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Come On, Ash, Make the Call

There's a time during the commission of a crime that one turns to prayer.

And if the  prayer goes unanswered, it turns to pure poetry.

Come On, Ash, Make the Call by Morgan Boyd



Come on, Ash, make the call, I whisper to my phone.

Come on, Ash, make the call, I mumble, squatting by a rancid dumpster on the side of the Long John Silver’s in the dark.

Come on, Ash, I say a little too loud, thinking about the line wrapped around the block for Star Wars earlier this evening at the Cinema-Plex.

Come on, Ash, make the call.  I’m in position across the street from the credit union.

Come on, make the call.  I’ve got the note and the red laser pen.

Ash, make the call, because if I wait any longer, I’ll chicken out.

Come on, Ash, make the call when you see the manager pull out of the parking lot with the nightly drop after locking up the Cinema-Plex.


Make the call, and I’ll cross the street, tape the note to the drop box, and hide behind the dumpster again.

Come on.  Three minutes later she’ll pull into the credit union, and read the note taped to the drop box: Greetings Cinema-Plex employee, there is a gun with a laser scope pointed at you right now.  Please throw the moneybag into the bushes, and you will not be shot.  Thank you.

Come on, Ash, make the call.  She’ll shit herself with fear, and throw the cash into the bushes when she sees the beam from the laser pen pointed at her.

Come on, Ash, make the call. We’ll stay high for a month.

Come on, Ash, make the fucking call—


Morgan Boyd lives in Santa Cruz California with his wife, two cats and their collection of carnivorous plants. He has been published in Flash Jab Fiction, and has stories forthcoming in Shotgun Honey and Yellow Mama.