stay tuned for a temporary flash preview
of my latest foray beyond flash fiction '33 1/3rd rpm'
(2,467 words)
© 2017
by Shaun Lawton

Sick Story Time

I HAVE KNIVES



The name of the first one is Zebra, an old machete I was given in Honduras. 
The blade is tarnished with age and neglect, and twenty inches long. 
At its widest it's an inch-and-a-half, four inches from the tip, then tapers down 
to a one inch width at the hilt. On either side toward the top flat edge
of the blade runs a narrow shallow depression nearly eight inches in length
to channel the flow of bleeding sap away from the razor sharp side. 
Oh, I have knives. I'm not an obsessive collector; more like a magnetic attractor
over time. Zebra's brown leather hand-tooled scabbard rivets together
brown and green braided leather tassels hanging from the top by the hilt,
and is stitched together in a wavery seam running along the middle of its back.
Down the center of the front of the scabbard are arranged sixteen embossed
triangles in a line. Within each triangle (half an inch wide) appears a sigil 
of a five-sprigged plant bearing three globular fruit. Along the edges run 
lines of embossed tiny 'X's. Zebra will turn thirty-four this year, and although
much of the length of her blade has dulled its edge, there are yet a few sharp
segments, mostly toward the tip.  My other knife is a genuine Ravola for fileting
fish, made in Finland with the artisan's fine signature etched into the three-
and-a-quarter inch blade. The blonde beechwood handle has a slight crack in it
but otherwise remains in immaculate condition. The five-inch leather scabbard
slips halfway up the handle's shaft before gripping it in a tight seal. This one
is named Stinger for its dexterous precision and pointed sharpness.  
Yes, I have knives, and they've come in handy, from time to time. 
I have many more knives, of every size and for a wide variety of purposes. 
From a small one inch long pen knife which folds up into a brass cross
to a full replica of the Conan the Barbarian  sword given to me by a friend
just a year ago. Every one of my knives carries its own particular story.
They have all suffered their own various degrees of use. Oh, I have knives,
alright, and they all happen to share one thing in common. 
None of them have ever drawn blood...