How To Fix A Switchblade Novels & Stories

Nothing to hold onto. I decided to up the ante. Little dramatic flair. I took out a switchblade and when I popped it she jumped. I grinned. “Turn around,” I said. She closed her eyes and did as told. I ran the outside edge of the blade up the outside of her thigh and hip then quickly flipped it around and flicked, slicing the thin strap of her panties. I repeated it on the other side.

Where the thickness of a scimitar's blade was thin, it's blade was slightly thicker but its edge no less sharp. Through it all, the smith fought to hold his composure, his eyes always darting cautiously towards Rive. He stretched his hand out, placing the weapon in the already outstretched hands of the blacksmith who held it with a certain reverence. Switching rein hands, he pulled its twin from a similar position with the same deftness he did the first.

The threat was sharp, clear, deadly. I sank onto the bathroom floor again, staring at the screen. The letters seemed alive, crawling under my skin. I wiped her tears roughly. “No more crying,” I whispered to myself. “No more shaking. Star needs me.” My hands moved quickly now, not with strength but with desperate determination. I pulled on my hoodie tighter, tied the strings, and checked my pockets. I took my phone and, after a moment’s hesitation, slid a small blade into the inside pocket. It was nothing compared to Chris’s weapons, but it was something a secret I could hold onto.