Sharp Objects Amma Novels & Stories

Her weeping fell on deaf ears. Little Ameira cried her heart out, until— “AAAAAAAAH!” As quick as a lightning, she grabbed the knife hidden underneath her pillow and stabbed her uncle’s neck. She held it tightly and pushed it deeper. “Die! Die! Die!” Little Ameira screamed, letting out a loud, stretched-out, and wild maniacal laughter as she simultaneously stabbed him. With all her strength, she pushed the old man’s convulsing body, suffering in the throes of death.

' Ammar asked in a very sharp and acidic tone, Noor ever heard from him. (who did this?). Arman glanced at Ammar once who was standing beside him and put the gun on the counter. While Noor placed the cup on the counter and briefly looked at both their wounds from afar. ' ab bache wo Fuzail ka baccha.' Haris replied with venom dripping. It was a mere sentence that left Ammar to clench his jaw and Noor to shudder at her place with shock. that surely was not gone unnoticed by Arman. ( he won't be alive for long).

Another step and she was facing me, her beauty barely hidden under the veil. Amma stood before us, her staff fitted on the ground. For a second, she looked nothing like the Amma we knew. Her eyes glowed, claws elongated as it grasped the sacred wine cup. Swiftly, her claws dug into my palm, drawing a cut that spilled blood into the wine. She turned to face Elise, to perform the same on her and I felt my heart in pain. She doesn't have a wolf. Cutting her palm was going to hurt, right?

RYDEN Motherfuckers! I didn’t know how did they find us. They were always two steps ahead of us. My guess is it was Samarah. She was pissed off when Zarah declined her offer. “Did you bring the sword?” Amelia asked. “Do you really have to ask me that?” I smiled at her. “Verum revelare.” “Wow.” She looked impressed as she glanced at the sword holster that appeared on the back. “You mastered it.” “Put this on.” I gave her the holster. “Don’t shift. We can handle this.”

It was almost too much, seconds passing like long needles as we stretched for the horror that would be coming. And suddenly they were there—shadows drifting between the trees, eyes that shone with an otherworldly brilliance. The Maledictus. They looked cold and menacing, even from far away you could tell they gave off a chilled, suffocating energy that writhed my skin until I was covered in goosebumps.

Amara Pain makes you honest. My knees buckled as her blade caught me in the ribs, the edge sharp with something more than steel. It sliced through skin and memory. I gasped, vision doubling for a second. The blood running down my side felt colder than it should’ve. Fracture-blades didn’t just cut the body. They cut the soul. She smirked as I staggered. “You thought love would shield you?” “No,” I panted, straightening. “I thought I didn’t need to be shielded anymore.”

She would believe other things, but certainly not whatever has to do with women. A slow, deliberate click of heels echoed in the silence, each step measured, each step a warning. Amma moved like a shadow, fluid and menacing, her silk dress rustling softly as she advanced. Her lips curled into a sickly-sweet smile, one that did not reach her soulless eyes. Eyes that held nothing but the remnants of a storm long past—rage, grief, and a festering hunger for revenge. “You do not believe me?” Amma’s voice was eerily soft, almost mocking.

Ama wandered through the silent streets. A strange feeling settled over her. Not loneliness. Expectation. As though the city was waiting. In the center stood a massive circular plaza. At its heart rose a single monument. Not a statue. A mirror. Twenty feet tall. Framed in living vines. Its surface shimmered like liquid glass. Ama stepped closer. This time, her reflection did not appear. Instead... Countless faces emerged. Men. Women. Children. Old. Young. All smiling gently. Then, one by one...

She was showing them how to sharpen a stone—not for a weapon, but for a tool. "The edge must be true," she was saying, her voice sharp but patient. "Not because you want to hurt, but because you want to be precise. Precision is the difference between a mess and a masterpiece." One of the children, a girl with wide, curious eyes, looked up at me. "Grandmother Amara, is it true that you once had to use a knife for things that weren't masterpiece-making?" The question hung in the air, a ghost from a dead era. Zara went still, her fingers pausing on the whetstone.

Amanda faced me again and motioned me to come over. "Look," she said and showed the spear she was holding. She pointed to its end. "As you can see, it has a sharp edge but its blade is not that long. The normal spear here for us will have the blade reach here," she then pointed to half of the spear. "But this one has only two inches." Amanda then showed the sword in one hand. "Same with this one. It has two inches for it's point and the blades are not that sharp as the normal sword. See this?" she pointed to the large space after the blade. "The purpose of this one is obvious. When you get stabbed, the only thing that will enter your body is the two inch blade. Our skin is kinda hard so even