NOT JUST A STONE
By Neel Anil Panicker
The afternoon sun tore into her skin, knifing through the half torn saree that she was wearing. It slashed into her bare boned frail limbs, mercilessly burning to cinders whatever remained of her frail self.
Careful not to bump into the post afternoon office crowd of harried men and women in suits that looked like they all came from the same Bond Street tailoring house, the woman scanned the place in a circular arc much like an over anxious squirrel looking for the nearest hole to lodge herself into.
She spotted it just before her eyes dulled. What was that? A stool? A bench? The old woman inched herself closer, squinted her cataract-wasted single eye, and saw for what it was: a half broken slab. Her heart filled up with a ray of hope and summoning all her strength, she inched ahead and slumped onto the stone.
Across the street, the imposing all white sandstone Victorian facade of Standard Chartered Bank intercontinental building looked down at her.
As if on cue, her right hand slipped inside her pale grey cotton blouse.
Cold fingers cupped hard metal_ a Glock .45 caliber handgun. Annette, the international killer, was ready for her quarry.
Word count: 200