Lucky Strike :
Award-Winning Flash Fiction :
“You beauty!” muttered Frank under his breath, as the last number came up on the Lotto Results Show. He didn’t have a ticket to cross anything off though. His numbers were all in his head and always were. Him and Beverley’s wedding anniversary, the kids’ birthdays, and the number of their first house. Sorted.
He had no idea who that twat was reading out the numbers on telly these days, but he didn’t really give a toss, as he’d just provided the best news Frank had ever had. Shame it wasn’t that Anthea Turner though. He used to fancy her something chronic back in the day. It’d been a while since she’d presented the show though. Ninety Eight it was. Frank knew the year well, as that’s when he’d been sent down.
It was about sodding time his numbers came up as he’d been playing for thirty years now. Just for fun, obviously, thanks to the no gambling rules in this joint. No gambling that they knew about anyway.
Taking a long drag from his roll up clutched between his yellowed thumb and middle finger, Frank started writing a list. What could you get for twenty million these days anyway? New pad, place in Spain, couple of nice new motors and a bit of bling for the missus. Let’s hope the old girl had put his numbers on for him this week. No rules outside these walls after all, and with a parole date coming up, Frank’s future was suddenly looking a lot more promising.
“What you up to Frank?”
Joe Newton, the chief screw was doing the rounds and peered over Frank’s shoulder, getting a face full of smoke in return for his curiosity.
“Just writing what I’m gonna spend all me winnings on guv.”
Frank stubbed out his butt, and wiped his nose with those same jaundiced fingers while giving Joe a derisory smirk.
“Chance’d be a fine thing eh?
“Play do ya?” asked Frank
“Nope. Not anymore. Figured I was better off putting a quid in a pot every week. Might as well burn your money I reckon.”
Frank chuckled, then coughed, pummelling his chest with his fist.
“That’ll kill you one day” said Joe, pointing to the packet of tobacco on the table.
He was probably right to be fair, especially with Frank’s dodgy ticker. Still, it wasn’t going to happen any time soon, not with his new run of luck. Certainly not till he was out of this hole, and living the life of Riley in Spain. Then he might think about giving up the snout for good.
While Frank coughed, Joe pulled a folded slip of paper out of his pocket, and handed it to Frank.
“What’s this then?”
“Bad news I’m afraid Frank. It’s the visiting order for your wife. I’m afraid she’s just turned it down.”
The sudden tightness in Frank’s chest spread quickly to his neck, and he gasped for breath, his list for a new life crushed in his hand.
If you enjoyed this, you might light to try The Ballad of Billy the Kid
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