Float On
At the party, the Argentinian expands his hands. He has deep thoughts about peas. The guests bend over the table, split their sides. Elias is not sure why everyone is laughing, since he speaks little Spanish. The host understands everything and springs from his chair. He disappears into the kitchen. He returns with something in his hands. Sprinkles them into their Japanese gin and tonics. The peas are floating. I am finally free, thinks Elias, unbuckling his sandals. He floats down to the sea beside the palm trees. The sea expands blue on blue into an endless horizon. The waves crash inside him. Back home, he vomits a third of a bird on his pillow.
Dream Shoes
She had a bun in the oven. The wind howled through the shotgun wedding. She switched to Virginia Slims and a new diet. They shovelled with the golden shovel in their dreams shoes, cleaning toilets at the paint factory, then the banks. One night, the bank manager changed the alarm code and a rookie cop spun his sirens and drew a shaky gun. We’re the cleaners, they said, but it was hard to prove it, frisking and spreading, bent over the hunk of metal, they stayed frozen.
Facetime
It is the first day of Fall Semester. Another year in the making. We were all on alert. Lanz had left the class and his brother had replaced him. My brother is worse than me, said Lanz. Indeed his brother had the same expression on his face. That kind of face is hard to forget. There is a lot of scheming behind it. How to skim the surface without going any further. You have to find the spark inside everybody. You have to reanimate the human inside the robot. Every morning you have to time the cleaning trucks. You don’t want to head for your dog walk too early. The dog will find the heaving rubbish and maybe swallow something. The display boards: wrinkle free. Still need singing bowls or maybe mini cymbals. No bell. The bell is too factory. A gong is too big. I am not the gong show. The brother of Lanz shines his face. It is like a polished apple. But you can see through it. The ghosts of students float the hallways. One face rings another face. It rings and rings
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Marcus Silcock (Portadown, N. Ireland) teaches high school in Barcelona and co-edits surreal-absurd for Mercurius magazine. Recent stories have appeared in Maudlin House, Bending Genres, Flash Frontier, Broken Antler, and Your Impossible Voice. His book of microfictions and prose poems, Dream Dust, is available from Broken Sleep Books. Find out more: www.nevermindthebeasts.com.
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No. 88
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Image: Pisum sativum Горох лущильний – зелений горошок.jpg
Photo Garden pea
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