Russia St Petersburg


It is surreal.  It is fantastic.  It is satirical.  It is life.  I write about it.

She stepped through.
The room was bare but for the desk at which her interviewer sat.  And his chair, of course.
Unadorned walls, concrete floor: no windows.
The door closed behind her so neatly as to be invisible.
There was no second chair.

“Ok: you know why you’re here.”

In Surreal Time

“You, lass - of all Mortals - understand my Plan. Its simplicity. Its geometry. Its,” he smiled, “inevitability. ​You can see the device I’ve set up for you. See it,” he glanced down, “and feel it.”

He leaned towards her, “Tightening its grip. With every heartbeat. You know how it makes you pay for your time, lass: how every Mortal pays for their time.”

But perhaps first she would look at the papers on the table: still there after last night.

The heavy parchments scuffed as she unrolled them.  And curled up again, as if in shame of the dreadful secret they held, as they slid out of her shocked hands to the floor.

C Spillard