𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚎, 𝚘𝚒𝚕, 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕;
Max had received the book from his father, a tome passed down through generations, ultimately falling into the hands of the clueless 24-year-old. He'd never understood it's importance, the way it'd been kept in a silk slip, handled with gloves, a precious journal despite it's blank pages and old, worn leather cover.
He'd thought about selling it. Palming it off to some nerdy book collector, or dumping it at an antiques auction, turning the dollars into cryptocurrency to fund his latest NFT collection. He had no use for physical media, having opted for a 'minimalist lifestyle' of open-plan living and digital assets, expensive furniture designed by millionaire art moguls, everything in his home made up of sharp edges and polished chrome. He had no place in his sleek, ultramodern LA apartment for some crusty old book.
Ultimately, Max began using the book for target practice. Propping it up on his limited edition Tesla coffee table, the despondent young man had fired various projectiles at the thick volume, everything from discarded vape cartridges to jewelled paperclips lay scattered around the table, each one either missing tremendously or hitting the leather cover before skittering off across the table.
Unimpressed with his lack of success, Max pulled out his iridescent, oil slick pocket knife, (a gift from his latest LA bestie.) Lining up the shot, he threw it, straight and narrow, directly into the journal's thick, ancient cover. Finally, a fucking hit.
Whooping in success, Max leapt from his Peruvian yak hair sofa, celebrating his day's win. It was only when he turned to snap a quick Instagram photo of the embedded knife, that he saw the monumental fucking mess made of his precious coffee table.
At the centre of the book, spilling forth from the impact point, were gory rivulets of thick, crimson 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱.
Originally written and shared as part of Verbuary 2023: https://tinyurl.com/yf5fb8y2