A sharp whisper on your skin, it dances with a gleaming grin. Silent sculptor of the legs and face, leaving a delicate smooth, clean trace. If you can't guess what I am my dear, think about Occam and all shall be clear.

I'm called a vegetable by chefs, but a fruit by science. I come in many colors, and I make pasta sauce. What am I?

I fit within your palm, yet stain whatever I touch. Sweet when you eat me, but messy when crushed.

I'm given to you by someone older. You might give me to someone that's younger. Even though there are so many of me out there, You have the last one.

I’m a flat piece of wood. Too thin to be a log, too long to be a block. Step on me wrong and you’ll hit the water. Nail me together and I become a bridge. What am I?