Post by thecurtain on Oct 5, 2011 11:09:47 GMT -5
To a five-year-old boy, the shiny, sharp metal surfaces were tempting enough; to forbid him from going near them was just asking for trouble.
Mac chose his chance with intelligence beyond his years. It was late in the afternoon, a mid-October Sunday, and his parents were curled up together on the couch, watching a movie he had no interest in. Or at least, not nearly as much interest as he had in what was hiding in his father’s office.
His father had left the door unlocked that day, expecting a last-minute call from the newspaper editor. Just another factor Mac had considered when choosing his day. He slipped around a corner with exaggerated care, pretending to emulate Stealth Soldier’s superior sneaking skills. He sidled along the wall, listening carefully for the sounds of the television. Still on. He thought he could hear rustling, his parents shifting under their blanket to reach for another handful of popcorn.
The door’s hinges were still new, and with not one sound Mac pulled it open. He slipped inside, imagining himself a prowling cat, and shut the door just as noiselessly behind him.
His father was a journalist, freelance, writing columns for everything from newspapers to Hero Monthly. His office reflected it: a computer with twin monitors set up on a wooden desk deep enough to house multiple reference materials and still have a place to set his oversized mug of coffee every morning. Not one but two squat plastic wastepaper baskets stood by the desk chair, both roughly half full with crumpled, discarded papers, rejected ideas and manuscripts. And taking up half of one wall was a giant corkboard, on which had been proudly tacked every major contribution his father had made to any published work. It was filled nearly to the frame by now; pretty soon eh would have to hang up another. In momentary wonderment, Mac stared up at the articles, most of which he couldn’t read, and even if he could, he’d never be able to understand them.
But the articles weren’t what he’d done all that sneaking for.
While a good deal of the office reflected his father’s occupation, an even larger proportion showcased his hobby. The remaining walls housed cases and cases full of sharp, gleaming knives, from all over the world, each carefully suspended on a plastic display rack and clearly labeled with country of origin, year manufactured, and the material or materials of the blade. In the corner, as far away from the sunlight filtering in through the office’s one window as possible, were his father’s proudest pieces, the ancient blades well-kept but more austere, wizened, in their shape and in the pock-marks of well-worn wooden handles.
Mac rounded the perimeter of the room slowly, running his hands lightly over the surfaces of the glass display cases, doing his best to read the names of the countries and metals on the labels, sounding them out painstakingly when unfamiliar. The older ones were his favorites, he decided, the ones with the wickedly curved blades and the worn, ornate handles. A lot of the other knives looked the same, and any differences in them were lost on him after he’d given up trying to read the identifying tags, but these were all different, all unique, handles inlaid with gold or painted blood red and sun yellow.
He was vastly disappointed to find each case locked securely, keys nowhere to be found. How cool would it be, to just be able to hold those knives in his hands? he thought, to feel what those old guys felt, to drag his finger ever so lightly along the blade to test its edge like he saw in that gangster movie once.
He’d have to find the keys and come back another good day, that’s all. For now, sensing the time he had ticking down, Mac continued to pour over the display cases, tilting and ducking to get a good look at his reflection in the shiny metal. To get at the higher shelves, he tipped the trash from one waste basket into the other and up-ended the empty one to climb onto.
From here, he could see all of the knives, his father’s entire collection, and for one awed moment his brain felt overwhelmed.
There was a clatter behind him. Mac froze at the unexpected noise, thinking his parents might have found him, but the door to his father’s office remained tightly shut.
There it was again. This time, already turned towards the wall, Mac saw out of the corner of his eye that it had been the knives themselves rattling.
Maybe a truck had gone by.
No—no. Now they’re not stopping. Several of the knives in the case behind him had begun to tremble. And now the computer, and the desk chair, the lamp in the corner and the light fixture on the ceiling were joining in, too. An earthquake?! But no—the trash bin under his feet was completely sturdy.
One of the knives, marked with the uncommon but truly baffling “iron” (“EE-ron”? “EYE-ron”?), sprang suddenly out of its rack and collided with the glass casing, cracking it. Wholly surprised, Mac toppled from his perch and landed hard on his butt.
He had no time to worry about the pain. As if hoisted by strong, invisible wires, more knives began leaping at the glass as if making a collective bid for freedom. And not just the ones in that case; now, certain knives from all around the room had sprung to life, jumping at the glass, sending shards flying. From the corkboard, push pins popped from their holes like wine stoppers, several smacking him in his forehead, his shoulders, his chest, their flat plastic bottoms stinging but surely less painful than if they had turned the other way. Newspaper and magazine articles fluttered to the floor in a flurry of printed words.
Mac was frozen, blue eyes wide with confusion and growing terror as finally the knives began to break free from their glass prisons. One soared out of the case, blade point headed right for him, but he curled into a ball and rolled onto his knees, and it sailed over his back, sticking into the molding on the far wall, near the door. Mac shrieked at the sound of the impact, his high young voice shrill and wordless and terrified.
As if further angered by his scream, the invisible hands controlling the knives began picking up speed. All around the room, glass shattered and sharp blades shot out, wavering in the air. Some headed for him; some buried harmlessly into walls. Mac managed to avoid anything worse than a few minor cuts along his arms and back, until the sounds of his wails alerted his parents that something was wrong.
They arrived just in time to find a knife burying itself deep in their son’s back, just inside his left shoulder blade, and as he lost consciousness from the shock, the knives suddenly dropped from the air like a flock of dead metal birds.
Mac chose his chance with intelligence beyond his years. It was late in the afternoon, a mid-October Sunday, and his parents were curled up together on the couch, watching a movie he had no interest in. Or at least, not nearly as much interest as he had in what was hiding in his father’s office.
His father had left the door unlocked that day, expecting a last-minute call from the newspaper editor. Just another factor Mac had considered when choosing his day. He slipped around a corner with exaggerated care, pretending to emulate Stealth Soldier’s superior sneaking skills. He sidled along the wall, listening carefully for the sounds of the television. Still on. He thought he could hear rustling, his parents shifting under their blanket to reach for another handful of popcorn.
The door’s hinges were still new, and with not one sound Mac pulled it open. He slipped inside, imagining himself a prowling cat, and shut the door just as noiselessly behind him.
His father was a journalist, freelance, writing columns for everything from newspapers to Hero Monthly. His office reflected it: a computer with twin monitors set up on a wooden desk deep enough to house multiple reference materials and still have a place to set his oversized mug of coffee every morning. Not one but two squat plastic wastepaper baskets stood by the desk chair, both roughly half full with crumpled, discarded papers, rejected ideas and manuscripts. And taking up half of one wall was a giant corkboard, on which had been proudly tacked every major contribution his father had made to any published work. It was filled nearly to the frame by now; pretty soon eh would have to hang up another. In momentary wonderment, Mac stared up at the articles, most of which he couldn’t read, and even if he could, he’d never be able to understand them.
But the articles weren’t what he’d done all that sneaking for.
While a good deal of the office reflected his father’s occupation, an even larger proportion showcased his hobby. The remaining walls housed cases and cases full of sharp, gleaming knives, from all over the world, each carefully suspended on a plastic display rack and clearly labeled with country of origin, year manufactured, and the material or materials of the blade. In the corner, as far away from the sunlight filtering in through the office’s one window as possible, were his father’s proudest pieces, the ancient blades well-kept but more austere, wizened, in their shape and in the pock-marks of well-worn wooden handles.
Mac rounded the perimeter of the room slowly, running his hands lightly over the surfaces of the glass display cases, doing his best to read the names of the countries and metals on the labels, sounding them out painstakingly when unfamiliar. The older ones were his favorites, he decided, the ones with the wickedly curved blades and the worn, ornate handles. A lot of the other knives looked the same, and any differences in them were lost on him after he’d given up trying to read the identifying tags, but these were all different, all unique, handles inlaid with gold or painted blood red and sun yellow.
He was vastly disappointed to find each case locked securely, keys nowhere to be found. How cool would it be, to just be able to hold those knives in his hands? he thought, to feel what those old guys felt, to drag his finger ever so lightly along the blade to test its edge like he saw in that gangster movie once.
He’d have to find the keys and come back another good day, that’s all. For now, sensing the time he had ticking down, Mac continued to pour over the display cases, tilting and ducking to get a good look at his reflection in the shiny metal. To get at the higher shelves, he tipped the trash from one waste basket into the other and up-ended the empty one to climb onto.
From here, he could see all of the knives, his father’s entire collection, and for one awed moment his brain felt overwhelmed.
There was a clatter behind him. Mac froze at the unexpected noise, thinking his parents might have found him, but the door to his father’s office remained tightly shut.
There it was again. This time, already turned towards the wall, Mac saw out of the corner of his eye that it had been the knives themselves rattling.
Maybe a truck had gone by.
No—no. Now they’re not stopping. Several of the knives in the case behind him had begun to tremble. And now the computer, and the desk chair, the lamp in the corner and the light fixture on the ceiling were joining in, too. An earthquake?! But no—the trash bin under his feet was completely sturdy.
One of the knives, marked with the uncommon but truly baffling “iron” (“EE-ron”? “EYE-ron”?), sprang suddenly out of its rack and collided with the glass casing, cracking it. Wholly surprised, Mac toppled from his perch and landed hard on his butt.
He had no time to worry about the pain. As if hoisted by strong, invisible wires, more knives began leaping at the glass as if making a collective bid for freedom. And not just the ones in that case; now, certain knives from all around the room had sprung to life, jumping at the glass, sending shards flying. From the corkboard, push pins popped from their holes like wine stoppers, several smacking him in his forehead, his shoulders, his chest, their flat plastic bottoms stinging but surely less painful than if they had turned the other way. Newspaper and magazine articles fluttered to the floor in a flurry of printed words.
Mac was frozen, blue eyes wide with confusion and growing terror as finally the knives began to break free from their glass prisons. One soared out of the case, blade point headed right for him, but he curled into a ball and rolled onto his knees, and it sailed over his back, sticking into the molding on the far wall, near the door. Mac shrieked at the sound of the impact, his high young voice shrill and wordless and terrified.
As if further angered by his scream, the invisible hands controlling the knives began picking up speed. All around the room, glass shattered and sharp blades shot out, wavering in the air. Some headed for him; some buried harmlessly into walls. Mac managed to avoid anything worse than a few minor cuts along his arms and back, until the sounds of his wails alerted his parents that something was wrong.
They arrived just in time to find a knife burying itself deep in their son’s back, just inside his left shoulder blade, and as he lost consciousness from the shock, the knives suddenly dropped from the air like a flock of dead metal birds.
