Little Shayla

Dressed in one of her favorite dresses, Shayla danced on a checkered floor. Men and women crowded the stage as she glided upon it. Even though the top of her head barely reached their waists, little Shayla touched the targeted areas for quick, painless kills. Holding the folds of her garment with one hand, she slashed and dashed between the dancers with a dagger in the other. Only when she was the last one standing did she stop.

Looking upon the carnage she had painted, little Shayla smiled.

"Great performance, sweety." Her father drew closer, applauding. "Your show has been perfect lately."

Her smile widened at her father’s praise. Nothing made her happier than these rare moments when she had all his attention on her. She blushed, her cheeks now as red as her garment woven with golden threads and shiny ruffles.