Kevan Smith - Knife

He crept along the banister holding on as best his little furry legs could grip the curved wood. Paint chips made the grip harder but the knife, firmly between his clenched jaws, glistened with spittle and sweat.

The light was dim with only the moon coyly peeking out occasionally. It was enough to glisten off the blade that shone with a dull hue. He hissed and gulped back even more of his spit as he snaked around the banister pole flaking green shards of paint.

No one was awake, no one stirred, but he knew only too well that hell could and would break loose if he was spied.

Closer, gliding closer, quieter, he barely moved but managed to slide along the wood like a statue moving.

The light still shone from the far end room. Beaming out across the rickety veranda and across the worn handrail.

He would not blink in case he lost his nerve. He would not stop focusing on his goal in case he turned to water. He had one goal, one aim, one outcome….and he was not going to fail. In his mind’s eye he was his goal; he smelt its aroma; he tasted its bitter sour texture…and he knew it would be his.

Then, the light flicked off and his heart stopped for two beats, his legs went limp like well-cooked Vesna spaghetti. He nearly fell, but his sharp claws held him onto the rotted wood.

Now, completely black around him, he moved with lightning speed, racing along the banister. He dove, spread like a sugar glider, legs outstretched, and padded onto the ground like a ninja. ‘Plop’. He moved towards the wall, across the old boards, up the wall, and onto the sill.

His, his victory, it would be his! The window moved up, slowly, quietly, millimeter by millimeter, enough for him to squeeze through and into the pantry, and hopefully out again without being caught.

Totally black, his nose guided him towards the table. The scent, the overpowering scent led him on. There, the scent, THERE! He sat up, unclenched his jaw. Spittle splashing on to the table.

His nose was alive with gorgonzola. His eyes moistened, almost crying with joy. He slowly, carefully pierced the massive block, almost down to the hilt, carving deeply, crazily.

Then it overwhelmed all his senses, as the large chunk clunked onto the marble tabletop. He sprang onto the side of the enormous block gnashing and clawing and chomping. Spittle and zola chunks and sweat exploded across the table on to the floor. One chunk even hit the light bulb, its movement flashing across the motion sensor.

Lights flashed across the room, alarms exploded into silence, sirens wailed hysterically throughout the building. The 8ft moustachioed Chef crashed through the door brandishing the glistening cleaver above his head.

He was caught; he was doomed! But he didn’t care, he munched madly and cackled like a rat possessed. He Had GORGONZOLAAAAA….!!!!