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Tags: Surreal

Frunk Tilberscruddy was out of lemons. Several times this morning he had despaired about a lack of citrus to curl his gums. He’d thrice wrenched around his purple hiker’s bag, but all that grazed his fingers were a large sack of coins and a bushel of crushed bananas the same colour as his pack.

I have this recurring dream, maybe twice a week. Or, maybe because it has recurred for so many months, it’s only once a week but it seems like twice a week. Whatever. The dream arrives like the slow-motion appearance of a wild-eyed merry-go-round horse emerging from the swirling fog of sleep, and

The window was open just enough to let in the cool night air. ‘Bring me seed.’ ‘Make me blossom.’ ‘Fly to me along a moonbeam, oh thou winged marauder of the night.’ The figure on the bed cast off a duvet and emitted a moan – it was unclear whether of discomfort or relief â