Chainsaw Cutting Crooked Novels & Stories

Maybe she had. “Hold still,” Ambrose said, snipping the scissors in the air with a little sneer. “I’d hate to slip.” He caught the neckline between two fingers and cut. The shears went in clean, slicing a long diagonal line from my collarbone down toward my ribs, opening the fabric wider than it had ever been meant to go. Cold air hit my skin and I made myself not flinch, refusing to give either of them the satisfaction. He cut again at the hem, slitting the skirt up past my knee, then stepped back to look at what he’d done.

His chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic pattern, his face slack and peaceful in a way that seemed almost innocent. Evan crept forward, his movements slow and deliberate. The tool Kade had given him was pressed against his palm, small and cold and reassuring. A thin blade designed specifically for slicing through chains and cords without making a sound. Evan had practiced with it for hours in the penthouse, learning the precise angle and pressure needed to cut through metal cleanly. He had run through the motion a hundred times, memorizing the feel of the blade in his hand.

I couldn't go out looking like an eccentric freak. Decisively, I opened the cabinet and pulled out a pair of hair scissors along with Maya’s hair straightener that she had left behind last time. Snip! Snip! Without a shred of hesitation, I gripped the white locks tightly and chopped them off. The snowy strands fell haphazardly onto the bathroom floor like the feathers of a molting bird. I cut it short, leaving the hair just grazing my jawline, framing the sharp contours of my face that were now becoming more pronounced. Next, I plugged in the straightener, biting my lip as I patiently pressed down, forcing the stubborn strands to flatten.

The fabric is thick, expensive, resistant beneath the blades, and I lean into the motion with the confidence of someone who’s done this a thousand times. Halfway through the cut, something shifts. A tiny give in the metal. A wrongness. The blades twist strangely in my hand, catching against the wool instead of gliding through it, and before my mind understands what’s happened, my body reacts. Automatically, I grip harder, lean down harder. The shears snap sideways. Pain flashes white through my left wrist, and for one stunned second, I simply blink down at the cutting table. Then the blood comes. Fast. Too fast.

Anything with an edge. The chair. He started crawling. Slow. Painful. Every movement made his head pound harder. It took forever to cross ten feet. Maybe a minute. Maybe ten. Time felt wrong. He reached the chair. Collapsed against it. Up close, he could see rust. Sharp edges where the metal had corroded. Perfect. Kyrian turned around. Positioned his wrists against a sharp edge. Started sawing. The plastic was thick. Strong. It took pressure. Force. His arms were shaking. Weak from being twisted behind his back for god knows how long.

In its beak, it held a pair of Silver Scissors, the kind used by a Master Tailor, but large enough to decapitate a man. "The Censor," the Correspondent hissed, drawing a thin, silver rapier that looked like a letter-opener. "He doesn't talk. He only cuts." The Crow snapped the scissors. The sound was a metallic clack that vibrated through my teeth. It didn't attack us. It lunged at the ground in front of Mina and cut the path. A literal rift appeared in the dirt, a black gap that separated us from the village. "My turn," I whispered.

Just in a messy, chaotic, two people who don’t know what they’re doing . “You’re cutting that wrong,” I said, glancing at his chopping board. “I’m cutting it fine,” he replied. “No, you’re not.” He held up a handful of uneven, chunky pieces. “This looks fine.” I stepped over and gently took the knife from him. “Move.” He didn’t. Not right away. He just looked at me, then stepped aside slowly. But not far. “You’re still too close,” I said. “You’re still talking too much,” he replied. I paused, then laughed despite myself.

“She wants to stab someone with a candy cane.” “I did not say someone,” I corrected sharply. “I said something. Perhaps a target.” “Oh,” he said, wiping tears of laughter. “Yes. That is so much better.” I lifted the candy cane, testing its balance between my fingers. The weight was wrong. The angle was odd. But with enough pressure, the tip did become pointed. Before anyone could stop me, I flicked my wrist, sending the candy cane spinning through the air like a miniature dagger. It hit a wooden practice dummy across the hall.

The blade moved like it was part of my arm instead of something I was holding. I was so focused that I did not hear Rhea arrive until she spoke. "Your pivot is two inches too wide." I stopped and turned. She stood at the edge of the yard with her staff resting against her shoulder. Her ice blue eyes scanned my stance with the clinical precision I had grown used to. "Two inches" I repeated. "Two inches is the difference between cutting your enemy and cutting the air beside him. Fix it." I adjusted my stance and ran the combination again. This time I tightened the pivot. Pulled my back foot closer. Kept my center of gravity low.

I gently held her soft Long dark locks, the green colored high lights look more beautiful up close making me more feel guilty but either this or her life. I placed the knife on the floor for a short while in order to braid her long hair so that I could cut it in a single rapid move with the knife. Before I began, I took a long, deep breath in silence. Her short, uneven hair flowed down to the length of her auricle, which is where her ear is located. I took a step back and dropped the knife, as well as her braided hair that had been cut out, on the floor. Charles let out an annoyed chuckle as It took me awhile to be able to do it. "Now leave."