The Orla Scimitar Chronicles - Not Worth My Blade

Another story with my character Orla Scimitar. For more of my writing, go to andrewhenleywriting.wordpress.com

Orla Scimitar’s black lacquered lips kissed the rim of her espresso cup, leaving a dark wax stain. She examined the thick and thin lipstick stripes on the cup, holding it up to her eyelevel with her nimble fingers. The marks were like cracks in the china. The table in front of her was too low, the sofa she sat on too high. There was a glare coming through the window, its clear pane littered with opaque flecks of grime. An instrumental muzak version of Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing quietly hummed from of the coffee shop stereo.

 

Orla glanced outside. Something caught her eye. A heavy set man in a navy leather jacket asked a blonde woman in a fur coat for directions. She nervously pointed, making only small movements. As she held her arm out to indicate a left at the end of the road, the man snatched her handbag that hung loose on her outstretched arm. The thin gold strap broke, and the man fled with the bag.

 

Orla stood up quickly, knocking the espresso over and leaving a frothy bloodsplatter on the table. Using the flat of her palm to keep her stetson balanced on her head, Orla ran out of the coffee shop.

 

A curiously concerned crowd stood around the furcoated woman, who was sobbing, shaking. Her hand quivered as she lowered her mouth while her tears fell in slow zigzags through the creases of her skin. Orla ignored her, and chased the man with the bag, powering through the onlookers like a bowling ball through pins.

 

The thick soles of Orla’s boots hammered angrily on the pavement as she ran. Her white hair streaked behind her like a smoke cloud. The man looked behind him quickly and saw Orla. He sped up, the gears and pistons in his legs oiled by fear and adrenalin.

 

He slowed down to take a corner, his feet screeching suddenly as he attempted to change direction. Orla was more agile, and caught up to him as she turned at pace. Her thin arm was a plank of wood as she thrust it into his throat. Trapped against the rough red brickwork, he surrendered the bag without contest. Orla slung the bag over the shoulder and pulled a knife from her pocket. She loosened her arm’s grip but held her knife close to his tremoring adam’s apple. His forehead acned with beads of sweat. His cheeks were cherry, and he was breathing heavily.

“Please… don’t kill me.”

“You’re not worth my blade,” Orla said.

She sheathed her switchblade, then quickly drew her gun from a shoulder holster and gave him a point blank blast between the eyes.

“But my gun’s not so choosy,” Orla said.

The robber slumped over undignified, with a starburst entrance wound of a scarlet flesh on his forehead.

 

Orla unzipped the bag. It contained a pink purse, mobile phone, a little black address book and various wands of lipstick and eyeliner. She removed the money from the purse. $80 in crumpled, nonsequential tens. She stuffed them into her pocket and walked back to the coffee shop. She left $20 to cover her espresso and the damages, then dropped the stolen bag at the feet of the crowd around the furcoated woman. She left before anyone saw her.