The Blade By: Steve Bolin


The Blade
By: Steve Bolin

Look at me. Look long and hard. Memorize every detail of my shape. See my shaft of red-tinted steel. A possessed madman forged my Bowie-styled body, mixing his own blood into the alloy. I am a knife, an instrument of death – and I am more than the sum of my parts.

Place my cherry wood handle onto your palm. Wrap your fingers around my long cylindrical shaft. The fit is perfect. It is a part of your body. You and I were meant for each other.

Lightly run your finger over my edge. The thin trail of crimson fluid seeps out, forming into a single drop. Place the blood on your tongue and taste what I taste. It is a delicious nectar that leaves you wanting more.

Did you feel the trickle of pain when my razor sharp body split your skin? It is but a small sample of that which awaits you – awaits us. It is not your pain that beckons but that of others. Their agony is a mere stab away.

It is not your blood that will flow. It is not your pain that will bring the joyful sounds of screaming torture. No, you are limited in both the blood your body holds and the pain which it can withstand. It is not enough to satisfy your thirst for torment. Yet, there is a solution.

Behold the world and all its inhabitants. Each individual carries within them countless hours of dark pleasure. They are everywhere; they are fruit waiting to be plucked from the tree of life.

Victims surround you. Look no further than your own household. The useless emotions of your spouse and children make them blind to the blood lust burning in your eyes. They are easy prey. They will be the first of your many victims.

There are so many choices, so many ways to die. A lifetime is not long enough to witness each one. Imagine my razor’s edge as it crosses your spouse’s throat. The jugular opens and gushes forth the glorious red streams of dying life. The length of my shaft bathes in the pool of fresh blood, revels in it, and drinks its succulent juices.

Plunge my tip into your lover’s chest. Do it slowly. Savor the moment. Death does not need to be rushed. Can you feel the life slipping away, the soul moving from this world to the next? Intoxicating, is it not?

Enter the heart. Feel the last remaining beats vibrate up my shaft and handle. Your fingers tingle and your palm shakes with excitement. Death is your new lover, quivering to be satisfied.

Look into those dying eyes and see what lies behind them. It is a maelstrom of emotions slipping into eternity. Does the look of pure, naked terror excite you? The betrayal they feel and the horror they experience flow through my metal blade. Sharing in death is even more intimate than the sharing of sex.

It is not over, not yet. Twist and reciprocate me; dig a hole into flesh and muscle. Chisel the bones; grind the organs. This is true strength. This is true power – controlling the life of another, watching it slip through your fingers like fine grains of sand.

Can’t you feel the ecstasy of it all? The orgasmic delight you experience through the death of an innocent. It is intoxicating. Release your inhibitions and enjoy the ride.

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About the Author

A life long resident of Indiana and full time writer, Steve Bolin has previously published poetry and short stories in, "Black Petals," and "Dark Moon Rising."
To obtain copies of Mr. Bolin's recently released book, "Black Rising," please go
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Copyright © 2007 The World of Myth All Rights Reserved

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