Post by Gabbi McGinn on Feb 9, 2008 1:12:59 GMT -5
Gabbi was standing amongst the press and crowd of the markets that lined the streets of Brooklyn, most oftentimes on Saturdays and Sundays. She was prowling down the line, a concealed switchblade up her billowing creme-colored sleeve. Her eyes scanned the limits and she came upon a couple, dressed to the nines, who she stood next to.
They were admiring the postcards and small books that were arranged clumsily on the shelf and ramshackle, age-old and deteriorating wooden table. The varnish was chipped and old, bearing quite a similarity to the Polish looking man who was running the stand, speaking in fragments of dessimated English to the people, who were generally ignoring him.
She sidled up next to them and reached in, selecting a book and opening it. Books had never been her strong point. Most of them contained words that were too large for her to know, remember or understand, and her literacy level was not as high as one might expect it to be, what with her being a newsie. But the papers were written for the common folk, many of whom were partially or entirely illiterate. And so she scraped by.
The book she'd picked up looked new, and she would have cherished it if she had actually intended to purchase it. It was beautifully bound, the pages were pristine, and the words were all arragned neatly. The woman gave her a side glance, wrinkled her nose and then made an attempt to pretend that the dirty, long-haired girl was not standing next to her.
And that was positively perfect.
Gabbi waited until both the woman and the man, in addition to the shopkeep, for her to make her move. Her one hand supported the book while the other slowly inched the switchblade up, about an inch of the blade revealed above her cuff. She slowly raised her arm, all the while keeping her eyes in the book, and used the woman's dress to conceal her movement.
The handbag, which she would rummage through at a later time, slid easily from the woman's forearm once the strap had been sliced. Gabbi surreptitiously slipped it into the folds of her skirt, set the book down. She nodded to the shopkeep, who smiled kindly, and she backed away completely unnoticed.
They were admiring the postcards and small books that were arranged clumsily on the shelf and ramshackle, age-old and deteriorating wooden table. The varnish was chipped and old, bearing quite a similarity to the Polish looking man who was running the stand, speaking in fragments of dessimated English to the people, who were generally ignoring him.
She sidled up next to them and reached in, selecting a book and opening it. Books had never been her strong point. Most of them contained words that were too large for her to know, remember or understand, and her literacy level was not as high as one might expect it to be, what with her being a newsie. But the papers were written for the common folk, many of whom were partially or entirely illiterate. And so she scraped by.
The book she'd picked up looked new, and she would have cherished it if she had actually intended to purchase it. It was beautifully bound, the pages were pristine, and the words were all arragned neatly. The woman gave her a side glance, wrinkled her nose and then made an attempt to pretend that the dirty, long-haired girl was not standing next to her.
And that was positively perfect.
Gabbi waited until both the woman and the man, in addition to the shopkeep, for her to make her move. Her one hand supported the book while the other slowly inched the switchblade up, about an inch of the blade revealed above her cuff. She slowly raised her arm, all the while keeping her eyes in the book, and used the woman's dress to conceal her movement.
The handbag, which she would rummage through at a later time, slid easily from the woman's forearm once the strap had been sliced. Gabbi surreptitiously slipped it into the folds of her skirt, set the book down. She nodded to the shopkeep, who smiled kindly, and she backed away completely unnoticed.
