A Razor of Coal

I crept deeper into the chill gloom, stopping where the iron coal chute opens into the stone wall. Scattered across the blackened earth lay shards of anthracite, slick and cold as obsidian. One flat sliver jutted upward, tapered to a wicked edge. I pressed the tip against my coarse burlap palm—sharp enough to bite, yet smooth as glass. I wedged it firmly into the twine wrapping around my left forearm, pointing outward. In this quiet dark, even stone can learn to draw blood.