fudgetusk
09-11-2025, 05:54 AM
There's not enough surreal/metaphorical fiction in the world. Let's remedy that, shall we?
Dark Channel Of Huge
She walks the city at dawn as the sun is being reborn into the blue field of the sky. Men in black coats and hats, their pale faces covered with grey scarves, stalk the alleys with knives in their hands. They run when they see her. They whisper behind walls. They clap their hands behind tall corrugated metal fences. They crawl up piles of scrap iron and take photos of her.
She knows what they are. They are the spirits of aborted babies. They are the souls of abandoned children who drowned. They are the ghosts of orphans who killed themselves rather than being adopted.
And she knew how to help them. They needed to visit the sweetshop in the snow. She herself had visited the sweetshop in the snow. She had found it one day while walking in the woods on Christmas day. The shop had glowed in the snowy gloom. There was silent music coming from it that brought her closer. She had been afraid at first, but when she had pressed her face to the window and looked at the trays of colourful sweets all that fear became bliss.
She had been a troubled spirit before she had found the sweetshop in the snow. She had painted pictures of dead animals that were coming to life. She had written stories about bones and meat. She had eaten the herbs that grew in the wasteland. She had dived into black water and tasted the mud. She had fallen in love with decaying buildings and slept in them for weeks on end. She had been lost. She had been poisoned by the stinging kiss of night. She had prayed to a God that was just as fallen as her. She had worn black dresses that she bought from dusty shops on the edge of the city. She had stroked the grey worms that grew in her dead garden. She had dreamt of pale machines that became monstrous severed heads.
But the sweetshop in the snow had helped her. She had not been allowed into the shop because that was not possible just now, but she had seen it and seen what it contained. She had stared at the dark rainbow sweet wrappings, at the glinting lights of their mystery. And as she stared, as if tasting the sweets with her eyes, the shining wrappings had transformed. They became Gods. That is how she saw it, anyway. They were the high spirits from another world. And she remembered them. She remembered that she had been one of them once. A long time ago. And the grief had hit her hard. The grief of loss. And how loving was that pain. She had buckled with the passionate pain and let out a wail of grief and loss. And then the sweetshop in the snow had vanished. But it was a kind vanishing. For she was meant to follow.
It took her years to figure out that fact. Meanwhile she had found glimpses of the sweetshop in her daily mundane life. She heard it in music. She saw it in art. She saw it in rain puddles marred by iridescent oil. She bought colourful dresses and saw the sweetshop in the mirror. She saw the sweetshop when the sun rose. The sky was the doorway to the sweetshop. The entire world was the map to the location of the shop. She knew this much to be true. She just needed to understand how the world could be reconfigured so that more of the sweetshop was visible.
She had exchanged loss for longing. She still felt the grief that the sweetshop had triggered in her being, but she was glad of it because that pain was the only pathway back to the sweetshop. And all those men in hats and coats carrying knives needed that pain too.
They needed one form of grief to be transformed into a truer form of grief. Then they would no longer run from her. Then they would no longer carry knives. They would instead paint pictures of rainbows and write stories of colour.
And as she did they would walk in the woods every Christmas day.
Dark Channel Of Huge
She walks the city at dawn as the sun is being reborn into the blue field of the sky. Men in black coats and hats, their pale faces covered with grey scarves, stalk the alleys with knives in their hands. They run when they see her. They whisper behind walls. They clap their hands behind tall corrugated metal fences. They crawl up piles of scrap iron and take photos of her.
She knows what they are. They are the spirits of aborted babies. They are the souls of abandoned children who drowned. They are the ghosts of orphans who killed themselves rather than being adopted.
And she knew how to help them. They needed to visit the sweetshop in the snow. She herself had visited the sweetshop in the snow. She had found it one day while walking in the woods on Christmas day. The shop had glowed in the snowy gloom. There was silent music coming from it that brought her closer. She had been afraid at first, but when she had pressed her face to the window and looked at the trays of colourful sweets all that fear became bliss.
She had been a troubled spirit before she had found the sweetshop in the snow. She had painted pictures of dead animals that were coming to life. She had written stories about bones and meat. She had eaten the herbs that grew in the wasteland. She had dived into black water and tasted the mud. She had fallen in love with decaying buildings and slept in them for weeks on end. She had been lost. She had been poisoned by the stinging kiss of night. She had prayed to a God that was just as fallen as her. She had worn black dresses that she bought from dusty shops on the edge of the city. She had stroked the grey worms that grew in her dead garden. She had dreamt of pale machines that became monstrous severed heads.
But the sweetshop in the snow had helped her. She had not been allowed into the shop because that was not possible just now, but she had seen it and seen what it contained. She had stared at the dark rainbow sweet wrappings, at the glinting lights of their mystery. And as she stared, as if tasting the sweets with her eyes, the shining wrappings had transformed. They became Gods. That is how she saw it, anyway. They were the high spirits from another world. And she remembered them. She remembered that she had been one of them once. A long time ago. And the grief had hit her hard. The grief of loss. And how loving was that pain. She had buckled with the passionate pain and let out a wail of grief and loss. And then the sweetshop in the snow had vanished. But it was a kind vanishing. For she was meant to follow.
It took her years to figure out that fact. Meanwhile she had found glimpses of the sweetshop in her daily mundane life. She heard it in music. She saw it in art. She saw it in rain puddles marred by iridescent oil. She bought colourful dresses and saw the sweetshop in the mirror. She saw the sweetshop when the sun rose. The sky was the doorway to the sweetshop. The entire world was the map to the location of the shop. She knew this much to be true. She just needed to understand how the world could be reconfigured so that more of the sweetshop was visible.
She had exchanged loss for longing. She still felt the grief that the sweetshop had triggered in her being, but she was glad of it because that pain was the only pathway back to the sweetshop. And all those men in hats and coats carrying knives needed that pain too.
They needed one form of grief to be transformed into a truer form of grief. Then they would no longer run from her. Then they would no longer carry knives. They would instead paint pictures of rainbows and write stories of colour.
And as she did they would walk in the woods every Christmas day.