Sharp Objects Novels & Stories

I quickly got out of the car and stood in front of the shop. When I looked inside the shop since it was a transparent wall, it was filled with all kinds of metal objects. Sharp objects like knives, not ordinary, looked dangerous. I entered the place and saw a very handsome young man sharpening the metals with some else. I walked to him and placed my hand on the counter that was separating us from meeting. “I need a knife.” He looked down to see me since he was very tall. He stopped what he was doing and frowned. “Knife? Is it the one that is used in the kitchen or the one that is used to kill?”

It was strategy. Finally, I picked up the razor. It was straight-edged. Handcrafted. Japanese steel. A tool passed down through generations of artisans. Lethal and elegant—like me. It felt comfortable in my hand, a natural extension of my will. I applied the shaving cream with a badger-hair brush, the foam blooming across my jawline in thick, white swirls. Each stroke of the blade was slow, controlled, and deliberate. I carved the stubble away, inch by inch, revealing the clean, marble-smooth skin beneath. No nicks. No hesitation. Just unwavering focus.

The woman behind the counter grabbed them with a smile. “They are obsidian daggers infused with donated dragons’ blood. They have runes for protection and retrieval. Once they are twenty feet away from the sheaths and do not detect a pulse on the target, they return to their sheath within seconds. They just appear so no worry about getting cut as they come back to you. They also have self-cleaning and self-sharping runes in the sheaths,” she says as she dips one of them into a bowl of muck and grim before placing it into the sheath. She removes them and they are clean, even the hilt and leather around the handle.

The workshop resonated with the rhythmic clinks of metal, as Elliot poured his heart and soul into his craft. As the days turned into weeks, Elliot's workshop transformed into a sanctuary of blades. Knives of various shapes and sizes adorned the walls, a testament to his unwavering dedication. The gleaming steel reflected his commitment to the pack's defense, ensuring that each member would be equipped with a weapon tailored to their individual needs.

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

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ NOTE : Shuriken and Kunai are traditional Japanese weapons that are thrown at an enemy or target, and are sometimes used to stab, cut, and kill clients. See you 👋 LOVE ALL❤️

The anger, the regret, the anxiety, the emotional and mental tiredness. I kept the water running and then searched the bathroom for something to use as a weapon. I needed something that would weaken him immediately, because trust me, I did not know how to fight or could even defend myself well. Then my eyes landed on the small knife that men normally use for shaving. I think it’s called a straight razor or a cut-throat razor. The only reason I even knew the name was because of Chris. It was perfect. I knew for a fact that it was very sharp and every time that Chris would use it to shave, I would have so much anxiety.

I needed a weapon, and I needed it right fucking now. My gaze landed on Allie’s heavy canvas nursing tote bag sitting on the back of the toilet. I lunged for it, my good hand tearing through the pockets until my fingers wrapped around the cold, heavy steel of her medical trauma shears. They were designed to cut through seatbelts and thick leather, and the serrated edge was razor-sharp. I gripped the shears in my right hand, my knuckles turning white, and pressed my back flat against the tiled wall right behind the bathroom door.

Brutal, effective, designed to take on multiple opponents and survive, if somewhat worse for wear. Also he gave me a knife, which seemed irresponsible even to me, a violent juvenile delinquent. It wasn't l like a Bowie knife either, or a survival knife. It was straight, double-edged, with a wickedly sharp point. He called it a "Fairbarn". Later I'd learn that the skills he taught me dated back to world war two. I've never been able to get Billy to tell me where he learned it.

Something colder. Sharper. A blade waiting for the right moment. And when it came, I wouldn’t miss.