Heat of the Moment
A micro bank robbery
This isn’t how it’s supposed to end. I have so many things I still want to do. I can’t deserve such an unceremonious ending, and yet here I am, clutching my abdomen. The pain is blinding and the blood seeping through my fingers is hot and sticky. I swallow hard, looking over to the right. Laura is kneeling on the floor and staring at me with wide terrified eyes. Her gaze shifts from my face down to my stomach. I guess I’m glad it was me the bank robbers shot and not her. Maybe I can take solace in knowing that my last act in life was taking a bullet for a friend.
I can hear shouting but the sound is distorted, like my ears are filled with water. There is a flurry of motion as one of the masked robbers pulls hard on his compatriot's arm, urging him to escape. The one who shot me stares down at me with horror in his green eyes. He appears to be frozen. I wonder if he woke up today realizing that he was going to end someone’s life. The look in his eyes tells me this wasn’t part of the plan.
About the Creator
Emma Edwins (R.T. Edwins)
Novelist, blogger, poet, and therapist.
Author of the thriller "Dark Offerings," and the "Chariots of Heaven" sci-fi series.
Author of the serial novellas "Scarlet Dreams" and "The Definitely Dead Debbie Downer."
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More stories from Emma Edwins (R.T. Edwins) and writers in Fiction and other communities.
The Tree of Echoes
I don’t know how long I’ve been lost in this place. Time moves differently here, at a much slower pace. And while I remain a child in body, my mind and heart have continued to grow. I’ve also forgotten what my name used to be. I think it might have started with an A, or maybe a V.
By Emma Edwins (R.T. Edwins)2 months ago in Fiction
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins4 days ago in Fiction
OF MOTHERHOOD.
Dear mother-to-be, I wanted to let you know how very, very special I think you are. I don't think there can be any job that is more meaningful than the one you are about to begin, that of being a mom. You are the most important person in the world to your precious unborn baby, and you will be for many years.
By Catherine Nyomenda5 days ago in Writers
Comments (1)
Your story is short and clear.. But large stories will get a huge reach kindly try to write large stories ,, can you please which blogging website you own,, is there any chance for getting backlinks https://needfultips.com/