Eight Fragments
1.
We begin with fog, the color of sleep, curling against an empty parking lot. A tire swing spins on a fierce wind. Somewhere, a dog barks and the bark splits into two—one for this world, one for the world below. The sun is a cracked yolk leaking into gutters. In the distance: a child rides a bicycle through the frame, never to return.
2.
A woman folds origami out of broken glass. A crow pecks Morse code into a loaf of bread. There’s a television in every room playing only static, except at midnight, when the static hums the national anthem backwards. The floorboards moan with the weight of invisible guests. Someone leaves their shoes at the threshold and steps into the acid rain.
3.
Neon tugs at the hem of the night. Buildings lean against each other like a bunch of busybodies. Everyone wears a mask with the outline of their own chin painted on it, slightly crooked. You stand beneath a lamplight, your pockets full of matchsticks. A train pulls away, leaving behind a suitcase packed with noises, receipts, and last year's snow.
4.
A fox walks into a cathedral. Its fur is tangled with wristwatches and string. The congregation stands and sings a hymn in a weird animal language. In the rafters: hundreds of moths, still as rosary beads. The fox bows, then the priest bows even lower, and finally everyone bows so low they fall through the floor and land in a garden made entirely of mirrors.
5.
A summer scene, one that is more fire than fever. The sky quivers with dragonflies. Children turn cartwheels, leaving fingerprints on the clouds. A carousel spins with no one riding, just saddles and ghosts. There is a house at the edge of the field where windows bloom instead of flowers. The night is close and holds your name under its tongue.
6.
Suddenly: a stairwell, echoing with footsteps not your own. Wallpaper peels like regret. A grandfather clock ticks so loud the walls lose their balance. You open a door onto a hallway of doors, each labeled with an impossible memory. You pick one, step inside, and find yourself knee-deep in autumn leaves. The wind spells out apologies you can almost read.
7.
Two hands reach from the water, offering nothing. The river carries silver fish and lost keys. There’s a bridge made of bones and frail, hanging skin. Above, a paper airplane floats endlessly, refusing to fall. Lovers hide beneath it, whispering, trading hearts for umbrellas. You count the ripples until you forget what numbers mean. You decide not to swim.
8.
We're meant to look through a screen of rain. Shadows lean against fences, waiting for instructions. You draw a door on the fogged window and step through. On the other side: a room filled with suitcases, none of them yours. You sit on the floor and build a city out of lint and wishbones. A bell rings, far away. You stand, walk out of the frame, and dissolve into the night.
Author Bio
Sarp Sozdinler has been published in Electric Literature, Kenyon Review, Masters Review, Flash Frog, Vestal Review, Fractured Lit, JMWW, and Trampset, among other journals. Their stories have been selected or nominated for several anthologies, including the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and Wigleaf Top 50. They are currently at work on their first novel in Philadelphia and Amsterdam.