Flash fiction

The room was silent apart from the tinkle of metal on plastic as the butcher's knives were laid to rest then picked up again as incision after incision was made in the greying flesh in front of him. The air was pungent with the scent of blood but neither man wore a mask. On the contrary, they inhaled deeply, gently perspiring as the blade of a chosen implement proved too flimsy to make an impression on the resistant bone. The younger man watched the master work his way up the right side, down the left, sawing, slicing, severing, tidying. Finally the task was nearly done and the butcher stood, blade poised over the centre of the torso.

“And what will you do with her heart?” the apprentice asked.

“Why, I'll have it for pudding,” the butcher replied.