s flashlight. It was a difficult and rather long walk through the rubbles but with determination and courage he trudged on until he located the detached four-bedroom flat which looked damaged and decrepit.
Arthur carefully searched through the dilapidated building and after an hour and thirty minutes, he spotted the photo album stuck in a pile of stones. The day had dawned at the time and Arthur could clearly hear voices of people coming in his direction. He wiped his brow of sweat and cautiously made his way for the photo album.
He had only touched the photo album when the sound of a crying child halted him midway. She was a child of about eight years old and had a look of fear worn across her face. She desperately yearned for help and sought Arthur to rescue her.
A strong wind blew across Harlem estate leaving Arthur scrambling for balance. He quickly ran up a pile of stones to pull up the girl, pushing aside all obstacles and shielding his face from flying objects from where he stood, bent above the girl. As he pulled her, he lost sight of the photo album which contained all of his wife’s pictures. He carried the girl in his rough hands and instantly, he remembered his loving wife dying in those same hands.
"Thank you for saving me," the young girl whispered to him with a weak and tender voice.
Arthur heaved a big sigh, “nothing can be compared to saving a life,” he muttered shakily. “It’s love itself; it’s a privilege”
Arthur held the young girl close to his chest, he would not let her down until she was somewhere safe. He was yet to move an inch when he heard voices coming his way. He raised up his head and saw rescue operatives who running.
“These are heroes,” he smiled, “and I am one, just like them.”
Your views about this story would be appreciated.
As an upcoming writer, I intend to churn out stuffs that would affect and define society.