Surreal Force #435.3 – ‘The Escape of the Goblins’

Swatting at Flies is proud to present another in a continuing series of Surreal works.  If you are not familiar with the concepts of surrealism, as an art form, we encourage you to look it up.

Meanwhile, we bring you into the action, already in progress…

              Collapsible gadgets eradiate the frequency of cranes amidst the marbled ruins.  He jumped the ship and the ship jumped him.  Neither felt they had been adequately satisfied in any sense of the word.  Barbarians hoarded diamond-studded helium frozen towards umbilical violence.  This came as no surprise to the excitable rockets or a small dog running through pages in a children’s primer.

            “It all happened so fast and it was so… icky,” said Allison.  “I hardly could bear my wits to witness the witless whips.”

            “This is totally understandable in this age of biodegradable cliché,” he responded, looking out over the severed limbs of so many mannequins that never made it to wear the latest fashion line.  Heartless.  Harvest-less.  Harbor-less.  Hapless…  All of them bore down on a chewing gum faceplate which girdered voluminous waste-baskets full of tales of yore.

            “I have no real feelings about that… anywhere in my bod-…,” she tried to say.  “Ageless diobolics graded the sitting invalids,” said he, interrupting and feeling an itchy trigger finger, though harmless and not the kind that would even kill a fly.  It was simply itchy in a literal way that makes one want to scratch.

            “Don’t shoot!” the man shouted.  But it was too late.  The flash bulbs pounded his retina with the force of a thousand sunlights.  He would see spots for days.  Spots.  Days.  Spots.  Spots.  Days. Days. Spots.  Flashing in their ghostly globular brilliance, blinding.

            “But his hands were tied, I tell you,” she was trying to explain. 

Apologetics, though, are never much appreciated after the disaster.  Too much concentration on who shot John. 

            “Even if I mark that Chapstick, my lips get smeared and all weathered regardless,” he had responded, turning his back and nudging her only slightly, which is all it took.

            “Oh no!” she again shouted.  Only this time she knew – as she was falling down the well slowly, in a cartoon-like, slow-motion way as if gravity had forgotten itself for a moment or perhaps went on a short holiday – she was effectively voiceless or at least no one could hear her shouting, except perhaps the Parched Hairs who were waiting for her at the bottom, floating on top of some old balloons.  These were the same that had fallen off her headless horseman when she and he had been dating so very long ago.  Or perhaps they had been wagging (or even wagering) of his horse’s tail, though now she had no way of remembering.

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