Jack shifts his weight off his walking stick.
An 8.5-inch blade gleams. So this is the respect a pensioner gets.
He squints at the young man with the knife. Punk.
Jack raises his walking stick. “I was a weapons engineer for fifty years. And this is Wally, my homemade 12-gauge.”
Joey doesn’t have a walking stick and if he ever does get one, he probably won’t call it Wally. He can be found at joeytoey.com.
I turn at the sound of her voice.
He’s standing over her, behind a half-open dumpster, one hell of an ugly guy.
I imagine picking up a bottle, running over, and fracturing glass against his skull.
But in my heart I’m a coward, so I walk on by.
Luke Silver is a blackbelt in Kung Fu and lost his sense of smell. He lives in a shoebox in New York City. Links to more of his work can be found on his Twitter page
Out of cold blackness a hooded guy, kid maybe, waved a switchblade. “Gimme yer money, boy.”
“Got no money.” I dropped the newspaper bag and by dumb luck grappled the knife away. He got cut pretty good and ran off, howling.
I kept the knife and never saw him again.
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop has short fiction pieces published or pending on over twenty online sites.