Flamingos in the Ashtray: 25 Bizarro Short Stories by Zoltán Komor

Author:Zoltán Komor [Komor, Zoltán]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Burning Bulb Publishing
Published: 2014-05-06T00:00:00+00:00

Tub Hussars

A wheelbarrow carries the night into the village. The rasping sounds of its rusty wheels wake the hanging bats in the steeple. Their webbed wings comb the cold air. A straw bale shakes out the ashes of the dead.

The mother floats into the children’s room like a ghost. The moon is grazing in her round eyes. Black lines on her white face trace where the dream’s matchstick scratched her. She watches her two sleeping sons. The blanket rises and sinks with their small breathing chests. Their light hair tickles the feathers out of the pillows.

“My little darlings! My sweet peas! It is time to wake up and take a bath!” says the woman behind the dark. “Quick, I’ll get the soap, and we’ll make bubbles that polish the night!”

She doesn’t wait for a response. The mother picks up the children and carries them into the bathroom. The boys become conscious only in the tub. Frothy water splashes under their smooth armpits, small bubbles sit in their bellybuttons.

“But Mom,” they moan, “we already had a bath before going to sleep! We are all clean, Mom!”

“Shh!” The woman puts a finger to her lips. “A terrible nightmare visited me and sat on my bedstead. Oh, my hair still smokes because of it! In my dream you grew up and left me. You became robbers and murderers. Ugly knives glinted in your hands. Nice and clean, my darlings, we must wash off these premonitions from your dear skins!”

The eyes of the two boys meet. They smarten up and begin to splash each other with the soapy water. Dice waltz in the bottom of the tub; they get nipped between the boys’ toes. The mother raises their tiny feet, blows off the soapsuds, and observes what the dice show.

“Beautiful sixes!” she praises them. “Quick, my darlings, the warm bed is waiting for you. I rubbed the devil’s shadow off you, now you can go to sleep!”

Outside, the stars slip from the bats’ dark claws and fall into the snow. Half-frozen violin players on the white rooftops. They throw their instruments into the chimneys and watch the rising smoke, how it plants small musical notes in the dark sky.

“Darlings! My sweet little peas!” A bodiless voice behind the curtains of a dream. The boys open their eyes in the dark.

“Mom,” they whisper, “we are so tired.”

“Hush, my angels, and come quick! Or the water will get cold!” says the mother as she pulls the children from their warm beds. “Come on, little matchsticks, out of that box! You must take a bath now! Quick, I’ll get the soap!”

The boys take off their clothes and the mother begins to wash their backs and bottoms.

“The bubble of the dream popped, and black ants marched out of it. They are still buzzing in my hair!” she explains to her sons. “Ugly, ugly creatures! Their formicary is made of cemetery dust, and they carry out the bitter tears of the dead! I dreamed that… Oh, why am I

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