Flash Fiction | Surreal
Reality’s Lament
Navigating the absurdity of existence
The clock strikes eleven, and I find myself wandering the labyrinthine aisles of the late-night convenience store. Each step echoes the solitary hum of the fluorescent lights above, casting eerie shadows that dance like phantoms. The air hums with an existential humdrum that sticks to my skin, an oily residue of purposelessness. This place is both a sanctuary and a trap, a surreal theater where I am the only actor, yet I am an audience to my bewildering script.
I see her — a wraith-like figure clad in a tattered overcoat that looks like it could swallow her whole. She stares blankly at a wall of cereal boxes as if deciphering some ancient script hidden in the Frosted Flakes. Her name, I later learn, is Mira, though it matters little in the disjointed continuum we inhabit. There is something ethereal about her as if she’s woven from the same fabric as the fog that shrouds the city at this ungodly hour.
I approach her, compelled by an invisible string that tugs at my core. “Can’t decide between Cheerios and Fruit Loops?” I just, my voice cracking the sterile silence. She turns, and her eyes — a shade of green so intense they seem almost bioluminescent — lock onto mine. A deep chasm threatens to swallow me whole, and I realize I am not the only one adrift in this ocean of surreal banality.
“Ever feel like you’re living a dream you can’t wake up from?” Her voice is a whisper, a ghostly breath barely stirring the air between us. It’s a question that strikes a chord, resonating in the hollow chamber of my chest where my heart used to beat with purpose.
“Every damn day,” I reply, and we both laugh, though it’s a sound devoid of humor, more like the clinking of glass shards on a tile floor.
We wander together, two lost souls navigating the absurdity of existence. Our conversation drifts like a paper boat on a stormy sea, touching on everything and nothing. She tells me about her job as a night-shift janitor at an office building, a place as empty and soulless as this store. I tell her about my failed attempts at becoming a writer, how every story I pen feels like a fragment of a more giant, incomprehensible puzzle.
Then it happens — the twist in our monochrome narrative. An announcement crackles over the PA system, distorted and menacing: “Attention, customers. The store will be closing in five minutes. Please make your final selections and proceed to the checkout.”
Five minutes. The words hang in the air, heavy with impending finality. The fluorescent lights flicker, casting long, sinister shadows. Panic seizes us, an irrational but palpable fear that we might be trapped here forever, lost in this surreal purgatory. We scramble to the exit, our movements frantic and disjointed, as if we’re marionettes in the hands of a sadistic puppeteer.
The door refuses to budge. A wave of claustrophobic terror washes over us. We’re trapped, entangled in a dreamscape that has become a nightmare. I pound on the glass, my fists a futile protest against the cold, unyielding barrier.
“There has to be another way out,” Mira says, her voice tinging with desperate hope that mirrors my own.
We weave through the aisles, searching for an escape, but every turn leads us back to the same spot as if the store conspired to keep us here. And then, in a moment of bleak clarity, I realize there is no escape. This is our reality now, a perpetual loop of existential dread.
As the final minutes tick away, we collapse against a shelf, our breaths ragged and shallow. Mira’s face looks almost translucent in the dim, flickering light, her features blurring at the edges. She takes my hand, her grip surprisingly strong.
“If this is a dream,” she whispers, “then we have to wake up.”
“But how?” I ask, my voice barely audible.
She closes her eyes, and I follow suit, willing myself to break free from the chains of this surreal torment. The store fades, the hum of the lights receding into nothingness, replaced by an eerie silence. For a moment, there is only darkness, a void that stretches into infinity.
When I open my eyes, I am standing outside, the fantastic night air a balm to my frayed nerves. The store is replaced by an empty lot, overgrown with weeds and bathed in the moon’s soft glow. Mira is beside me, her face serene, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips.
“We did it,” she says, and her voice is a melody, a lullaby that soothes the lingering ache of fear.
I look at her, and for the first time, I see her clearly — no longer a phantom but a kindred spirit, a fellow wanderer in the labyrinth of life. We walk away from the lot, our steps in sync, a silent promise that we will face whatever surreal twists our reality has in store.
And as the first light of dawn breaks over the horizon, I know I am no longer alone in this dream. For even in the most surreal of realities, there is hope; in that hope, we find our salvation.
Ani Eldritch 2024
This was the first story I had boosted on Medium. You never forget your first.
