Death on Fridays!

Book Overview

Death on Fridays! is a story about a loving family: a caring mother, a strong father, and three children whose world changes in one violent moment. What follows is a journey through grief, fear, resilience, and the constant shadow of death, before the story opens into peace, healing, and paradise at the end.

Prologue: The Old Man in the Chair

The old man sat in his armchair, its leather softened by decades of use, positioned perfectly beside the tall window that overlooked the garden. At ninety-something, his body had slowed, but his mind remained sharp, disciplined, and alert. A folded newspaper rested in his hands, its edges neat, never creased without reason.

He did not skim. He studied.

His eyes moved steadily across columns of national and international affairs: heads of state, shifting alliances, treaties signed and broken, quiet tensions disguised as diplomacy. He lingered longer on stories others might dismiss as routine: joint military exercises, trade corridors, foreign visits labelled “symbolic.” Symbols, he knew, often hid intentions.

The house was otherwise calm. Then calm shattered.

A sudden rush of footsteps thundered through the hallway. Laughter burst into the room, sharp and unchecked. Five, no six, children came sprinting in, their voices overlapping, their energy boundless. They argued mid-run, one accusing another of cheating, someone shouting a name too loudly.

A shove. One child stumbled and crashed into the old man’s chair. The chair lurched.

In an instant, the newspaper slipped from his hands. The old man’s head snapped up.

His eyes swept the room, fast and precise, assessing before emotion could form. No child was injured. No one was crying. Only startled.

He rose slowly, deliberately, to his full height.

When he spoke, the sound was not loud, but it carried. “That’s enough.”

The voice was aged, yes, but beneath the years lay something hardened, trained. A voice that had once cut through gunfire and chaos. A voice that expected obedience.

The children froze. Silence fell so suddenly it felt rehearsed.

Before fear could bloom, before lips could tremble, the old man’s expression softened. Severity melted into warmth, and a gentle smile replaced the steel in his eyes.

“Well,” he said, lowering himself back into the chair, “what do you say to a nice story?”

The shift was instant.

“A story?” “Yes!” “We want a story, Grandpa!”

They rushed toward him, excitement returning in waves. One sat cross-legged on the rug, another leaned against the chair’s arm, two more squeezed in close, their faces glowing with anticipation.

The old man settled in, adjusted the cushion behind his back, and reached for a glass of water on the side table. He took a slow sip, then carefully placed the lid back on before setting it down.

“Uh… uh… ugh,” he cleared his throat. “All right,” he said. “Listen closely.”

The children leaned in.

“Once upon a time,” he began, “there was an undercover agent.”

“Ooooh…” someone whispered.

“This agent handled weapons, commanded teams, planned attacks and defences. He understood wars before they began and sometimes ended them before the world even realized they had started. He had no medals. No name anyone would remember. He made impossible choices and carried their weight alone. He survived when he was not meant to. He learned when others broke. And slowly, carefully, he began to move the pieces. It was said he could erase entire nations with a single decision.”

A small hand shot up. “What was his name?”

The old man paused, a faint smile touching the corner of his lips. “James Arthur.”

“Like James Bond?” a boy asked. “I’ve never heard that name,” another added.

“That’s because,” the old man said calmly, “he was undercover.”

The children nodded solemnly, accepting this as perfectly logical.

“Okay,” he murmured, then paused again. His gaze drifted briefly, not to the children, but somewhere far beyond the room. “No. That’s not where the story should begin.”

He shook his head gently. “Let me start again.”

The children groaned in protest but stayed silent.

“Once upon a time,” he said, “there lived a family in the city of Gennerva, in the State of Phoenixia.”

“But you said…” “No interruptions,” he said mildly. “Or the story ends here.”

“Sorry!” “Jenny, don’t talk!” another child whispered urgently.

The room settled.

It was nine o’clock at night. Supper was done. In the next room, parents spoke in low voices, laughter drifting faintly through the walls. The house was wrapped in that quiet warmth: the gentle hush, the perfect stillness that invites secrets and stories alike.

The old man nodded, satisfied.

In the quiet that followed, no one noticed the faint scars on his hands, or the way his eyes held memories far older than any bedtime tale.

Gennerva’s Annual Festival

Once upon a time, there lived a family in the city of Gennerva, in the State of Phoenixia.

On a Friday evening, Johnathan took his wife Linda and their children to a local festival in the city. Johnathan carried his youngest son AJ on his shoulders, Linda held Ryan, and Martina held little Jenny’s hand as they walked into dazzling lights.

The vibe was intense. Stores and stalls lined every side. There were toy shops with cars, blocks, plushies, Barbie sets, LEGO sets, Star Wars toys, and more. A large Japanese sushi restaurant stood in the center, and nearby food counters served hot dogs, burgers, fries, pastry, Tim Tams, and samosa chaat.

At the center stood a giant wheel, surrounded by games: Balloon Dart, Ring Toss, Trampoline, Duck Pond, and Bouncy Castle.

“Dad, trampoline, trampoline!” the kids shouted. “Okay! Fine!”

“Hey, Mart, take both Jenny and Ryan,” John said, handing her some cash. “And one more thing: be careful. Stay together and keep an eye on both of them.” “Yes, Dad!”

Martina took Jenny and Ryan to the trampoline while John and Linda went to Balloon Dart.

Balloon Dart: Shot 1

John, full of pride, lifted the gun and aimed at the middle blue balloon.

“Here goes the greatest cowboy you’ve ever seen, lady!”

Linda’s eyes widened as she locked onto his aim.

Shoot. He missed.

“Nice shot, Mr. Cowboy,” she giggled.

Balloon Dart - Shot 2

“This time I am gonna make it, watch!” “Oh, we’ll see that too.”

Again, a miss. It almost hit the booth attendant. “A bit careful, sir.”

Linda burst into laughter. AJ giggled too, reaching for the gun.

“AJ, stop, you’ll fall down.”

John put the gun down and held him. AJ still reached forward.

“Oh, AJ, stop, you can’t really do that!” “Aaaa… mm… aaa…” AJ kept moving toward it.

The booth attendant said, “We have a smaller gun for kids, sir. You have one more shot left. Maybe he can use it.”

“Is that fine? He is just a toddler.”

“No problem, sir.”

He handed AJ the smaller gun and reduced the balloon range to half.

AJ began licking the gun. “Waste of time. Let’s leave, honey,” John said, trying to take it back.

AJ tightened his tiny grip and pointed at the balloon.

“Come on, son, make your father proud. Prove you are the son of The Master Cowboy!”

As if trained, AJ closed one eye, aimed, and fired.

“Perfect! You see, lady? Mr. Cowboy has trained his son really well. He just learned that one-eye thing from his father.” “Yeah, of course I raised him to be a quick learner!”

Then they walked back toward the trampoline booth.

The three kids were bouncing and rolling when Ryan shouted, “Hey mom, see this!”

“A backflip!” Linda said. “Be careful, buddy!” John added.

A few minutes later, they stepped out.

“Dad, it was really great. I felt like I was floating in air. Can we get one of these, the trampoline?” Jenny asked.

“Please, father, please!” all three pleaded.

“No, no, no… kids, listen, we can’t have it,” Linda said. “Pleeeease…”

“Stop it!” John said in a loud voice. “It’s not a toy!”

All three kids startled; fear-of-father kicked in.

Linda calmed them gently. “Okay kids, we can come here every year, and there’s another exhibition next week. You can play there.” “And you know what? It doesn’t fit in our car!”

Ryan and Jenny brightened. “Yeah, that’s a nice point! It doesn’t fit! We’ll buy something smaller.”

“Yeah, sure,” Linda smiled.

John giggled at their logic. “Stop it, they might see,” Linda whispered.

The family headed to a food booth a few meters away.

Martina held Jenny’s hand, Linda carried Ryan, and little AJ returned to his place on John’s shoulders. As they walked, the crowd grew thicker and louder.

“Hold tight, kids!” John shouted.

They paused at a toy stall.

Ryan saw a dancing ball made of rubber-like plastic, with a tiny LED, water, and floating toy fish inside.

“Mommy, can we get this? It’s really cheap, I asked the shopkeeper.” “How much is this, sir?” Linda asked. “One dollar and five cents, madam.”

“Okay.”

Linda paid. Ryan got the ball. Martina and Jenny bought a Barbie doll and a kitchen set. John bought AJ a small black toy gun.

When the crowd settled a little, the family resumed walking toward the food booths.

The Algoledes

A sudden force ripped everything apart.

It was an explosion.

A terrorist group called The Algoledes had attacked the city, and in many ways, the whole state of Phoenixia.

Everything fell dead silent. The wind could be heard clearly. The air was calm, but heavy.

Dust swallowed the festival. The place turned lifeless and dark. Corpses lay all around. The ground turned red. Many had lost limbs. Most of the crowd showed no sign of life.

“Huhn!” John gasped for air.

Fatigued. Numb. Mind blank.

He looked around, slowly regained consciousness, and tried to stand.

“What just happened? Where’s Linda? Where are the kids?”

He gathered every bit of strength and tried to walk. He felt almost nothing in his body. His left leg was badly injured, ankle displaced, bone visible.

Still, without fully realizing the severity, he moved forward, dragging himself through the wreckage as cries and sobs echoed through the dark.

Then he heard a shrill voice:

“Mother, wake up, mother!”

The voices seemed familiar…