A Cut above the Rest
Horror Flash Fiction
I stroll along Fleet Street, the clip clop of horse drawn carriages echoing around the close knit buildings, as per usual on a Monday morning.
The autumn sun rising over the majestic Royal Courts of Justice as lawyers, dressed in their wigs and gowns fight their way through its hallowed entrance to escape the cold.
A small boy dressed in peak cap and long coat sells that morning edition’s newspaper, crying out the headlines, something about signing a Treaty in Paris to acknowledge the independence of the colonies. I stroll past, drawing my coat around me, against the morning chill.
I walk passed a pie shop the owner a plumb, happy looking lady with rosy cheeks stands outside. A lovely aroma of freshly cooked meat pies assaults my senses.
‘Good morning,’ I say to the lady.
She replies in kind and adds with a lusty wink and a smile. ‘Be seeing you soon.’
I shake my head and smile as I walk by. I rub a hand across my strong jawline and feel prickles.
As if by fate I come across a quint looking barbers shop, the familiar red and white post stands proudly outside, representing blood and bandages. A sign displaying the name of the owner and his trade swings slowly in the chill wind like a gibbet above me.
I enter the shop, leaving the hustle and bustle of London behind me, if only for a while.
I’m greeted by the owner, a stout man wearing a white apron, smart black waist coat and eyes of equal colour that seem to bore into my soul.
‘Good morning sir. What will it be?’ he says.
‘A shave my good fellow,’ I reply.
The man smiles and leads me to the barber’s chair. I hang my coat on a nearby hook and make myself comfortable. With a flourish the barber throws a crisp, white cloth around my neck and ties it firmly at the back.
I wait as the barber draws the blood red curtains that hang like condemned men, across the front, lead lined windows, snuffing out the morning sun. Weak sunlight bleeds through the little window in the front door and a few candles allow just enough illumination.
The barber goes to work liberally applying shaving cream in broad strokes to my jaw and throat like some mad artist, badger hair brush in one clawed hand and pot of shaving cream in the other.
He then whips out his cut throat razor from a pocket in his apron and smiles hungrily at me in the mirror. Dark shadows dance on the walls around us like demons.
I close my eyes and think of those lovely meat pies, planning to purchase one after my shave.
I lean back and offer my throat to the barber, Mr Sweeny Todd.
Jason Duck 2025.
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