That is some good advice Danny, thanks. I do really feel like I should do more, I don't want to waste all my holiday watching tv and playing on the computer. But anyways ... the advice is much appreciated (and thanks for looking in on my writing - i remember you were present in the first thread i had).
It was warm and sweaty in his hand. I wriggled as moved me through the cucumber - loving the crunch it made as the stroke finished, as soft as a paintbrush but as keen as a pen. Rapidly passing along the long vegetable with masterful precision I guided the chef, thin wafers of light green cucumber being formed by my willing. I wondered how he was going to use them but he laid me face-down on the white chopping-board before I could see where the slices went. The chef could not even realise how uncomfortable I was right then, I had been pressed into the board like a policeman pinning a rioter. And I had an itch.
In the background I could hear some shouting and my blade quivered. What could rouse in these men such a anger, I pondered. I would never feel such lust for violence as these flesh-people - our creators and our destroyers - for I am proud of my heritage as a Cutco knife.
Then, all at once, I was scooped up into a fist by the chef. It was dark and the shaking of his hand made me nervous. Through the crack between his fingers I could only watch as the chef advanced on a cowering figure. I made to scream, to move and escape, but with an air of inevitability I was transfixed in the chef's hand.
A moment came, between stillness and action, where the chef bent his hand back, muscles taut, and I viewed the victim as she raised her arm to block the blow. Snicker-snack, snicker-snack my vorpal blade drew blood from arteries, which squirted dark red over the white clothes of the chef, like rivers carving new paths after a flood. Bathed in sanguine horror I could feel my keen edge sliding through her skin, then her flesh, all the while hearing the hammering heartbeat in her.
The final plunge came, and, holding my breath, I dived into her one last time. Passing the taut tan skin, squeezing through the space between the ribs, I immersed myself in her thumping heart. So loud was the noise of shame and the gushing of her blood that I wished, from that day onwards, I had never been a knife. I should have been ... have been ... been a spoon, I cried.
OK, there you go. It isn't very good IMO but it is hard being a knife, since you cannot take any action yourself and the personification just stifles creativity.
