Knives.
Knives.
What was she going to use them on next?
The silver blades shimmered in the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window, capturing her image on the blades before she turned away to grab another freshly scrubbed potato from the colander in the gleaming, porcelain sink. Chop chop chop, went the blade, smooth up-and-down motions repeated again and again, reducing the vegetable before her into ever smaller and smaller bits.
She loved these new knives, worth every penny. It made her want to chop other things, to test their abilities, to watch the thin blades slice through produce, flesh,...
He was a walking arsenal with knives strapped to his armor at forearms, biceps, chest and back. Two smaller throwing knives protruded from his boots. Across his back, a large Claymore peeked over his head.
He was a walking arsenal. Deadly. Powerful. Angry at the world. His deep black eyes burned with flame. His lantern jaw was clenched with determination. He eld himself erect, his arms resting easily at his sides. Suddenly, the call came and he swept into the undead hordes ahead of him, knives leading the way. His word came out at the last instant, slashing through the...
That was the last thing she saw.
It was headed straight for her chest, a glittering blade, and she saw it in slow-motion. After that, however, all she saw was blackness.
The killer straightened up after her last convulsive shudders were over. He wiped the knife almost as an afterthought on his torn jeans. His face betrayed no emotion. He walked away slowly but deliberately from the crime scene, over to a payphone. The street was deserted, the sky, blank. Slipping his hand in his pocket, the killer took out a quarter and placed it in the machine. He dialed...
Everytime I took the Color Quiz I got the same results even though my life changed so much over the months since I first tried it. Self absorbed, seeking sexual satisfaction, emotionally distant, needing approval, always in relationships yet unconnected and vulnerable. This didn't make any sense.
I was happily married (three years) everyone said I was a really kind hearted generous woman, very friendly and open with friends and strangers alike.
After our anniversary meal, Tom wiped his mouth on the linen napkin and sighed. I liked to see he enjoyed all the hours I spend in a small,...
The words hit me like a ton of bricks, cutting into my chest like knives as I remind myself to breath. I feel myself take a step backward. I couldn't be in more pain right now if he'd struck me. He stops talking to me and just stands there in front of me. I can't believe that he... I look up at him but I can't see anything through my tears anyway. Judging by the look in his eyes, I could think that he feels sorry for hurting me. He never wanted to say that. The knives of pain that...
Words like knives, thrown back and forth across the room, like a death-defying circus act.
Husband and wife tossing sharp insults, from the couch to the kitchen doorway. Neither landing anything deep, glancing wounds, already scraping scarred tissue.
Neither really feels anything for the other anymore. But the dance, the battle, the contest keeps them together. Light reflects of the blades as they flip and fly.
Thud into walls. Plink against the floors. Bounce of their scaly armour of experience, disdain and dull hate. It aches in their bellies. They think it might offer some release, against the mounting pressure....
"Knives."
The scientist looked up. The musician was bright-eyed, excited, although there were bags under his eyes. She replaced her spectacles (why did she always take them off for the close-up work? It didn't make sense) and gave him her full attence. "Knives?"
"Knives." He sat down on the stool, gangly, limbs too long. He was not suited for the labratory - not a huge surprise, really. "Knives are the answer. We...we cut."
It was almost cute, watching him try to describe what he presumed the scientific method was. "Do you mean dissection?"
He nodded, enthusiastic, excited. "Yes! Yes, we...
Knives. Where were the knives? she thought to herself, getting more aggravated by the second. There were plenty of forks. If she needed a fork, or even a spoon, there were loads. The drawer was overflowing with cutlery of all kinds, excpet for knives.
She could hardly cut the ham with a spoon, gouging chunks out of it. Sighing, she tried to count to ten, calmly. This is what her therapist talked her through. Stand still, breath deeply and count. One...two...three...But, where were all the knives?
They had been there at some point. The cutlery had been bought in a...
"Knives."
"Yeah. And?"
"Pepper. Salt. Ducks. Ivory, but don't tell anybody."
"Seriously? Knives?"
He handed me the duffle bag. "Knives. And everything you need to know is in there, too."
"Everything?"
"Everything. The molecular structure of Ferrous Oxide. The length of a stick. The speed of light under water."
"What about the temperature of Jupiters core? The average age of a bitch collie in its first heat? Foreign exchange rates for all currencies against Bhutan?"
"All of that. Plus the phone numbers of every Mossad agent, and their email address and blog addresses. Oh, and the starting lineup of the...
Knives had always fascinated her. Not in a violent way; she didn't want to use the knife on anything more gory than chicken or steak. But the feel of a really good quality knife in her hand, the shine of the metal, the balance, the tang running into the handle - all of these things gave her a curious satisfaction. She spent hours in Debenhams and House of Fraser testing various knife sets. Her favourite, yes she had a favourite knife, was a butcher's knife. The long, wide blade just screamed power and efficiency at her. A paring knife was...