Molotov floated upon the pristine blue waters, a squeaky pool chair cradling her body. Her leg felt much improved, but it was still far too soon to go jogging. Nevertheless, a week of lying around doing nothing much more than eating had made her antsy. She needed to get some kind of training in.
Without looking, she drew the long throwing knife from the leg of her swimsuit and flung it. The dual thunk-thud as it hit one of the neighbor's apples and knocked it to the ground was very satisfying. At least she still had her aim. With two more quick flicks of her wrist, she knocked down two more.
Perfect. I haven't lost my touch. Unfortunately, just as she finished congratulating herself, she heard another sound. A hissing sound. Apparently, the last time she'd shifted her position on the raft, one of the hidden knives had punctured it.
She tried to the paddle to the side, but her ribs hurt if she leaned too far; she wasn't going to make it. Within a few second, her butt dipped under the surface.
"Should have sprung for heated pool," she muttered, standing up to her shoulders in chilly water. She hadn't really intended to go in it. Molotov was more of a floater than a swimmer; if you were in the water, you hadn't planned a good enough escape route.
Uncomfortably, she heaved herself up onto the pink tile, feeling stabs of pain in her sore muscles. She got to her feet with the aid of one of the deck chairs and limped stiffly into the house. Stupid, stupid idea. What if I'd been over the deep end? Now that would have been an embarrassing way to die.
She stopped in the foyer and checked herself over in the mirrored doors, just in case any gaping wounds had reopened. Nope -- she looked good. Healthy. Even a little bit... "robust". All those calories she'd been scarfing down hadn't just been vanishing into thin air, apparently. She smoothed the black fabric of her bathing suit over the slight curve of her stomach. It really wasn't much, but she'd never been even a little pudgy before.
Molotov shrugged. Oh well; it was nothing to worry over. The fact that five or ten pounds overweight was literally the fattest she'd ever been was proof enough that her lifestyle would melt the chub off her frame soon enough, once she had her old life back.
Stripping off the wet suit and leaving it in a sodden heap on the marble floor -- and the bandolier of knives on the hall table -- she retired to her bed to spend the next few hours practicing her aim in a different way: catching bonbons in her mouth.
Copyright 2000 - 2024 21 x 20 Media All rights reserved. This site is property of 21 x 20 Media
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.08 seconds at 9:39pm on Nov 26, 2024 via server WEBX1.
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author