Tag: surrealism

“Requiem for Piano”

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Flash fiction by Nancy Stohlman

She’d been slipping away from him slowly, as the things that hurt most do. He woke one morning and nuzzled his arm into the swooping curve of her waist only to find it cold, with a hardened glossy varnish that could only mean to keep him out. He tried to fit his body into the new curve but it was stiff and unforgiving.

Her long ballerina arms and legs were next. They, too, hardened and reached for the floor, anchoring her growing weight until she became too heavy to move. Her ribs cracked open and widened into a wooden soundboard, the strands of her long curly hair stiffened and elongated until he could no longer run his fingers through them. Pulled taut, they vibrated and wept if touched, crying the last of the unshed tears that now landed like dampened hammers on strings.

It was happening but he couldn’t stop it, could only awaken each morning to what remained of his beloved and take frightened inventory: her toes reduced to golden pedals, her polished satin black skin, her long spine a lacquered lid that reflected his bewilderment.

Her face went last. On that final morning her smile stretched into 88 white ivories, feathered with the sharps and flats of dark lashes. In the soft morning light he played a requiem on her still-warm keys, propping the lid to listen to her heart.

Originally published in Literary Orphans. Read original here.

“My Boyfriend Lives In The Tree In Front of My House”

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Flash fiction by Nancy Stohlman
And sometimes I bring him Cheetos or popsicles or trashy gossip mags and sometimes I crawl up there on the lower branches and we let our legs dangle, have a treebranch cocktail, make fun of the guy walking two Chihuahuas or the Vietnam vet on the corner with his platoon of American flags, and then I go back home, which is just a few steps away. We see each other on Friday evenings and every other Sunday, because life is complicated after all.

It started before he was my boyfriend, when he hid in the tree to “see the look on my face” when I opened the birthday present he’d left on my front porch. It was an admittedly lovely tree, and moving into the tree seemed the next logical step. Some nights he sleeps with me in my bed, and some nights we retire to our own spaces, me to my room and him to his branch, and apart we both masturbate to the thought of how mature we are. We’ve talked about building something more permanent, even a few 2 x 4s for him to properly sit on, but haven’t, yet. On the nights we’re Not Supposed To See Each Other, he’ll sometimes text me anyway and I’ll run out with smuggled tacos from dinner and we’ll meet on the grass and eat by the light of the antique-inspired lampposts that automatically turn on at 6 pm each night.

Most of the time I commend myself on how great we are about everything, taking space, not rushing in too fast—because lord knows we’ve both had our share, and we agree that love should be approached like a cobra. I congratulate us for staying calm and level headed and maintaining all those emotions we don’t how to control. This is better. It’s better like this.

But there is one thing that my boyfriend in a tree doesn’t know. Sometimes when I’m supposed to be in bed, I stand at the darkened front window and watch the tiny light from his keychain moving behind all the foliage, and in those quiet moments I secretly wish that he would just climb down and come inside.

Originally published in Metazen--read original here.

The Homunculus

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The Homunculus

 originally published in Revolver. Read original here.

After all my other birthday presents had been opened, he had one last gift for me. It was a tiny box that he held out with such a grin that I became nervous. What is it? I asked. Just open it, he says. Inside was a tiny man, about 6 inches high. He was dressed in tiny polo jeans and a tiny madras shirt with pullover sweater, and he looked very much like a tiny version of my boyfriend.

It’s a homunculus, he says. Since I have to be out of town so much for work, and I know how much you hate being alone, this will be the perfect solution! It’ll be like we’re together all the time.

But how will I take care of him?

He’s a grown man, he can take care of himself.

It was a bit awkward at first, but my boyfriend reassured me it would be fine. So I put him in the inside pocket of my purse, where I keep special things like my mirror and my flash drive. He never complained, even when I once saw him all twisted under some lipsticks and dirty from the random filth that collects at the bottom of purses.

I felt bad, so I started taking him out more often, setting him on the table at meals. He got brave enough to sit at the edge of my plate and eat with me; I didn’t have tiny utensils, so he used his hands. He was always clean, even though he wore the same clothes, all the time. When I finally asked him about it, he just said, I’m a homunculus.

We were really hitting it off, which shouldn’t be surprising. He was just like my boyfriend—except tinier. And more available. We liked all the same things, of course. I let him ride in my breast pocket on my weekend bike rides. I started taking him out of the purse when watching a movie, sitting in front of the fireplace, and eventually I let him sleep on the pillow next to me. That first night I was terrified I would roll over and crush him, but he was fine in the morning and I started to relax, and then on one of those mornings I let him go beneath my panties when we were lying there, and things happened.

That’s when I started to feel guilty—what was my boyfriend going to think? But he’s the one that said it would be like we were together all the time. The more time that passed, the more I rationalized it to myself: this was ultimately going to be good for us, me being less needy, and all. But I didn’t want to admit the truth—I was falling for the little guy.

The first night my boyfriend got back into town was strange. It felt weird to sleep next to a full sized person again, and I lay awake for the longest night of my life, feeling worried about the homunculus, who was back in my purse.

The next morning after my boyfriend had left, the homunculus climbed out of my purse and found me on the pillows. Let’s run away, I suggested. I couldn’t stand the thought of not being with him. Suddenly the whole world was full of possibility again. Then I heard my boyfriend coming up the stairs. I left my tofu by the bed, he said. He stood in the doorway as I tried to hide the homunculus. But he must have seen it in my eyes, because he yanked the pillow away and there was the homunculus, trying to disappear between the folds of the comforter. His face contorted.

You backstabber! he yelled, snatching him and running down the stairs. I followed, screaming—don’t hurt him! For god’s sake you’re crushing him!

My boyfriend ran out the front door and across the street and all the way to the top of Jackass Hill, where he wound up his arm and threw my homunculus as far as he could. I saw his tiny dot fly through the air until he disappeared into the blue sky.