(no subject)
I am pulling out my teeth, one by one. A thin sheen of connecive tissue glistens on the roots, blood quickly curdling on their very tips, thin white strands of nerves snapping as the teeth are let go by the bone, gums thickly squishing aroung the empty spaces where the teeth used to be. They are my only friends now.
I fashion arrow heads out of my teeth, not the perfect material, not the most airdynamic, but hard enough. The spiral conglomerations of the roots make perfect arrohead bases, and I sharpen the crowns of the teeth with a fine steel file, to a razor-sharp point.
I have made 30 perfect arrows out of my teeth (the other 2 were pulled out and destroyed for their greater wisdom) and now I will shoot down my enemies, teeth deep within their hearts.
I fashion arrow heads out of my teeth, not the perfect material, not the most airdynamic, but hard enough. The spiral conglomerations of the roots make perfect arrohead bases, and I sharpen the crowns of the teeth with a fine steel file, to a razor-sharp point.
I have made 30 perfect arrows out of my teeth (the other 2 were pulled out and destroyed for their greater wisdom) and now I will shoot down my enemies, teeth deep within their hearts.