ceramic

I hold the blade firmly in my left hand. With a swift motion its magic activates, and the sword emanates a menacing red glare.

And closer and closer it comes to its foes. The bad guys. They who appear without notice and manage to foil any neat day.

I hesitate as I try to find any good in their existence. Failing, I decide to commit to my plans. They will come again, I know, yet, once slaughtered, I will have a day of freedom from their nerve-wracking interlude. They block the path, they stand in front of the dungeon’s exit, and I, carrying the holy quest’s amulet, need to pass.

Determined and justified, I finally feel empowered to strike and end their puny lives. It’s sad for them, yes, but this should be a common axiom by now: whoever stands in my way must expect annihilation!

And the blade touches. And the foes scream wildly. And their wounds are horrific. And their death is now certainly imminent. And my facial hair falls into the sink, dark brown snowflakes upon the ceramic winter landscape. And I am blank, free, and no longer in need of my razor.