by
Bobby Derie
The thing about a shovel as a weapon, Joanna reflected, knee deep in the hole she'd been digging, is that it also makes it easier to dispose of the body when you're done with it. The moon glistened off a fine sheen of sweat on her brow, and pale dirt showed against her dark skin strangely to her night-time eyes. Not far away, the corpse had been rudely broken into six pieces and tied in potatoes sacks, which occasionally shifted as the contents clawed and rolled of their own accord. Can't really dig a grave with a sword. An axe, perhaps, could at least chop through roots and break up hard soil; but for a good clay or loam - she picked up her tool and resumed work - there's nothing much else for it but the right tool.
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