Surrealista 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.

There is another dimension beyond that which is known to fictional characters. A collection of short stories, poems, snippets, vignettes, and everything else that crosses my mind and has no place in my current publications, or is waiting in the wings to find its forever home. Here is either where ideas are born, or where they go to die. We will be cruising at an altitude of morally dubious. The time is lost. The weather is sarcastic with a high chance of misdirection. Please, sit back, fasten your seatbelts, and enjoy the ride. Just know, there will be turbulence, and there is a shortage of chairs.

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.

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.

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.

The earliest part of my chronological anthology of bad poetry. Estimated age at time of writing 12-16. I both thank and apologise to any soul who takes the time to read these.

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.

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 compilation of my nightmares. Written for the purpose of working through my night-time fears. I add only just enough detail to make them flow a little more logically in a story format. However, for the majority, I add no extra detail than what I already witnessed at the time of the nightmare's conception.

A series of poems to describe the surreal environments a derelict soul encounters on its journeys.

Do you see images when you hear a melody? Do you hear music when you see a picture? His was one of everlasting silence, hers was one of eternal darkness, then again they are but steps away from each other, standing under the same sky, on the same earth, looking up to the same dream. What does it take for the blind and the deaf to cross the chasm between their worlds? For a deaf artist and a blind musician to come together and find the love they've abandoned? This is a series of short stories of a journey of the two, slowly converging no matter how far apart they are. This is a series of short stories of ironies and cruelties of life. This is a series of short stories of distances, near and far, tangible and intangible.

Drogas y surrealismo.

It's never easy, the first time you open your heart to someone else. It's especially awkward when the door's totally stuck.

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.

Nonsense coming straight from a nonsense mind. Untethered creative flow. Third eye gave away. This will contain opinions that you may not agree with. Please keep that to yourself. This is just poetic expression and madness.

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 collection of short stories and prose poetry - - - here is your location: you find yourself in a house which ever grew smaller, ever closer until you're choking; a graveyard amongst the clouds and the stars, marble halls which stretch off into nothing; a town of yellow flowers and veins which twist around your wrist and ankles and hold you in a halved embrace here is you: you the trapped; you the holy; you who is taken by parasites; you who've became a god and yet were still lost; you who have fallen head first in love with with a mirage - - - updates whenever

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+)

he was crowned with countless stars stolen from the skies by a single sweep of his gold plated wings . freeform poetry / proses with plot au where there are people born with wings and society wants to kill them lgbt+ content, slight nsfw trigger warning : violence, suicidal © greenleaf . i was tired so i wrote this instead of crying myself to sleep