He tried. He really did.
Outside, the snow gathers on the
cobbled street, drifting against the
doorway of the charity shop on the
other side. The streetlight fades to red
in anticipation of the sunrise, warning
the butcher of the countdown to
opening time. It would be the first
time in thirty years he would have
opened without meat displayed in the
window. How they would talk about
him. They snort at the empty display
and the tears running down his face.
Their mockery of his unbloodied
cleaver is ruthless. He clutches his heart
and this only inflames their hysterics.
The old red telephone rings and he
drops his cleaver to the disinfected
tiles with a clatter. Adrenaline
clenches his jaw shut and fries his
brain with misfiring neurons. There
is no fight with or flight from this,
though. He knows who it is and
what he wants to say. He’s heard it all
his life, even after his father died and
he had to take over the shop. Every
day for thirty years, from five in the
morning until five in the afternoon,
bouncing around the tiny rooms and
dead fridges like echoes in a white
and stainless steel canyon.
The racks are empty; the hooks,
pristine and upturned, glinting inSINGLE CHARACTER COMPETITION
5252 MARCH 2020 http://www.writers-online.co.ukS
omewhere in the valleys,
there is a butcher’s shop
window with no meat in
it. The bright light is on
and the butcher stands
at his chopping board, one hand on
his cleaver and the other over his
heart. Snow pats against the window
emblazoned with his name.
Everyone will know of his failure.
His weakness.
He lifts his head and checks the
clock next to the bright blue insect-
o-cutor. Only another hour until
opening time and still nothing
chopped. He wonders whether he has
been changed forever by the dream.
His shaky hand lays down the cleaver
and the kettle boils in the back room.
Good strong cuppa usually sorts
things out. No problem too great that
tea can’t solve it.
He doesn’t believe the voices1st PLACE
£100Antony Reid writes multi-genre
fiction and poetry from a curious
spit of land between the Dee, the
Mersey and the Irish Sea where
he tries to keep company with
‘the gold-hearted silver-tongued and quicksilver-minded’.
He e-published a novella, A Smaller Hell, a few years ago,
and is seeking representation for several novels, a feature
screenplay and TV pilot.
blustering through his memory. They
are just leaves, most of them dead.
He knows that. Platitudes. Empty
maxims to gloss over the horror of
existence. Water off a duck’s back, all
that, lad. Ye’ll worry yeself into early
grave. Chop-chop. That meat won’t
butcher itself.
The butcher dries his eyes, pours
the kettle’s contents into his battered
mug and watches the wounded tea
bag leak brown blood into the water.
He is reluctant to prod it further
with the stained teaspoon for fear
that it will cry out.
He wonders what is wrong with
him. Maybe the dream was some kind
of nervous breakdown? Why is he still
so terrified? Grown men don’t react
this way to nightmares.
He doesn’t want to think about the
one thing he remembers from the dream.
An abyss so horrible that it makes his
brain recoil from the mere thought.
Milk goes in the tea, sugar after
that and he clunks the spoon round
the chipped and cracked porcelain like
a robot.
And he definitely doesn’t want to
look in the fridge.
He tries opening the heavy steel
door, but his muscles are still cold and
immobile, like the greasy metal latch.Chop-chop
by ANTONY REID
Chop-chop