Excerpt || The Razor Salesman
Ideomancer Unbound, Ideomancer, Chris Clarke & Mikal Trimm eds., 2002
The razor salesman doesn't say anything. His skin is
grey like overchewed gum. His trousers are perfectly pressed, a high,
neat ridge ironed straight down the front. The sun is setting behind him,
painting a golden outline across his neck and smooth, round face. He is
wearing a grey suit (with gold foil shoulders, it seems) and black shoes.
Beside his left shoe is another small briefcase. A larger one. Why does
he need so many razors?
"Who buys all these?" Ellen asks.
The razor salesman is smiling with a thin, lipless
mouth.
"People like you," he says, but he doesn't
elaborate.
Ellen decides she doesn't like him. She can make that
kind of decision very quickly. But it's a shame he's not selling something
else, something she could use. Home delivered, and everything. What a
waste.
She shakes her head and shuts the door firmly. Turns
back inside and sighs. The house is a mess again and the boys are shouting
upstairs. Bloodcurdling shouts, like maybe they're being murdered. Ellen
waits for the silence of a successful homicide, but it doesn't come. I
guess they're still alive, then, she thinks. Not without humour.
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