WRITING COMPETITION: Creative Writing "Dreams"

I never wanted it to be like this.

Never would I want harm to befall my friends. They are my 'safe house' -my haven.

Monday morning. The frigid wind biting at my trench coat. This was it. This was my time to prove to the world that maybe, just maybe, I could do something noteworthy and take my place in history.

I entered the dilapidated ice rink to the sound of Kyle's voice.

"James, over here."

Advancing to his position I quickly recognize Tom and Bover. Standing huddled against the pallid wall they spoke in hushed voices.

"We can do this." I said nervously.

Bover leaned over and picked up a St. Anne's sport bag. Quite ironic in this situation. In the bag there lay to AK 47's, two 9mm's and four masks. The masks were abominable, a glance would send shivers down your spine.

Tom led the way to the grey and decrepit van. As we got in, we put on our masks avoiding the opportunity for suspicion. Kyle drove to 4th and Abbey, while in the back, we silently checked and rechecked our firearms.

This was it.

We jumped out and darted for the doors that were slightly agape. Out of the corner of my left eye I observed Kyle, spinning on his left hell and discharging three cold bullets into the security guard. Opposing my instinct to freeze I kept on sprinting to the vault. Bover was there already, emptying substantial amounts of newly pressed Benjamin Franklins into his gaping bag. I got to work hastily and efficiently, grabbing all I could and shoving it into my own brown bag.

Running of the bank we were confronted. Rapidly we pulled out our firearms and began firing deadly bullets towards them. The flashing blue and white lights of their cars obstructed our shooting and movement, making it difficult to concentrate.

I heard this cacophony of bullets and stun grenades. I saw Tom, stunned, stand up. A bullet pierced his bald skull, silently to me, and he dropped to the hard floor.

I dashed to him; ducking and diving trying to not get hit by the shots. He is gone. But I already knew that. The thought was just impalpable.

Putting aside my feelings of grief and sadness, I got back to work. It was me, Bover and Kyle. kyle and Bover were side by side emptying their AK ammunition clips into the waiting officers. Kyle dropped his last ammunition clip onto the pavement. Leaning down to pick it up, he was exposed through a tiny gap betwen a cop car and a large blue post box. To my horror I witnessed one round get through the opening and hit him square in the chest.

Bover exclaimed loudly and rushed over to Kyle's position. Kyle, still conscious, threw his AK, with the ammunition clip, to me. I grabbed it and ran to them to cover for them. Bover was distraught. Kyle had been his mate since they were in primary school.

Fuelled by anger and vengeance, Bover grabbed the AK out of my hand, put it into his left and then took his own in his right. Shouting, he jumped up and fired the last of the bullets into the crowd of policemen.

Staring at him in total shock I tried to pull him back down to the ground. It was too late. One shot after the other struck his bloodied chest.

It was over. I knew it was.

I rose from my hunched position with my hands in the air. The firing ceased. Scores of people sprinted towards me.

I never wanted it to be like this.