The Axe
By Terra Wolfe
The handle
smoother
than varnish
from countless
callused hands.
Black metal of years
darkens the shape.
Only the edge
of the blade
shines.
The balance
feels
comfortable.
A good tool.
It swings easily
as the sharpness
of its tip
arcs
toward
the back
of a perfectly
pressed
shirt.
Time slows
a face
turns
from the neck
eyes
unbelieving.
the shirt tears
in an even line.
Flesh
beneath the steel
parts
easily.
Blood, pink
under the skin's surface
white
layer
of fat
opens.
The motion stops
then continues
ribs break
revealing organs beneath.
A scream
pierces the room
then seems
distant
background
music
a chant
in Latin.
The blade
doesn't move
as the back
falls foreword.
On the floor
the shirt is red now
the open part
is wide
as half the back.
layered
neatly
despite
the ooze
of blood.
Red, white, pink
white bones
push through the crimson
purple
wet, smooth
beneath.
The back
is still now
the room
is silent.
Copyright Terra Wolfe 2006
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