Surrealismo Stories

In the quiet, federally-approved suburb of "The Gardens," Eli Peterson's life is a masterclass in predictability. He wears the same khaki uniform, drinks the same instant coffee, and pressure-washes his driveway with a devotion that borders on the religious. In a world of gray-beige houses and identical mailboxes, Eli is safe. Eli is normal. But Jennifer, the woman at 416 Evergreen Lane, is an anomaly. Jennifer is a cartographer of places that don't exist. Armed with a brass theodolite and shimmering parchment, she maps the "Subliminal Sea" and the "City of Forgotten Names" right across Eli's manicured lawn. When the boundary between Eli's mundane reality and Jennifer's impossible territories begins to "glitch," Eli is forced to confront a devastating truth: his perfect life might just be a gilded cage, and the woman he's drawn to might be the very system designed to keep him inside. In a reality where every sunset is programmed and every lawn is a lie, can you ever truly find the edge of the map?

In the dreamscape, death has a bone-chilling permanence and reality's rules bend and twist in a realm of breathtaking magnificence and gut-wrenching uncertainty. Kiyoshi-Kiyo-sees this otherworldly world as more than just a dream; it's a second life, a place where he lives and breathes, only to awaken each morning with his memory erased, the events of the night lost to the void. Kiyo must discover the secrets of the dreamscape before it consumes him completely and makes the escape permanent as the line separating his dreams and reality blurs.

A corridor that eats. A boy who cries for others. A girl made of clocks. Two teenagers wake in a living hallway that feeds on their pain. One feels everything. One feels nothing. Both are breaking. Stitched eyes. Ticking skin. Walls that breathe. Memories that leak. They've met 100,000 times before. They don't remember. They'll meet 100,000 times again. They won't forget. This is not a love story. This is a digestion.

In the shadowy halls of Serenity Psychiatric Hospital, where the sterile smell of antiseptic mingles with the whispers of troubled souls, Emily's reality blurs with the unimaginable. Diagnosed with schizophrenia, she struggles against a relentless tide of darkness that threatens to engulf her. Every night, as the clock strikes two, she is abducted by mysterious beings, drawn into a realm where her deepest fears come alive. Sharing her room is Becca, a mute girl whose silence speaks volumes. She watches helplessly as Emily is pulled from her bed, witnessing the terrifying truth that no one else believes. Trapped in a world where the line between madness and reality is razor-thin, Emily fights to prove her sanity while grappling with the weight of her terrifying experiences. Dr. Langston, the stern psychiatrist, insists that Emily's nightmares are merely symptoms of her illness, prescribing medications to dull her senses and stifle her pleas for help. But as the nightly abductions escalate, Emily's fight for truth becomes a desperate race against time. In a gripping narrative that explores the intersections of mental health and the supernatural, "Abducted in Silence" plunges readers into a harrowing journey through Emily's mind. Can she escape the suffocating confines of her diagnosis, or will she succumb to the very darkness that haunts her? As the stakes rise and the boundaries of reality fray, this chilling tale invites readers to question what is real and what lies beyond-if Emily can survive the night, that is.

A man on a bus to a monastery drifts inward and finds himself trapped in a recursive confrontation with meaning, identity, God, and his own mind. What begins as philosophical inquiry collapses into surreal encounters, looping revelations, and terrifying intimacy with a reality that speaks back. Told through an unreliable yet fiercely lucid narrator, this short story explores trauma, self-blame, surrender, and the hunger for coherence in a universe that may be infinite, indifferent, or deeply personal-or all three at once. God appears as voice, stranger, tormentor, teacher, and joke. Logic becomes emotional. Salvation becomes ambiguous. This is not a story about answers. It is a story about what happens when a human mind refuses to stop asking, even when the cost is everything-and what it means to finally recognize oneself as real.

A collection of poems I wrote so that it would leave me alone. Some of these should have stayed in my head Read if you're not afraid to feel something.

Richard Griffin was born in 1857 on New York to a family of English extraction. When he was a child, they moved to a cranberry bog in New Jersey. At the age of sixteen he started work as a clerk in New York City. In his spare time he was involved in amateur theatrical productions, subsequently becoming a professional actor and touring extensively throughout the United States and abroad. He served in the Spanish-American war of 1895. According to his own account, he also served in World War I as an intelligence officer, and arrested a German spy after a punch-up. Before and after this service, he lived in Greenwich Village and other parts of Manhattan, and wrote poetry which he self-published. From internal evidence it seems likely that at some stage he spent time in a mental institution. His date of death is unknown but was subsequent to 1931, the date of his last book. His works have a certain quirky charm which reminds one somewhat of the Dada and Surrealist poetry, and show maybe even closer connections to the movies of the Marx Brothers, W. C. Fields, and the Ring Lardner of nonsense plays like The Tridget of Greva. They have a style and charm of their own which has given him a certain cult following. An acquired taste, maybe -- but one well worth acquiring. The Camel's Last Gasp was his last book; consisting of the title story which is a surrealist novella, and some shorter prose pieces and poems.

Some frequencies are meant to remain dead air. It is October 1998, and Arlo Banks is suffocating in a purgatory of yellowed plastic, stale marijuana smoke, and the claustrophobic sub-basements of Channel 8. As a night-shift archival assistant and a functional burnout, Arlo escapes his mundane reality by abusing heavy strains of marijuana and diving deep into early internet lore and urban legends. When his passive-aggressive manager writes him up for unauthorized napping, Arlo retaliates by raiding a condemned sub-basement and stealing a sealed box of VHS tapes. He hopes to unearth a profitable piece of lost media to boost his reputation on the message boards. Instead, he brings home a biological puppet. The tapes contain The Happy Hollows, a rumored "Holy Grail" of lost media. But the broadcast does not stay on the screen. The footage begins to mimic Arlo's reality on a delay-a delay that is rapidly shortening. Arlo initially relies on the "Stoner Defense," rationalizing the bizarre events as weed-induced paranoia, hallucinations, or an elaborate prank. But the physical world begins to rot. His environment mutates into a tactile nightmare of "Damp Plush". Glass softens into gelatin , blood thickens into strawberry preserves , and human flesh takes on the texture of distressed velvet. Hunted through infinitely stretching hallways by a towering mascot named Uncle Corduroy and a swarm of Clay-Kin, Arlo must navigate the collapsing boundary between reality and the broadcast. He has to sever the signal before the frequency overtakes him entirely, transforming his own anatomy into polyester stuffing and rusted wire.

My first story! Hope this doesn't flop ^^' Desc: As you wander through the forest, lost in thought, day eventually turns to dusk. As you come back from thinking, you realize that you're in the middle of nowhere. The Broken Lands is a story following you, the reader, as you wander through a backrooms-style world in an attempt to get home. I'M TYPICALLY GOING TO USE THEY/THEM FOR THE READER, BUT SOMETIMES I WILL STRAY AND USE MORE FEMININE TERMS. I APOLOGIZE TO THE MEN READING. This is a horror/fantasy style story, with very little romance. So I apologize if you want romance. :^ I APOLOGIZE IF THERE ARE ANY MISPELLED WORDS/BAD GRAMMAR. MAH BRAIN IS BARELY RUNNING HALF THE TIME (PG 13+)

When Zia's ordinary day takes an unexpected turn, she finds herself on a surreal ride with a mysterious stranger named Zack. As they speed through the streets, the world around her blurs, and she feels an inexplicable sense of peace. But when the ride ends, Zia's reality begins to unravel. Was Zack just a dream, or is there something more to their encounter? As Zia tries to make sense of what happened, she discovers a haunting clue that makes her question everything. Dive into this dreamlike tale of mystery, romance, and self-discovery, where the lines between reality and fantasy are blurred.

So this is a compilation of poems written by me, Victoria Spencer. I'm not a particularly boring or selfish person I just don't know how to write summaries. Have fun reading, you shameless beings~

A really short novel by Jaume Muñoz DRAMATIS PERSONAE The room He His umbrella His piece of charcoal Nobody else

Just a surrealist angst that I tried to write.

Written from the perspective of a young woman of this generation. Assorted poems that explore the mind of someone with several conflicting thoughts and feelings.

[Read the full story at novelconbini.com!] Singapore, 21st Century. Clyde breaks up with his clingy girlfriend by kissing a random girl sitting under the rowan tree at the school's back gate to infuriate her. What he doesn't know, is that this girl is even more annoying than the previous one. His straightforward JC life is overturned and everything goes wrong-like he's crossed over to another world or something. After all, rowan trees don't grow in Singapore.

Stay alive and always look out for changes as the life events unfold! Change has to be a thing for everyone because adapt to it, we must. I constantly seek for a new presentations which results me in a leaping and changing style (not desired in the art business nowadays). Even Here! This started off as a collection of my visual art and poetry, containing my explanations and descriptions. Before long, I sensed that this has evolved to a personal blog! If you are interested in more of my creations, please view www.kire.studio and/or https://lnkd.in/gJtzc4J for virtual exhibition of the poetry and art My IG is kirestudio

A collection of short stories and poems by me. Mainly using surrealism or just random ideas. Many are dedicated to people I have come to care about

Vitya lives in a world where time is shifting sand and silence is the only faithful companion. To wake up in an empty apartment, catch the scent of someone else's perfume, and rush to the square, knowing you're already late. But late for what? The desire to change the past has long been replaced by a desperate attempt to simply preserve it.

Another Satanism based work this time drawing its main inspiration from the cryptic and arcane style of the Comte de Lautremont's magnum opus Les Chants de Maldoror. Similar to its antecedent work fundamentally (Ora Pro Nobis Satanas), this second poem/infernal verse proudly invokes the prose style of Les Chants' eponymous character, Maldoror, and especially plays with his views towards both God or "the Creator" and also upon mankind's subservience to him in spite of his constant abasement of them. As is Maldoror, I predicated this upon shattering delusions and delivering poignant criticisms of what Nietzsche coined "Die Herde" , although it is also softened by a more individualist, self empowering LaVeyan edge before again spiralling into the dizzying disorienting journey and simile thronged style of Maldoror. As with the previous chunk of devilish scribbling, I have included a myriad of inspirations and references. This work includes reference to Poe, points from Richard Dawkins and even Ricky Gervais, the constant irony, hypocrisy and self-ridiculing of orthodoxies, and finally for added irony, a small piece facetiously displaying how in his quest of biblical report, Milton has made Lucifer a paragon and the original Antihero. Common sense also plays an integral roll in anything like this, but...well.

A collection of poems, in no particular order, with no relation to one another.