Art by Melissa Mead
Blivet in the Temporal Lobes
by Dave Raines
June put her nametag on. It was blank. She stepped past the flying carpet hovering beside her bed and whistled. On the wall, the pages of the calendar flapped past April and May, held themselves open until the name "June" could wiggle out from under the mountain wildflowers and attach itself to her nametag.
She smoothed her white waitress's blouse and modest skirt, hoping they would stay modest this particular day.
Fortified by a farewell kiss from Terry, her stuffed bear, she stepped out the door. (As always, Terry tried for some tongue--the bear was shameless.) The restaurant was two blocks away and the walk would be very difficult.
June's life had turned a little strange since the surgery.
The street was busy today, so it was very confusing, SUV's turning into Death Stars, VWs to rabbits. There were pedestrians, too. Most of them looked like mannequins, neither threatening nor welcoming, just blanks. Now and then, one would blaze like the sun, or walk under a cloud, or give her a wolf whistle from a long snout. There was one mannequin who stood in the doorway and watched her. As she gazed back, it morphed into burned-face bladed-finger dark figure under a slouch hat. She shivered and crossed the street. When she looked back Freddie had returned to mannequin status.