I loved today’s winner, and I love that it drove me to find this picture. Is that awesome or what?

Right, but winners! This week’s 5MinuteFiction winner is none other than Jen DeSantis, @JenD_Author. Congratulations!

Her winning entry is below. Do enjoy it.

And thanks again to this week’s judge, Jerry Gentry, @JerryLGentry. Be here tomorrow when I review his new novel  SYN:FIN and for your chance to WIN your copy!

Jen DeSantis, @JenD_Author

I always thought that if I were going to write a novel, this is how it would start. The only difference would have been that it would be happening to fictional characters instead of me and my husband.
The hero, strong and brave, would step in front of the tough as nails, though fragile, heroine when the antagonist pulled the gun.

The thing is, I didn’t want my husband, currently playing the hero, in front of a gun. Nor did I, the not so tough as nails heroine, want to be looking down the black hole of a revolver. I knew it was a revolver from the research I did for my erstwhile novel. Who the fuck thinks these things during a mugging?

Oh right, I do.

“Give me your damn wallet,” our pimpled assailant squeaked.

Wait, what? Squeaked? Yes. I was being held at gunpoint by a barely legal boy whose voice hadn’t fully gone through puberty. This stuff was only supposed to happen in stories. In a story, however, this wouldn’t be believable.

My brave husband squared his shoulders and I wondered if he’d talk back to the poor excuse for a hood. But no, he did the smart thing and threw his wallet at the kid. It bounced of his chest and landed, open, on the ground in front of the gunman.

The kid was so excited to see the money sticking out, he let the gun fall to his side and bent down to pick up the wallet. That’s when my heroine alter-ego decided to kick into high gear. I kicked him full force between the eyes with my steel-toed Doc Martin. Pimple-face dropped to the ground, blood spurting out of his nose and gun forgotten. My daring husband grabbed the gun and I grabbed my cell phone.

As I hung up with the police, my foot square in the teenager’s back, my husband turned to me with a smile on his face. “You’ve got to write this someday, babe.”