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The Strike

He watched the partially lit store from the park across the street. He knew the old man was counting the money; it would take him ten minutes. This was the fourth night he was here. He wanted to strike last night but lost his nerve, and was depressed and anxious all day. Why was he afraid of an old man? He walked across the street to the side of the store where there was no light. His heart was pounding, and sweat was on his brow. He'd watched the old man leave and never saw a gun. He would strip the bank bag from the old man like a football player, and run into the park. Easy...easy as could be. Then he could score the cocaine he wanted. It got darker, the old man turned out the light. He could hear him opening the front door and locking it. When he came around the corner, he grabbed the bag from his hand and ran across into the park. It was weird but he thought he heard the old man laugh. He ran into the park away from the street lights. He knelt down and zipped open the bag to find newspaper. The old man drove away as fast as he could with the wad of money in his front pants pocket. He didn't put the money in the bag until he was at the drop box.

Story by:

Jack Coey

1 July 2013