1/7/12

Stolen Heart
By Ross Reed


“What can I do for you today?”
“I just need this deposited in my—“
“Shut the fuck up.” There was no aggression in the words. In fact, it was the calmest I have ever heard those words spoken. Looking back now, I believe that was what made them so effective.
Having heard the quiet demand for my silence, I turned from my conversation with the bank teller, to find a tarnished chrome pistol raised to my forehead. Freezing in place, I stared into the shadowed face of the hooded gunman.
It took me several seconds to put together the soft, pleasing voice, the small frame, the slender hands with red polished nails, and the dark locks of hair protruding from the gunman’s hood. However, my eventual realization that my local credit union was being held up by—what appeared to be—a girl hardly old enough to drink, did nothing to alleviate my sudden paralysis. The only movement I made throughout the act was when I turned as she passed me. Although she wore a baggy black hooded sweatshirt, I had the overwhelming notion that she must be beautiful, and from the nonchalant way she walked she must have felt so too. She engaged the teller I had just handed my paycheck to. I remember listening to her angelic voice make devilish threats, however these words were lost on me. I focused only on the sweet notes her voice produced.
Behind the counter, the broad-shouldered teller moved frantically to meet the demands of his undersized aggressor, stuffing the bundles of twenties into the schoolgirl-purple backpack produced for the task. His hands shook as he tried to zip the pack shut, but it was ripped from his hands before he had the chance; he shrank away and lowered himself to the floor, his body convulsed as if shocked by an electric current. My eyes, moving from him, noticed for the first time that everyone else had buried their heads in the sand shaded carpet.
As she turned from the counter with her purpose fulfilled, she became aware of me standing amongst the motionless heaps, blankly staring back at her. She walked towards me; I remained still, mesmerized by her dark blue eyes. She kept my gaze as she gently pulled my wallet from my fingers before she proceeded past me toward the doors.
“Can I get your number?” I remember blurting out, still under the influence of her intoxicating scent. She turned and faced me, as cold faced as ever. Walking back towards me, she pulled the cash, and what I thought to be my debit card, from my wallet. Standing face to face again, she began to place my wallet in my back pocket; as she did I was freed suddenly of my paralysis by a deep, passionate kiss. Afterwards, with a wink and a smirk, she calmly exited the building.
In the aftermath, I was questioned by the police before I was released to go home. They had asked to see my wallet and what I had noticed missing. I told them that my sixty dollars in cash and my ID were the only things gone. Leaving the scene, I was both excited and bewildered. That night, sleep was impossible.

A few weeks later, when returning home from class, I noticed a strange car in my driveway. The sleek, red, obviously imported, convertible stood out against my aged-yellow house. Its driver stepped out as I approached. She pushed back her wind-swept hair and raised her sunglasses to reveal dark blue eyes and a mischievous grin.
“Get in,” she said, motioning towards the car.
The backseat was filled with suitcases and a familiar purple backpack. I returned her grin as I moved around the car and stood before her. I held her gaze for a moment. Looking into her eyes, the eyes of a fearless bank robber, I saw my future; for better or for worse. Then I slid past her, depositing my backpack amongst the others, as I declared, “I’m driving.”


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I am a student at the University of Northern Iowa. I am an English major and I am submitting this story based on the encouragement of my instructor. Although I didn't know it was called flash fiction until recently, I have been writing it for years. However, this my first time I have ever submitted a story for possible publishing. Thank you for considering my story.