Bank & Trust

[Navarre]

EDIT: Due to formatting problems, you'll have to go further down on this thread to read the two posts that contain what I have written. Sorry.

This is an entirely random piece I wrote a long time ago. I came across it and decided to post it.

It is unfinished but here is what I have.



Bank & Trust

Blood wept slowly from the gash of her left knee. Delores cradled her injured leg to her and fought back the urge to weep as well.

The wound was not so bad. It felt like only a small tear in the skin really. She must have hurt it when she fell on the hard marble floor of the bank.

Little injuries weren

[chrysalis]

Maybe one day you will feel compelled to finish the third sentence? Otherwise, great writing!

[Navarre]

Hrmmm...Must be some post limit. I know there is one but I didn't think I hit it.

Let me see if I can fix this...

Weird. It shows in the Preview window and gives me no error but it won't post.

[Navarre]

It seems to stop posting whenever it hits an apostrophe. I have tried saving my document into rich text format and text with line breaks but it still has the same problem.

Seem that it doesn't like something about the document I am copying from. Anyone have any suggestions?

[Navarre]

ran'dom test of u's'i'n'g apostrophes 'one' "two"

Hmm, well I can type something in Word then copy/paste here.

The document in question was from a former hard drive. It opens in Word as a Read-Only. But even if I save it into a new document or copy into Wordpad I still have the same issue, it stops posting when it hits the apostrophe.

[Navarre]

Bank and Trust

Blood wept slowly from the gash of her left knee. Delores cradled her injured leg to her and fought back the urge to weep as well.

The wound was not so bad. It felt like only a small tear in the skin really. She must have hurt it when she fell on the hard marble floor of the bank.

Little injuries weren't uncommon when you hit your mid sixties. Flesh, bone, and cartilage simply didn't hold up like they did at twenty.

It wasn't the scrape that brought tears to her eyes and caused her breath to come in raspy, stuttered gasps. It was the weight, literally and figuratively, of the canvas vest of explosives that was now locked around her chest.

From somewhere close she heard the tremulous sobbing of another woman. Delores wondered if it was the teller who had been helping her make a withdrawal less than an hour ago. Delores stopped for a second and listened to the relentless sniveling cry but she couldn't be sure who it was.

She admonished herself for not using the drive thru ATM but she always hated those things. It seemed she could never get just the right distance for her rather short, plump arms to reach the keys.

Being honest with herself, she enjoyed the brief exchange of pleasantries that came with seeing a cashier. It had been lonely in the house the last few years without Frank. Waiting in that pink recliner for a visitor sometimes became too much.

Delores had been quite excited this morning when she prettied herself up. The twins were turning sixteen today but any chance to see her grandchildren made the day worth smiling.

She'd planned to buy them something nice today. Unfortunately, other people's plans had changed all of that.

It had all happened so fast she wasn't even sure how many robbers there were. She could pick out at least five shadows breaking the light of the glass doors. It was a little hard to hear the men though over the incessant bawling of the woman nearby.

Delores heard all about such men everyday on the news. She'd read many stories in the paper about so many instances of theft, violence, and even murder.

One took in such things rather abstractly when viewed from a distance. Now she wondered if her name would be mentioned in the paper tomorrow, both in the headline story and in the obituaries.

She could feel the wetness seeping onto the knee of her slacks. Why had she worn the light blue slacks today? She couldn't go to Dani and Evan's party like this. It was their birthday after all and she had to be a part of that.

"Why are you doing this? Just take the money and leave us alone." A man's voice sounded meekly from some distance away, also at floor level. Delores thought he sounded muffled, as if something covered his head.

"If we wanted money we wouldn't be standing here, would we?" came a reply, focused but permeated with nervous tension.

The man near the door made a second comment but the other woman's sobbing occluded his words. If she'd stop making that infernal racket maybe the men would calm down, take what they wanted, and leave.

Delores heard a rapid thudding sound and realized it was the sound of her heart pumping in her ears. She took a few deep breaths and concentrated on slowing the rhythm that threatened to overwhelm her.

Trying to focus on something other than her own fear, Delores started a mental review of the employees and patrons that had been in the bank when everything happened. It was only a small branch so it wasn't too hard. Maybe these men had chosen it because it was easier to overtake than a large facility.

Delores carefully looked around at her fellow hostages. There were thirteen people sitting on the floor, each wearing an explosive vest like her. Unlucky thirteen.

Having little to do at home but plant begonias and watch television, Delores was reminded of the many shows she'd seen with a similar crisis. But, feeling her hips begin to ache from sitting on the unyielding marble and seeing the dark stain on the knee of her slacks, this wasn't much like she'd imagined it.

There was no pregnant lady about to go into labor. She didn't see a guy who looked like an ex cop or government agent, ready to enact his daring plan. There wasn't even a loud mouthed idiot who'd almost get them killed with his foolish bravado.

Instead, a fat man wearing a "Daytona 500" shirt was sweating so hard he looked like he'd gone jogging. A frizzy haired blonde who mismatched the reds of her shirt and pants sat with her knees pulled to her chest.

A brunette with a bob cut, slender except for the hint of a tummy, looked surprisingly calm. At most in her mid twenties, her pink scrubs marked her profession but she seemed to have lost one of her white Crocs. Delores wondered where her errant shoe had gone.

The tellers and managers were clustered together, also wearing the vests hanging heavy with gunmetal gray canisters linked by thin black wires. It was one of the managers who had spoken up.

He was a handsome middle aged man with neatly trimmed hair showing gray at the temples. His suit jacket looked very constricting beneath the vest and his patterned silk tie bunched under his chin.

He held his chin up and looked up at the men, unlike the other hostages. But his lower lip trembled a bit, as he seemed to combat fear with rationality.

And, yes, there was the crying woman. With her head turned toward the counter it had been hard to tell but now Delores could see her large chest heaving with each sob, as if she were gulping air to sustain her bawling.

The cry wasn't loud or prolonged. Each was a "buh hoo" that sounded like the fake cry of a five year old that wasn't getting dessert.

Delores wondered if maybe one of the men would get tired of her ridiculous blubbering and crack her in the head with the butt of one of their shotguns. She immediately felt regret at thinking of such a thing. Or maybe there was a small relief she'd taken in the thought.

So there they were, thirteen people sitting on the floor wearing explosives. Save for the employees, random visitors who Fate had drawn together for a most unlucky event.

Delores just wanted to see Dani and Evan open their gift. She was supposed to pick up the cake too. Oh, how awful it would be if the kids didn't have a cake on their birthday.

She felt a stir of something else now. Her face felt a little flushed and she blinked but her tears had stopped.

[Navarre]

Her breathing was still a bit rapid though and she realized she was angry. She was angry that these arrogant men had come in here, making her worry about not seeing her grandchildren. What right did they have to threaten anyone ? To take whatever they wanted? They were very, very mean people and Delores didn't like them one bit.

She thought it would be funny if the poor weeping lady, so distraught, would grab one of these hooligan's guns and bash him in the head instead. Making that poor woman cry hysterically like that. The nerve! She probably had kids of her own at home.

Delores raised her head a bit and looked at the men. There were only five of them. They were outnumbered over two to one. She bet they felt tough though, with their ski masks and shotguns and bombs. People like that didn't belong around civilized folk.

A brilliant blue light began washing over the marble floor like the ocean on ice. The sirens of many police cars commanded attention as the sunlight was permeated and overcome by the arrival of the authorities.

All of the hostages looked up now. Hope shown on every face with the image of rescue but, behind widened eyes, Delores knew everything had become much more dangerous.

The men said nothing from behind their woolen masks but their bodies conveyed an air of tension mixed with anticipation. They had been waiting here, just standing about, for what seemed like forever. They had to have known the police would arrive soon and, indeed, seemed pleased for that.

The men drew further back from the doors, concealing themselves behind the massive counters. Only Delores's fellow hostages remained visible, spackled near the center of the room, their faces washed purple amid the flare of blazing lights and reflected fear.

The shrill pulse of a cell phone could be heard ringing from behind the main teller window. It only rang once and a man's voice, low and controlled, answered only, "Yes?"

Delores remembered her cell phone tucked away in her flowered handbag. If she had her phone she could call for help. But then, that was supposed to be "help" outside of the bank right now. They were professionals, protectors of the people. They'd know how to handle this.

Still, was that the police calling the man behind the counter? Were they trying to negotiate with him? Maybe they were distracting him while a SWAT team snuck in through the air ducts, a demolitions expert ready to free them from the threat of the explosive devices.

The man continued to talk, slowly and deliberately. Delores strained to hear the conversation but she was too far away.

"They have it," the man on the phone said as he hung up. A small murmuring of excitement passed among the hooded men.

"We're leaving just like we planned. The hostages stay. The cops won't stop us as long as they know we have the detonator switch."

The men slowly came back into view, too far back in the room to be seen from outside. Their short and rapid movements revealed their greedy anticipation.

A heavy sigh escaped the fat man. His eyes darted across the feet of the men as great beads of sweat dropped from his nose and brow. The hope of survival was palpable in the room.

"But bring one of the hostages with us," said the man who'd received the call. "

"A little extra insurance."

Someone gasped from the floor but Delores wasn't sure who made the sound. A dough-faced boy in his late twenties and the frizzy-haired blonde were looking at her. Delores realized the frightened gasp had come from her own mouth.

One of the men walked slowly around the hostages, the barrel of his shotgun pointed down like a divining rod. He wove casually among them as if he were picking out the best steak to take home for dinner.

Delores lowered her head and averted her eyes as he came near. She felt like the student in class who hoped she wouldn't be called upon. She watched his feet as he stopped for a minute next to her. His breathing was raspy and his clothes smelled of cigars.

He stood there for what seemed like so long she thought maybe he was expecting her to say something. She raised her eyes only slightly at the same moment he turned away.

He walked now with deliberate intent to where the brunette with the pink scrubs sat. She too had her head down, staring down her v cut blouse at her own bosom.

The man stood just over her. He took a half step to his right so he too was staring down her shirt. His raspy breathing seemed to quicken just a bit and Delores knew he'd chosen his prize.

The man placed the tip of his barrel under her chin and tilted her head up to look at him. Her eyes were so wide, upturned to the man. Her face, pale with her button nose and framed by her French bob, looked like a child's doll. Her green eyes were glistening with tears.

The man commanded her gaze but lowered his barrel just a bit so that the weight of it pressed down the open collar of her pink shirt just a little farther.

"Yeah," he growled low. "You'll do."

[Navarre]

Alright. That's all I've written of it.

I wanted to post something as a relaxing diversion but it turned into a 30-minute formatting issue and I wish I'd never started.

Still, there it is. yay

[litanyofthieves]

Are you going to keep going? Or is that the end? I'm interested...

Also, this sentence:

"One of the men walked slowly around the hostages, the barrel of his shotgun pointed down like a diving rod"

Did you mean Divining Rod?

[Navarre]

Ah, yes. I did mean "divining rod".

Thank you, I didn't catch that. It annoys the crap out of me when people (supposed writers) can't construct a proper sentence, misspell words, and don't take time to proof-read their work. Thanks for the reminder to be more vigilant.

As far as continuing it, I'm not sure. I doubt it. It was intended to only be a short-story anyway so I probably could finish it.

I seem to have the same problem I complain about with artists: I start a project and then sort of fade away.

But I have found that the projects I stick to are always those where there is a collaborative effort. If I am writing it "just because" it rarely gets finished yet I can work on a project for years if I am working with someone.

I suppose what I am really looking for are friends to share such things with more than any enjoyment that comes from the writing itself. Thanks for reading it though.