Rusty Spoon

“Sometimes I want to gut you with a rusty spoon, but then I reflect how that would be a waste of a rusty spoon,” he said from behind the morning’s paper. He had to force the words around his most likely illegal cigar to make completely sure that they hit their target. 

The girl didn’t even flinch. She hadn’t in years; not when he threw words or firsts or various inanimate objects. Biting her tongue had become second-nature.

And so had counting.

Three. Just three now. 

Three days until her eighteenth birthday. Three days until, unbeknownst to her father, she received the inheritance that he never intended her to have.  

She wondered if he would get a kick out of the fact that his own demise was going to be inspired by his own myriad of colorful suggestions. It was a pittance, really, the extra five grand that her new associate required to spice up his usual methods of operation. 

Fortunately for her father, though, even a contract killer felt that rusty spoons were too gruesome a mode of dispatchment. 




I am in love with his words. I want to hold them to my chest and let them sing me to sleep even though lullabies were never really my thing.

They’re not mine. They belong to some nameless girl on some nameless street with bluer eyes and blonder hair; the picture of perfection. I only borrow them from time to time.

But that’s okay. Loving a person takes time. Loving words takes an instant.

So all that I need is a little bit of time to play pretend; to slip into the shoes of a girl that I’ll probably never meet and fall finally, blissfully asleep.