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June 23, 2015 Fiction

2 Fictions

Ryan Bender-Murphy

2 Fictions photo

After the Bombing

Santa did not know how to react to the sight; he only stared. At the granite block, there were three rows filled with ten men, each of whom was Santa. The only thing that really differentiated them was the variation of facial hair, with the goatee Santa looking the worst. All of them hummed. Finally, Santa asked, "Who are you?" All of the Santas shifted their heads to him, debris gliding from the granite, and said, "Who are you?" "I'm Santa," said Santa. Then the Santas replied in a single chant, "I'm Santa." "How do I get out of here?" asked Santa. "Why do you need to get out of here?" asked the Santas. “I need to go to work,” said Santa. He looked around in the visible darkness. “I need…” The Santas hummed, a meditative gesture, and a gust blew across Santa's face. The warm air felt inspiring, so Santa continued, "I can't just live in a cave forever, right?" The Santas replied, "What do you want?" "Well, I wanted an empire, but now I am not so sure," said Santa. The granite made a churning sound, stretching its exterior just a bit, as though Santa's words activated a switch. This must be the way out, thought Santa, and he felt his way to the opening. The coldness of the stone shocked him at first, but soon he found the opening, after pressing his hands into several faces of the Santas. Once Santa was inside, the granite closed around him, leaving his face above the surface. He felt a rhythm in his head that probably was always there and began to hum in a chorus with the others. 

 

 

Supply and Demand

George had never seen a soda dispenser empty, but the thought had barely manifested when his hairy paw reached into the screen and pulled out the gray circle that read Diet Coke. It squirmed in his fist, angling to glide back into the screen, but George’s iron grip obstinately squeezed. The gray circle, however, did not suffocate, and instead puffed out, extending its diameter nearly twenty feet, floating next to George as it sucked in all the air around him. Plates and chairs rattled out of place. Soy sauce bottles shattered. George stood his ground. Then a table—the very one he often shared with his wife—knocked him into the gray circle.

 

image: Aaron Burch


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