Part of an unfinished story about 10-blade disposable razors


Jeff walked down the toiletries aisle with a cautious gait.His senses were sparking as if something was wrong, but he couldn’t quite grasp what it was. He reached the disposable razors. As he did, a packet on the shelf began to vibrate. The vibrations got more intense as he got closer and closer. Busy trying to figure out why he felt so strange, he did not notice the lone package on the shelf, visibly shaking and beginning to glow as he neared it.

Jeff stepped in front of the package. He now turned and looked at it. It was a razor. No, it was more than that. It was a work of art. It was beautiful. He could not take his eyes off of it. It was 10 blades of pure, beautiful horror, strapped to a powered handle.

Suddenly, cuts started appearing on his face. Splotches of blood started to appear, and then drip down his chin and on to the floor. He put his hands to his face, then pulled them back to look at them. The shock of what he was seeing caused him to let out a ferocious, terrible scream.


Then, the packet in front of him burst open and the razor,the beautiful man-made steel construction leapt forward, it’s blades twisting and forming small limbs, which it used to grab hold of Jeff’s face and slice and slice and slice!

The other razors behind it also burst from their packets, in a horrible, blasphemous parody of birth. They rattled and tapped along the supermarket floor, under shelving and over displays, finding oblivious victims and grabbing hold of them, hacking at their necks and faces.

The manager of the store, Marc, made it to the cigarette counter and picked up the phone. He had just managed to scream something down the line to the emergency services operator, before a razor jumped at him from behind the Bic lighters and unceremoniously cut his throat.

Ten minutes later, the police arrived. Nobody in the shop had survived and the razors were hacking up the faces of the corpses in some kind of bizarre, workman-like ritual. As though they had been born to do this very task.

Police shotguns raged and one by one turned the micro-maniacs into splintered, mangled versions of their former selves. Finally, there was only one left still moving.

“Man created us,” it said in a tiny, raspy voice, “and now, man destroys us. But know that we were only doing the task we were built for. We were never meant to beeeeeeeeee…” It trailed off and the little being ceased to move. What had mankind done?

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