When I was a kid, I wanted to be a bank robber.
I have no reason for this–it’s just one of those unreasonable aspirations I had as a kid, just like wanting to be a panther. I knew, even then, that bank robber wasn’t a reasonable career, and maybe this all came about because I read something about Bonnie and Clyde and thought it sounded cool, but for a good chunk of my childhood I imagined myself planning heists and escaping from close shaves with the police, escaping my bonds in darkened cellars and returning to my life of crime, where I stole from the wealthy for my own gain.
In reality, I once returned a mood ring to a Zumiez after accidentally walking out with it on my finger. The clerk looked at me like I’d lost my mind, not because I accidentally stole it, but because I took the time to return it.
That’s part of what fiction is for me–a way of exploring all these things I’m incapable of in real life. The real stuff creeps in anyway, but I’ve always loved fantasy precisely because I don’t have to be beholden to the things I actually say, think, or do. I can rob banks, date the queen, solve a murder mystery with my werewolf boyfriend.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(n.) from Old English ōcusta, armpit
The inside pocket of a jacket, to thieves.
Elle wears blazers in part because they’re stylish, but also because they are excellent for hiding things in.
You can sew items into the lining. You can tuck things away in a pocket. Everywhere are places where things can be hidden, and this tickles her, because she, too, is a thing in hiding.
She herself is not hidden; no, she walks with her head held high. But she is quick and quiet and deadly when need be, her fingers light enough to lift your hat right off your head, her tongue clever enough to convince you it was always hers.