A collection of short stories and flash fiction entered into Wattpad competitions and challenges. Namely "Sci-Fi Competitions and Challenges", "MicroBytes Contests and Challenges", "Flash Fiction Friday", "Dystopian & Apocalypse", "JustWriteBits" an...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
* * *
Lyle Henry is the luckiest man you could meet. Now don't go thinking he burns incense every night or carries crystals and stones around in his pockets, not a bit of it; our Lyle's just lucky by nature. Take a second and visualise that—lucky by nature. Not easy is it? Well, my best guess is all that bad luck circulating around has to be levelled out some way and let me tell you, an ever-abundant crop of good fortune couldn't have sprouted for a nicer guy.
Listen to this, right: the other morning—Friday 13th wouldn't you know it—old Lyley-boy rolled out of bed (on the opposite side to the one he got in), and after spilling salt over his scrambled eggs, proceeded to knock down his little mirror when running the comb through his white hair. Unruffled, Lyle got on with it and when he was dressed and ready to go, pocketed his keys and wallet—which were on the floor—then grabbed his umbrella, because the weather can be awful changeable in September, can't it? Before leaving, Lyle accidentally thumbed the release on his threadbare old brolly and had to battle it closed in the tight space of his hall.
Lyle's to-do list consisted of three things then the day'd be his—stop in to get his mop chopped, swing by the bank to cash a cheque for six hundred and sixty-six pounds and meet some old mill buddies for midmorning tea in their usual haunt, Floor 13. Easy as one, two, three.
His thinning hair was trimmed in a jiffy and then he was on his way to the bank. Feeling good with his cleaned-up look, Lyle tipped his hat and greeted everyone with a jolly "hello". The same went for animals as he even took a minute to kneel under a ladder and pet a black cat. "How you doing today, fella?" he asked it and gave the feline a good scratch under its chin. "That's the spot, huh?" When it was satisfied, the cat sprung up the ladder and scooched in a barely-open window. On the pavement, right where the cat had vacated, was a penny. Lyle picked it up and popped it into his breast pocket. It'd be rude not to, right?
Pages of the Ballykittery Guardian were drifting around Main Street on the updraft. By the time Lyle joined the queue in Northern Counties bank, his joints were aching something fierce so he knew a downpour wasn't far off. Not to worry—a pot of tea and a caramel square in Floor 13 go down a treat on a miserable, rainy day!
What jolted Lyle from his reverie wasn't a call from the teller (who he always called Carol on account of her being the absolute spit of her late grandmother), rather it was the look of wide-eyed panic that darkened her face.
"Everybody on the floor! Quick as you can and no-one gets hurt!" Shouted a grating and loutish voice. The Northern Counties patrons dropped like greased lightning. "You cuties back there get these bags filled—and no funny business, yeah?"
It was a stick-up. Expecting everyone to be cowering on the carpet, the man in the balaclava turned to see what the noise was. "Hey granda," he called. "What's the big idea?"
A whimpering old man was still standing. He had his quivering hands raised, one held the handle of his golf umbrella, the other clenched the pointed tip. "I'm seventy-seven," Lyle replied, voice wavering on the edge of control. "Dare say you're gonna have to help me down!" He could manage no more before he lost it and burst into laughter—he near toppled over and put himself on the floor right there.
"Laughing at me's the last mistake you'll ever make, old-timer."
Lyle's mouth dried out like it was full of cottonwool, his heart beat quickly and lightly in his chest. Floor 13... No more tray bakes and tea. No more nipping in for a cheeky breakfast fry. No more just sitting amid the hubbub, remembering what it was like with his wife and their chatterbox children.
The report from the gun was like thunder on a still afternoon. Lyle crumpled to the floor.
Sounds like his luck'd run out, doesn't it? Oh, ye of little faith—luck moves in mysterious ways! With the robber distracted, the teller, 'Carol', hit the panic button, bringing the whole stick-up charade to a swift end. Five years he got.
And Lyle? The bullet ricocheted off that penny in his breast pocket, the lucky old duck.
