a knife - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Inga held the knife, twisting it in the daylight as if it could slice up the sun-rays, her expression exaggerated by the dark shadows around her eyes. Though rust had set in on the handle and blade it was strong and jagged - more than enough. Harley had rejected her for the last time. She could already see him in a pool of darkening blood and her face split into a grin that arced in a sickly way, never making it to her almost sunken eyes.
The knife was dual blade with a hardwood handle. Everything about it was precise. It was the kind of knife yuppies carry when they want to look tough on their one hour hike in the park. Ian turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight of it. His face lifted from a frown to neutral - the greatest smile he'd worn since Kevin died. It was time this tool lived up to its promise. Something so beautiful is never built to stay in a pinstripe pocket with lint and coffee receipts.
"Now this is the double-edged commando knife, developed in the Second World War by Fairbairn and Sykes. One was a silent killing specialist and the other was a crack shot with the rifle. Isn't it a beauty? You'll see it has an eight inch blade with a cross piece and a ribbed center on both sides. It is designed to fit exactly into the palm of your hand...this is still the greatest murder weapon ever invented. Guns are noisy. Guns can jam. But the commando knife is a true friend. It will do its job instantly and it will never let you down."
It was six inches of cold steel, while it's handle was ivory, reminding Chip that the knife had been murderous even in it's making.
The knife he was holding was a Sabatier, the blade a single piece of high carbon stainless steel, hand honed and about four inches long.
The knife was snapped at the tip but the rest was sharp. The handle was cheap black plastic. Somehow it gave Tirana pleasure to end the life of a billionaire with something so cheap and mass produced. It would slice through that expensive tailored shirt into his dirty flesh. For a moment she was lost, imagining not blood to come out but thick crude oil. The same stuff that had coated the south beach and changed her life. Surf girl to extremist, how did that happen so fast? She tucked it into her jacket. There was no way to conceal it in the back lingerie underneath, but that was her ticket into his suite. He was nothing if not greedy for underage girls.
Polly took the butter knife and slid it up her sleeve for later. It wasn't the steak knife she's been hoping for, but given enough force behind it into some soft region and would get the job done. Then she scooped up her basked of cotton balls and pretended to suck on a cut finger, allowing the blood to dribble down her chin to make the point. That way the knife would stay inside her cotton dress and she could think over this new element to her escape plan. Now that the ideas were starting to knit together she didn't mind the cold night draft nearly so much- the longer she stayed awake the faster she could plot. It wasn't like she could miss the morning wake-up bell, clanging so loud she thought it was inside her head.
The knife had been idle its entire life, encased in a thick plastic display box shortly after it's purchase. No doubt a blade such as this cost a small fortune, one gladly paid by the old Earl who spoke voluminously of their history, properties and makers to his dinner guests. Kearny put the whole thing, box and all into his black backpack and left. He had only come for the knife, not pricy paintings or antique silver plates. He wanted it for his purpose, not its resale value. In the next week this piece of art would fulfil its deadly promise. Only such a knife would do. Kearny could quite understand why it was so important to him to kill her with something so exquisite, but it was, very much so. He had already decided to tell her its history before beginning his surgery, undoing the work of the professionals that had taken his money to make her the perfect monster she became...
The knife was little more than a rusted and jagged blade set in aging wood. The handle was warped and held together by a brass-looking screw. Tina eyed it like it was solid gold briefly before stowing it under her prison-grey clothing and returning to planting the carrot seeds, perhaps there was promise to this spring after all.
Jackson weighed the knife in his hand. It was no heavier than a kitchen blade but would cut on first contact, even with minimum pressure. It's serrations were like waves, but not randomly so like on the cheaper knives. They would slide in smoothly and do maximum damage on the way out, like the barbs of a fishing hook. At seven inches he could keep it easily under his jacket, not his only weapon of course, but a useful back-up in close combat. For some reason when he saw his reflection in the steel his mind flicked to Sarah, his ex. He could see her bleeding already and the corners of his mouth twitched upward. It would be simple to kill the seller too, rather than pay for it, but what if he wanted another sometime? He dug into his pocket with scarred fingers and pulled out a wad of notes. He didn't need it all, but it never hurt to show a vendor you could be their best customer. Then next time he called his appointment would be all the faster.
The coldness of the blade only steadied Edwards resolve. It pulled away the heat from his clasping fingers and they blanched in response. The knife was one perfect piece of steel, the sharp cutting edge morphing into the smooth handle in a way that reminded him of the dorsal fin on the sharks he used to hunt. He'd slain cold blooded creatures before, eliminating Gina shouldn't be too hard.
Hunting knife, pen knife, steak knife, butter knife, bread knife, small serrated fruit knife, vegetable chopper, meat cleaver, cold steel, throwing knife with a red velvet ribbon wound around the handle, a folding knife, chef's knife, pocket knife, serrated knife, baker's knife, curved blade, blade serrated near the handle and a deadly sharp curve at the tip, trench knife with it's sheath, scalpel, swiss-army knife, rambo knife, dive knife, hatchet, axe.
The knife was sharp and dangerous. It had been wanting to murder since it's first design. It had a large steel serrated blade with a black handle. It had ridges on it so the killers hands would fit in perfectly.
Upon the table the knife sat glimmering ominiously in the pale moonlight dripping blood. Cold and ruthless, a weapon without kindness. It instilled terror in all the souls staying in the chamber everytime a thin beam of moonlight furitively ran over in the velvet darkness, bringing the knife into the light.