She moved in slowly; circling, evaluating. Then she took a step backward, waiting for the perfect position. Slowly, quietly, she shifted and began raising her right hand, ready to wield the deadly weapon. She took a step closer. And then she brought down her right hand. There was no noise, other than the thud of contact.
The fly was dead.
(Written July 12, 2005. I found it in a file of random bits, which I saved as “Sketches.”)