Sheer

It didn’t make the same sound. Usually it rang with the same resonance every time, a nice ting that reverberated in his ears. He would position the stock for the next piece; the sheer would move downward with its hydraulic hum, slicing off the end with a seemingly effortless motion; and then, ting. Repetitively he slid the cool metal bar into position for the next cut and awaited the reassuring sound. This time though, it was a thud, a dead knock with none of the metallic quality he was used to hearing. Whatever this was, it absorbed the impact.

He leaned over to see what had caused the abnormality. At first he couldn’t tell, but there was a red streak on one of the pieces, that much was certain. Bending down he moved the pile with his left hand. There it was. A finger lay there amongst the steel as though it belonged; it was even the right length. The small puddle of blood beside it was a different story. The bright red contrasted harshly with the grayish blue of the pieces. He looked back on top of the platform to see another, larger pool. The skin of his face beaded with sweat, and his mouth began to water. Raising his digit-deficient right hand in front of his face, the smell of iron rushed into his nostrils with a vengeance. That’s funny; I never noticed that smell before, he thought as his nerves went back to work sending their electric pulses to his brain.