Today's task is to write a surrealist prose poem...um...oKaY? "There is not a surrealist bone in my body," I thought, palm-sweating panic setting in, as outwardly bored and inwardly uncomfortable as the rest of the patients sitting in the sterile waiting room pretending to watch two local news anchors prepare salmon en croute on mute. I am generally more of a hyperchondriac, chalking symptoms up to "aging" or dismissing them as "something I'll get over naturally," but this. Not a single surrealist bone? I found myself dreading the inevitable infusion of Kafkanian beetlejuice the condition would necessitate, or the possible persistent memory transplant. A shudder rippled its way through my body at the thought of the trepanning drill piercing my skull. I swear I saw it take root in the poor soul four seats down when I rose at the sound of my name to timidly follow the wearied nurse with the old wooden clipboard.
"Your full body x-ray came back," the doctor said by way of greeting as she entered the room, not bothering to look at me, but heading straight for that light frame thing where one reads an x-ray. "And?" I asked, not being qualified to read an x-ray myself. "And I can see why your were concerned," she said, a boulder spontaneously forming in my stomach. "However," here she paused for dramatic effect, but for whose benefit, I know not, "you have a surrealist stirrup." The boulder converted itself into a clew of worms that wriggled their way down hoping to escape out from under my kneecaps. At my lack of verbal response she continued, "one tiny bone. In your left ear, but it's enough."
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AuthorHi, my name is Ember. Yes, like the glowing bits at the bottom of the fire. Archives
April 2024
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