A picture says a thousand words. Write them.
Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture.
Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!
picture Source: pictorialautobiography
There was an old saying that you could tell all about a woman from the contents of her handbag. Of course if that bag was large, it could hold more things and you would have more chances of getting some guesses right. In theory.
This bag was traditional, classic, patent leather and bright red. It was the only bright thing about her. The trench coat in khaki, the black satin gloves and the knee high black boots, with a high but not impractical heel. Her hair was well groomed and her makeup was immaculate.
If you were to make a good guess what the contents of that bag were, you might guess makeup, an organiser, a phone, a hairbrush and the detritus that always seems to gather in handbags - old tissues, old receipts, a few tampons, some business cards and phone numbers scribbled on scraps of paper.
And you’d be wrong.
All she had in that bag was a semi-automatic revolver with a silencer already attached. She needed the size for the extra length of the weapon. The leather was firm enough to hide the shape within. She had nothing inside it that would have her DNA on it like a tissue and she hadn’t held the bag in bare hands. Always gloved. And she most definitely had no examples of her handwriting or any contact phone numbers. If necessary she could ditch the bag with little harm done.
She stood, holding the bag with both hands low in front of her body. The face of her target memorised, his table booking known - he was a creature of habit, same day, same table, and the same time. Fool.
She was ready.
A nervous smile for the doorman who opened the door for her, and she stepped inside, the consummate professional. The restaurant was noisy with lunchtime guests. The fashion for wooden floors and bare tables increased the noise level. She strode confidently towards his table, opened her bag as she went, slid her hand inside, lifted out the gun just enough for the nozzle to protrude from the bag opening, put three shots into him as she walked past his table and then she started screaming. If she raised the alarm, less people would think she had started it.
In the hubbub, she made her escape.
Maybe she’d keep this bag. She liked it.
© AM Gray 2013