My Quiet Life As A Blacksmith Novels & Stories

Miss Fatima exclaimed while smelling the food that I made. "Thank you," I said to her. Before Miss Fatima could sit on her chair, her phone rings. "Excuse me," she excused herself. I just sat in my place and I did not eat. I will wait for Miss Fatima to finish her talk with the person who called her phone. While waiting for her, I just tap my plate with the fork and spoon. I am enjoying it because it sounds like I am making music by tapping. I didn't notice that the sound my tapping is creating becomes louder.

Hearing that Old man felt pity for him and said to Theo," why don't you take the day off brat" Blacksmith is one of the job Theo used to work regularly and it is the place where Theo used to stay during Autumn and winter. Otherwise he used to stay in the forest in his shed. as for why he didn't live there, it's a freaking workshop, and every person in his life wants a house, thats why theo build himself a small hut in the forest.

Meanwhile, Rufus blinked his eyes like a lost puppy, although he’s more like a dog than a puppy. “I just find Kaiser’s hobby to be interesting that’s all. I mean, who else is a blacksmith in Maplewood high school?” Kaiser’s nose twitched. He then buffed his chest proudly and punched it as he bragged, “That’s right. I am Kaiser Conrad, the one and only blacksmith of Maplewood.”

He didn’t seem to notice. “I got up before the sun and was at work well after it got dark. Then I had to walk home. I was lucky to get a single break after arriving at the shop. The master blacksmith training me, Henrik, was well sought after. Our shop flourished, but we had more work than he could keep up with. It also meant my work was never-ending.” “But you learned a lot, right?” Blake scoffed. “Well, you got big and strong.” She teased, squeezing his arm muscles.

I cannot sum up the strength to ask any questions so I remain silent admidst the quiet rumble of the plane's engines and his thoughtful gaze. In that moment, I make another vow. I will be back. And I will kill that Russian Enforcer with my bare hands. I will wreck havoc on all he held dear. I feel my soul shed its colour.I feel it become blacker as the plane gains altitude.I feel it harden like steel, until I have to fist my hands over my chest to dull the ache. My name is Luca Blackstone going forth. And God so help anyone with negative affiliations with the Russian mafia that crosses my path. Death is a small mercy they would always beg for.

Veronica grabbed the pen. Hastily, she wrote down: Something wrong with the man out there. We have to tell Gamma Aurora! Chloe looked at her writings. “You mean Silas? He is the local blacksmith. What can possibly be wrong with him?” she said in a drawling voice. Veronica bit her lips in anxiety. She waved her hands and wrote down another line: He is not a blacksmith! I know him! “Oh?” Chloe smiled. “If he is not a blacksmith, then who is he?”

Ribs pressing against his skin like a washboard. The blacksmith was a one-eyed old man with a vicious temper who forged blades that never broke. Every soldier in the camp came to him for repairs. Rex crouched outside the smithy for three days, watching the old man work the iron. The metal in the furnace bloomed orange-red. The old man pulled it free with tongs, laid it on the anvil, and struck. Sparks burst with every hammer blow. Burn scars covered his hands, layered over each other like the bark of an ancient tree.

I was one who loved a quiet life but of course that was going to be taken away from me very soon. Since I was a little girl I hated the spotlight and also hate the people who lived there, I kept wondering if they ever got tired of the constant camera flashes wherever they went to and always not being able to just live their life to the fullest, always pretending to be happy even if deep down they are dying. Come to think of it, isn't that why most of them do drugs, alcohol and misbehave? Isn't it just to escape this cruel reality of life? I couldn't help but wonder.

The shop is quiet, just the soft hum of the fan and the steady clinking of my tools on the floor. The bike’s an old one—a rough, black model that looks like it’s been through more storms than its owner ever will. I tighten one last bolt, wipe my forehead with the back of my wrist, and mutter, “Almost done.” Talking to myself has become a habit lately. It keeps the silence from getting too heavy. I move to check the oil, twisting the cap and watching it drip slowly into the catch pan. My fingers are stained with grease, but I don’t mind. This is what peace feels like for me. Just me, my work.

Detective John examined the silver dagger after picking it up with a cloth. The closer he examined it, the clearer it became that this dagger wasn't simply something that could be purchased anywhere. Then, he picked up his laptop and set the dagger on the table. Although Detective John had many ideas, he chose to start small. Getting to a blacksmith. He believes that a blacksmith is an expert on all things related to weapons. When he finally came across one while searching on the internet, he checked the address and discovered that the blacksmith lives in a rural area. Detective John got to his feet, taking the dagger and his jacket with him.