An opening about a barber, with two possible endings based on suggestions from Matt Crook.
The glass is dark, the flame is dim, a chill runs through the air,
The floor is soiled, caked with grime and littered with cut hair.
The barber sits upon his throne, his razor cast aside,
And looks out through the clouded glass on barren streets outside.
Why is the window darkened so? Why burns the candle dimly?
Why is the barber’s shop a mess? Why gazes he so grimly?
I posted that on the discussion site of my book club and asked for suggestions on where to take it. Matt Crook gave several ideas, two of which I followed.
The glass is dark, the flame is dim, a chill runs through the air,
The floor is soiled, caked with grime and littered with cut hair.
The barber sits upon his throne, his razor cast aside,
And looks out through the clouded glass on barren streets outside.
Why is the window darkened so? Why burns the candle dimly?
Why is the barber’s shop a mess? Why gazes he so grimly?
Across the streets a WalMart® Smiley mocks him in his gloom;
It is the mart that left to him this empty, lightless room.
How dare that monster’s hair salon give cuts at less than cost?
And his old partner works for them! It proves his soul is lost.
How could his partner burn him so? Why is that smile so galling?
Why is the barber holding pot? To what depths is he falling?
The barber doffs his cutting smock and dons a plumber’s shirt.
Inside the store he tells the boss, “I hear your H-VAC’s hurt?”
Then in the ventilation ducts, right by the hair salon
He lights the pot with smoldering flame, gives boss a bill, is gone.
What kinds of styles will his ex-partner cut while flying high?
Is the barber wise in this? Can we fault that he would try?
The vent the barber chose is one that sucks, not blows, its air.
Narcotic fumes are blown outside with bits of airborne hair.
The second time that the barber tries to gas his foe’s salon
Policemen catch him with the narc, and now the barber’s gone.
What pushed him to this foolish deed? Why went it so awryly?
And should we blame him for his acts, or blame the WalMart® Smiley?
The glass is dark, the flame is dim, a chill runs through the air,
The floor is soiled, caked with grime and littered with cut hair.
The barber sits upon his throne, his razor cast aside,
And looks out through the clouded glass on barren streets outside.
Why is the window darkened so? Why burns the candle dimly?
Why is the barber’s shop a mess? Why gazes he so grimly?
A form approaches, pushes in, with arms outstretched it staggers
The barber rises from his chair and pulls out two sharp daggers.
“How would you like it, sir?” he asks. The zombie gives a groan,
Then stumbles down into the seat, the barber’s cutting throne.
Why is the barber holding knives? Why is a zombie here?
Will only hair be cut today, or neck from ear to ear?
Then “snip, snip, snip” the daggers fly, rank hair falls to the ground
The barber whistles Dixieland, a strangely cheerful sound.
“That’s seven bucks” the barber says. The zombie looks quite neat;
It pays him ten without a grunt, then staggers to the street.
What good are dollars in this world? Why did the zombie pay?
What other shops might they require? Such puzzles here today!
Looking for comments…