My writing partner‘s prompt: “…the knife girl.”
What it sparked:
It’s Susannah, but they called her the knife girl. Her act used to be the talk of the town—a spinning disk, she tossed the blades up, they glittered and hung in the air for a moment before falling and thocking into the disk. She danced with them, and danced on them, her toes en pointe on their quivering hilts.
But acrobats get older.
Now she has a different act. A quieter one. And really, she’d be the first to tell you, if you paid enough to ask her a question instead of just engaging her services, one she likes better. Nobody knows anatomy like an acrobat, and nobody knows pain as intimately. Her pinched, wan face only brightens when her target wakes from the chloroform stupor and she tells them one simple thing. She will ask a question, and the pain will stop when you answer.
Yes, the agony will stop. One way…or another.
Okay, fellow wordslingers. Your turn.