Flash Fiction Anthology

Ro-sham-bo

Jean was looking at his two grandsons from his cosy armchair by the lit fireplace, but he didn't really see them. He was absorbed in his awful, tormenting thoughts, worried about his son Jake, the boys' father, who was in the hospital, in a coma.

Two long weeks have passed since Jake was sent back from Afghanistan, gravely injured. His injuries were so bad that the hospital specialists opted for a medically induced coma, to help him heal better.

These two weeks were the most agonising days, hours and minutes of Jean's life. Only now he truly understood how his own parents must have felt when he was a young soldier, on duty in the most dangerous places of the world. But, unfortunately, the constant fear was a part of his family's life for a very long time now. Jean descended from a centuries long line of soldiers.

Now, when he grew too old for the service, it was his turn to wait at home, worried. His duty was to look after his grandsons, who were moved to his house while their mother, Yuko, was spending days and nights in the hospital, waiting for Jake, her husband, his own son, to wake up.  But as the days passed, it seemed that they were both hoping for a miracle.

The boys' voices, becoming louder and louder, pulled him back to the present moment. Soon, they would start arguing and Jean needed to prevent that. Because once they started, they would shout at each other for a good while and then, at least one of them, would run up the stairs to the bedroom they were sharing in their granddad's house, in tears.

The room that once belonged to their father, who was now fighting for his life... Jean's  cruel memory brought back to him scattered images of his past life, a few random snapshots of happy moments, when his  wife was still alive and Jake was just a little boy, as old as his sons now. The old man contemplated the warm, cheerful fire, tears threatening. This way of thinking was not helpful at all.

Jean shook his head to disturb the train of thoughts that kept taking him back to his Jake. He had a serious problem to solve right here and now. He needed to restore the peace between his beloved grandsons.

The old man observed the two quietly for a few minutes, to assess the situation. There was a battle going on the old, nearly thread-bare carpet of his living room floor. Plastic toy soldiers in two different colours, which once belonged to their father, were placed strategically all over the place. Looking at the positions the two kids have chosen for their warriors, he nodded in agreement, and a rare smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Jean felt proud of his grandsons. Like himself, and their father, they had the art of war strategy coursing through their veins.

Right now, obviously unable to decide about something in their pretend war, they were playing stone-paper-scissors, but, as usually, it wasn't going too well. None of the two was great at loosing a game. Jean needed to intervene. Fast.

"Hey, boys, what's going on?" he asked, still unable to see the reason of their discord.

"The Silver General, granddad. It was supposed to be mine this time!" the younger one, eight-years-old Jean, his namesake, called, his eyes sparkling with angry, barely supressed tears.

Of course, that was the problem, the General! The only figurine made of shiny, cool, silvery metal, in the sea of red and green plastic soldiers. He noticed it now, laying on the floor between the arguing boys, on a neutral territory. A prize to be won in the game of ro-sham-bo, by one or the other.

"Liar!" Hiro, the other, twelve-years-old boy, or rather a young man, retorted. He looked much more Japanese, with his shock of black hair and dark brown, almond-shaped eyes than his little, blond brother. The name he inherited after his other grandfather from across the ocean suited him perfectly. "Just because you are the baby of the house doesn't mean you always have to have the General!"