Last Chance By Harrison Foxe

Last Chance by Harrison Foxe.
Nobody tells you when you’re young what it’s like to get older. Not the truths of the issue. They don’t tell you about the lost opportunities and failures that will plague your every thought as you seemingly waste away in front of those who pity you for your age.
They don’t tell you about the moment you realise, the moment you feel the heat.
There is a thirst for the thrills of youth.
As the force of the barrel was pressed against his sweaty temple, the man on his knees trembled with fright, his legs heavy.
‘‘Don’t make me do this. Move aside. Now.’’
The deep voice of the aggressive stranger filled the otherwise silent Bank, as the thrill of the moment almost overcame him. The teller shook his head softly. The stranger flinched. In silence, darkness fell. The teller’s head hit the floor. The ancient marbled tile cracked.
‘‘Come on mate, he’s out cold, let’s get the hell out of here. The cops will be here any second!’’
A dowdy, balding accomplice stood next to the bank door, his duffel bag filled to the brim with crisp bills.
The two men fled with limbs defying all logic of age, of illness, with adrenaline fueling every step. With a sputtering start of the engine they sped down the damp morning street of the quaint town, paranoid and excited. The fugitives sped out of town and into the country, taking small dirt roads and leaving a cloud of dirt and dust, obscuring them from behind.
A storm began to rage.
With hopes of freedom they turned onto a new road, a comfortable winding track, when white and blue appeared in the rear-view.
‘Shii—’ before one man could finish, another pulled hard on the steering wheel causing the car to speed down into a ditch, rendering both unconscious.
The instigator awoke, without harm upside-down in the car, rain finding its way through the cracked windows to land on his sweaty face.
The bald man had been horribly injured, his body still buckled to the seat, blood dripping from his chest, trickling up to his face. Slowly and painfully, the survivor crawled out of the front shattered windscreen and with every movement pained shot through his frail, age wearied body.
He reached back in, grabbing the bags and giving a nod.
“Goodbye old chum.”
He couldn’t hear the sound of sirens as he left the scene, too deep inside his own mind. He stood, motionless, rain mixing with sweat. Pulling the pen from his coat, he shakily crossed off number 45 on the list.
‘Rob a bank.’
Suddenly he was encircled, police shouting at him with empty mouths, words not strong enough to reach his frail ears. Duffel bags swung limply from his wrinkled, leathery hands as he finally had a realization of what was happening.

FOLLOW US was established in 1997, and since then we have successfully completed numerous short story and poetry competitions and publications.
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