Ficlets

The 7:45 is on the platform already. Suits are bleating their way on board as she walks briskly towards the last carriage. She’s bent over to one side slightly, her bag is weighing her down. Her heels clack-clack, her flowery print dress ripples and sways in her wake, her sensible overcoat and cardigan keep her warm.

She finds a seat, near the aisle, not too far away from either set of exits. Her bag clanks a little as she sets it down between her feet. It’s the hunting knives. Normally they’d be strapped to the inside of her coat, but she’s running late and barely had time to put the sawn-off in the sleeve holster before leaving the house. The knives, the Glock, and the piano wire she scooped off the dining room table into the carpet bag.

Most unprofessional, she thinks, but there’s plenty of time to sort it out at the other end before starting work. She also decides to have a muffin and a coffee after the job is done. She gets off at South Yarra.