The Knife Thrower

Before each throw, the knife thrower becomes a boy again, transported to the foot of his childhood friend’s stairs, holding a steak knife. Blindfolded, he takes a deep breath, does a couple of practice tosses, but it’s all part of the show, about building suspense. He never misses. There’s no real danger, only the possibility of danger. The knife whistles through the air and impales the apple atop his assistant’s head. Applause. His assistant ducks out from underneath the blade, and the knife thrower bows.

After the show, the knife thrower meets his old friend at a bar. They haven’t seen each other in years. They drink a few beers, and the knife thrower tells him the secret to his success.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” his friend says, ordering another round.

“We got all the steak knives from your parents’ kitchen and threw them up the stairs.”

“You must have me confused with someone else.”

Blades whirl in the knife thrower’s head like sharp, wingless birds and carve through his doubt. Thud. Thud. Thud. Rhythmic echoes. Always finding their target. Never missing. A blessing.

“We couldn’t get any to stick until I closed my eyes, remember? Since then, I knew I couldn’t miss.”

His friend just shrugs. They drink a bit more. Then last call. They hug and head their separate ways. During his walk home, the knife thrower throws coasters he stole from the bar at trees and streetlights, missing each time. The roads morph, becoming more and more unfamiliar, like a shadow dissolving in the last bits of daylight. He doesn’t know where he’s going until he finds himself in front of his friend’s childhood home, abandoned.

The knife thrower breaks in and stands at the bottom of the stairs, a boy again. He climbs a couple of steps before getting scared he’ll find nothing but smooth, unscarred drywall at the top. He retreats back down. What if nothing is up there? he thinks. What if what is up there is only up there because I believe it is? Not knowing what else to do, the knife thrower retrieves a forgotten steak knife from the kitchen and returns to the stairs. With his eyes closed, he throws and has faith he’ll hear the sound of his blessing, has faith he’ll hear the sound of stainless steel piercing drywall.

Will Musgrove

Will Musgrove is a writer and journalist from Northwest Iowa. He received an MFA from Minnesota State University, Mankato. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Penn Review, The Florida Review, Wigleaf, Passages North, The Pinch, and elsewhere. Connect on Twitter at @Will_Musgrove or at williammusgrove.com.