In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “180 Degrees.”
Her calm eyes took the whole group for what it was: a bunch of murderous thugs. She observed the hate, the lust, the most vile desires on their ugly faces: she had plenty of time to reflect, they did not, but they were deluded. What could a thin elven woman do against all of them?
Behind them, high on the cliff, her companion adjusted the lens of her rifle, it was much as they had so many times trained for, assured, free from haste… and from hate.
The first one to make a move was a tall, massive brute, and he came close to touching her: the bullet crossed his skull back to front, and he fell, surprised, silent, head first in the dust. The shot had been silent too, so the others were petrified.
So, one by one, they killed them, one at a time, by the bullet or by the sword. The last one alive fell to his knees, crawling, abject fear painted on the brute’s face.
Her companion waited: it was her decision, to kill or not. She looked down at her feet: then slowly, her arm raised, thumb up, she made the immemorial sign of the antique circus.
This one would tell the others: time was now up.
For Esther, who wrote: “Patriarchy made Woman stranger to this world, An eternal child. Women are no longer slaves, And the amazons strike back.”