Tag: Surreal

Worms by Logan Markko

It’s Saturday night, but Mac doesn’t have any plans. He pours himself a glass of whiskey and settles into his recliner to watch the Adam Sandler movie marathon playing on cable TV. There’s a warmth to Sandler’s performances and Mac laughs for a few hours, making it through Billy Madison, Happy Gilmore, and some of Big Daddy, before passing out during the scene when Sandler teaches his roommate’s son how to urinate in public.

Ellie left him almost a month ago. His family and friends back in Pittsburgh warned him that moving to Denver with a woman he’d only known for a year was foolish, but Mac was in love and ready to start the next chapter of his life. He knows now that she never loved him the way he loved her, yet he can’t keep his subconscious from stirring up memories of Ellie as he sleeps, ruining even his dreams.

Bottled Up by Yolanda DeLoach

“I can’t take this heat anymore,” I said, pushing back strands of hair that blew free from my headband. The open car windows did little to bring relief from Louisiana’s thick, oppressing air. “Might as well be holding a hair dryer up against my face,” I added for dramatic effect.

“For someone who grew up here, you sure complain a lot about the heat,” Daniel said. He poked me in the thigh.

“Well, we had this thing called air conditioning and it actually worked,” I said, returning a double jab to his thigh.

When Henry Ford Hired The Invisible Man By Maureen Mancini Amaturo

I am invisible. As yet, I have not been able to reverse that. I need money to continue my optics research to discover the remedy, and my resources will not last to fund equipment, chemicals, a place to conduct my experiments. This apartment serves me for the moment, but I will not be able to afford it much longer. A classified I saw in the morning paper seemed a timely opportunity.  

“Ford, here.”

I could tell by his voice he was a man of little patience. I got right to the point. “Griffin calling. Your classified for an opening on the assembly line, the night shift, has it been filled?”

The Taxidermist by Alison L Fraser

It was not abnormal for taxidermy to be around the apartment, but it had been a long time since Ruth had last seen it. Not since her mom died, she thought, and she brought a few to a consignment shop, the type of shop that loved to decorate itself like a hunting lodge. But there the bird sat on the askew toilet lid, statuesque. The kestrel’s body was firm, heavier than it could have been when it was alive. Ruth gently lifted the taxidermy creature off the toilet, its beak unaligned appeared to be mid-joke.

Counting Smiles by Tim Frank

A fleeting smile, whether from an arthritic octogenarian stumbling off a bus, or from a neighbour glancing at you over a picket fence as you dig for weeds, can really raise your spirits.

They’re not always easy to come by, however, and there was a time when I was perpetually surrounded by weary faces and paranoid scowls. I worked as a bin man alongside monosyllabic migrants, living in a squat full of stoners ensconced in their own gloomy dream worlds. I felt close to ending it all.

The Roll Out by Gemma Elliott

In the past I had occasionally considered what kind of tail I might have had, if we hadn’t evolved them out. Something grand, like a proud and bushy fox tail. Or the soft insistent thump of a golden retriever. It would match my personality anyway: hopeless romantic, outgoing and friendly, a good listener. All the traits I’d listed for online dating.

My girlfriend had asked once, when we were lying in bed, would you still love me if I had a little piggy tail? And I’d said, of course darling, I would ping your tiny curl and watch it spring back with glee.

The Princess of Asmodee by Geoffrey Marshall

Cruisin’ down the road in her car — a pale blue slug slaloming along the blacktop sine wave. We head towards the gigantic red sun that swallows half the sky. Her hands are on the wheel, the polychromatic luster of her enameled nails keeps catching my eye. The windows are rolled down and her chin-length caramel hair is wild in the cool wind.

She has on an oversized off-the-shoulder cable knit sweater —her deeply tanned shoulders contrast against the ivory fabric. A huge pair of Gucci tortoise shell sunglasses with gradient tinted lenses obscure her eyes. She smiles and sings along with the radio to a song that doesn’t matter, except in this moment.

All I smell is ocean.