by: E.E. Rhodes
He told me about them on our honeymoon in Venice. Daggers, made of glass.
The points broke off in the body and were impossible to remove, skin closing around the wound so that no trace remained. There’d been a roaring trade amongst assassins in the Seventeenth Century.
Back home it hadn't been hard to make a mould. Silicon putty around a long stiletto. Modern pathology could find anything, so glass wouldn’t cut it these days. Ice though? That would melt. I turned the freezer up high.
E. E. Rhodes is an archaeologist who accidentally lives in a castle in Worcestershire in England. She writes flash, CNF, and prose poetry to try and make sense of it all. Her work has appeared in a range of anthologies, journals and competition placings.
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