| Vitruvian Mind |
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Posted on April 18th, 2008 by John Zur.
Categories: Storytelling.
Time for some more flash fiction from our man John Zur. Be warned, this one’s on the darker end of the spectrum.
The Suburban Neighborhood
The gloaming came in after daylight’s death and wandered about throughout the homes while the families slept comfortably in their beds. The children were tucked in and dreamed of captaining pirate ships through periwinkle seas of graying skies and washing ashore on the tops of watermelon mountains. They snuggled their woven blankets with tattered ends and saw personified animals in the ceiling and pixie spies under windowsills. They spoke to their imaginary friends and took hints from the carpetbaggers’ ghosts passing through.
The parents wrestled demons to the floor and put anxieties to rest in order to dream of upper-middleclass ideals not known to the innocent ones. Not a sound sung low, nor high, in Mister Moonlight’s presence. Treasure chests of pain relief and golden happy handshakes sprung from underneath the dark’s gallows with a message for all from beyond. Mirrors reversed themselves and ran out backward talk of waking without a snowball for the sun and trees made of papier-mâché. The refrigerators drank the milk while the cats ate the microwaves. And as time went forward, clocks turned upside-down and went to recess in pajamas. The parents’ bank accounts overflowed with pink silly putty as cars made of cotton replaced cars made of plastic. All were not amused when Mister Moonlight spit on all of this and ran behind Mars.
And the suburban neighborhood slept much the same and dreamed much the same. The fathers awoke the following morning and tied their shoes, tied their ties, tied their children to the banisters, and left for work. The mothers untied the girls and beat the boys with daddy’s belt (more…)
Posted on March 7th, 2008 by John Zur.
Categories: Arts & Literature, Storytelling.
Flash fiction (from Wikipedia) - is fiction characterized by its extreme brevity, as measured by its length in words. While there is no universally accepted exact word limit, generally a short story is considered to constitute flash fiction if it is less than 1,000–2,000 words long, and most flash-fiction pieces are between 250 and 1,000 words long. Here you are:
Sometime during the post-midnight hours, on a cold, Tuesday morning in January, the snow fell to the ground in a hurry reminiscent of April showers. Snow traced the worn, white paint peeling around the windows. And tiny pockets of snow were blown into the corners where the exterior brick meets the pane. And as I lay in a state not unlike an early, pre-mental rigor mortis, I faced this window and counted the number of flakes to stick to the window in the time in between breathes. I counted, and sullenly spoke to the widowed body of my now deceased soul.
Death, in its most insincere form, takes the shape of a woman. This figure enters the grim death room in such chilling demeanor that even Hell-bound souls tingle and wrap themselves for warmth.
She, Death that is, appears translucent and glides back and forth. Back and forth. Her coloring is of a grayish purple and her almond-shaped eyes reveal just enough of themselves from under a heavy, draping, black velvet hood and cloak. She bears a glow, an aura. And while this white glow is inviting, it is a beacon meant for misdirection, a torch in a dark tunnel leading to Hell. For I was warned in my nightly visions, the three nights prior to this post-death encounter, of a most seductive escort to the netherworld.
In solemn meditation, hovering over my soul, hovering near the platform of my bed, her stone-like appearance only strengthened my restrain. With folded, praying hands, she buckled her lusting, lush lips, and breathed on me, over me, down on me. The breath was hair-raising and soothing and calmed my restless essence. For even the overheated, fever-stricken corpse that lay in vain, in between sheets, was dried of perspiration. She breathed and moved softly across the hardwood floor, around the footboard, around the bed posts, facing towards the stiff corpse all the while. She continued to release an icy air from her mouth and glide back and forth. Back and forth. Moving to a silent ode of which only she knew the melody.
The bed, in all its once romantic endeavors, was thought to be an impenetrable fortress. A mahogany keeper and protectorate of two lovers. And this notion of the bed as a strong and sturdy carriage to a kingdom of welcomed dreams, was a notion soon to end by way of an unforeseen fate. For once the statuesque escort of Death figured a way to infiltrate the bed, she did, striking this sleepy victim with a reciprocal whirlwind of freezing inhalation. She was a force over me, staring at me with her almond-shaped eyes, breathing on me, blowing on me. She blew harder and gained momentum, blowing harder, as I grew weary with shivers. She concerned herself only with my body, and not with the psyche of mine that escaped the physical. She did not take one glimpse at my eyes, finding healing in looking lower.
And looking lower, she leaned in and invaded the untouchable. Over me, through me, in me. My
