BrotherJim
Gold Member
- Joined
- Feb 9, 2015
- Messages
- 4,240
218
Of all the 2022 Blade Forums Bunny knives made that year, only number 218 was known to hum at midnight. No one at the Titusville factory admitted stamping 218 into the bolster. One said he thought he saw numbers glow faintly but assumed it was just a sheen of oil catching the light or something in his eyes. One blamed an apprentice named Eliot, though no one could remember hiring him.
The name Eliot was briefly on the breakroom whiteboard under “Do not trust,” yet no one could remember Eliot ever setting foot on the factory floor. Someone must’ve put the name there, but who?
The humming began exactly three nights after the knife found its owner. That night, it drifted down the Mississippi River by barge, tucked in the pocket of a man named BrotherJim, who claimed he could taste different metals just by holding them, and once identified a Canadian quarter as “spicy” on the edges.
BrotherJim, with no formal training in metallurgy or music, swore the hum was in the key of E minor, said it matched the sound of a starling flapping its wings in reverse, whatever that meant. His cousin, SisterLorna, disagreed. She said it was the sound of moss remembering rain. The truth, if there was one, likely lay somewhere between a kettle heating and a mosquito dreaming. The hum seemed to vibrate the air, pulling the very molecules around it into rhythm, sending a slight shiver up the spine, only the most sensitive could feel.
Months after it first hummed, during an electrical storm over a field in Iowa, the knife reportedly jumped six inches into the air, landed point down in a patch of grass, and pinned a single four-leaf clover to the earth without bruising a leaf. BrotherJim told no one. He picked the knife up, wiped the blade on his sock, and whispered, "Thank you," before looking around, just in case someone had seen.
No one knows where 218 is now. Some say it was traded for a jar of dandelion syrup at a roadside stand in Ohio. Others believe it was buried under the third pew of a collapsed church somewhere in Vermont, still humming, waiting for someone who remembers silence well enough to hear.
These days, it could be anywhere. If you catch a faint hum just past midnight, somewhere between a kettle heating and a dreaming mosquito, don’t dismiss it as your imagination. It might just be 218 checking in.
Until someone else finds it, I’ll carry 218. The hum, strangely, has a soothing quality.
Of all the 2022 Blade Forums Bunny knives made that year, only number 218 was known to hum at midnight. No one at the Titusville factory admitted stamping 218 into the bolster. One said he thought he saw numbers glow faintly but assumed it was just a sheen of oil catching the light or something in his eyes. One blamed an apprentice named Eliot, though no one could remember hiring him.
The name Eliot was briefly on the breakroom whiteboard under “Do not trust,” yet no one could remember Eliot ever setting foot on the factory floor. Someone must’ve put the name there, but who?
The humming began exactly three nights after the knife found its owner. That night, it drifted down the Mississippi River by barge, tucked in the pocket of a man named BrotherJim, who claimed he could taste different metals just by holding them, and once identified a Canadian quarter as “spicy” on the edges.
BrotherJim, with no formal training in metallurgy or music, swore the hum was in the key of E minor, said it matched the sound of a starling flapping its wings in reverse, whatever that meant. His cousin, SisterLorna, disagreed. She said it was the sound of moss remembering rain. The truth, if there was one, likely lay somewhere between a kettle heating and a mosquito dreaming. The hum seemed to vibrate the air, pulling the very molecules around it into rhythm, sending a slight shiver up the spine, only the most sensitive could feel.
Months after it first hummed, during an electrical storm over a field in Iowa, the knife reportedly jumped six inches into the air, landed point down in a patch of grass, and pinned a single four-leaf clover to the earth without bruising a leaf. BrotherJim told no one. He picked the knife up, wiped the blade on his sock, and whispered, "Thank you," before looking around, just in case someone had seen.
No one knows where 218 is now. Some say it was traded for a jar of dandelion syrup at a roadside stand in Ohio. Others believe it was buried under the third pew of a collapsed church somewhere in Vermont, still humming, waiting for someone who remembers silence well enough to hear.
These days, it could be anywhere. If you catch a faint hum just past midnight, somewhere between a kettle heating and a dreaming mosquito, don’t dismiss it as your imagination. It might just be 218 checking in.
Until someone else finds it, I’ll carry 218. The hum, strangely, has a soothing quality.
