Issue #68

Fall 2018 | November 2018

In this Issue:

Timbuktu, a short irreal play by B E Turner


  The scene is a restaurant with a table and chairs. Other appurtenances may be added if desired.

  DINER: A diner.
  DINER TOO: Another diner.
  WAITER: A waiter.
  CHEF: A chef or maitre d'.

The costumes can be fantastical if you wish. For example a super hero, a gorilla, a ballet dancer, a chimera, a dainty flower, clown, other.
The characters may be of any sex, race or species.
The diners may or may not remain seated and may move about the stage in dramatic and inappropriate ways.
The director may wish to add stage business inspired by the irreal mind. Read more...

Seven Stories by Frances Gapper


Vertical Hair

The rain had left pools of excess and grey clouds of origination. A light-stepping young woman arrived and bending placed her hands – held flat, fingers together – on opposite sides of a puddle. Tiny gold stars (she'd been eating prosecco crisps) floated in the water. She lifted her hands, preserving the space between them.

Having recorded the measurements of each puddle, she walked around two corners into the park. Here puddles had lakish ambitions. Jumping kids in yellow wellies observed smash and reform. Read more...

Four Stories by Salvatore Difalco


Magic Act

Lorenzo and his red-cheeked dummy Bruno were making quite the name for themselves on the novelty-act circuit. Audiences across the province delighted in their witty repartee, manic antics, and dazzling acts of voice-throwing. Among other astonishments, Lorenzo would pull a black prophylactic glove over his head and fill it with air until it burst into pieces, while Bruno continued blathering without interruption. One time, Lorenzo had two members of the audience sit on his chest and choke him while Bruno sang, in a pitchy tenor, "Nessun Dorma." Another time, he had Max, a strongman from another act, punch him repeatedly in the stomach, while Bruno recited Canto XXXII from Dante’s Inferno. Read more...

Two Stories by Soren James


Sawbridge-Erle And Tritton-Hall

English didn't work back then, so it's difficult to recount this tale. What I can, I'll tell; the rest I'll make up – translating lost nouns and strayed verbs into a narrative that stands for me.

But what is this creature: contemplating interiors, putting them in words, then putting those words out into the world? One should, ultimately, live narrativeless, and without knowing.

I lost interest in knowledge as a basis for identity. Anyone claiming knowledge over others is doing violence. Thought is ever forced to take backward steps down the ladder of knowledge, there to realise the need to let go, to realise the ladder is not real – nothing is. Read more...

When by Mary Thompson


I am no longer me

Another old fool has fallen for me but when he leans in for a kiss, I keep my mouth shut so all I can feel are his dry, purposeful lips. Maybe next time when I am not me any more, I'll have a real relationship. I will be in another body then so the person I am right now won't remember the past. When I think about that, it doesn't make me happy but it doesn't make me sad either, it's just a non-feeling sort of a thing. Like this man who leans over and kisses me and I keep my mouth shut the whole time thinking, it's not time yet, and soon he will go, but he'll be back, and when he is, I'll let him kiss me properly. Read more...

Identifixation by Perry Genovesi


The mail gave me my upstairs neighbor’s yesterday by mistake, so today, once my slot clanged shut and I put on my reading glasses and saw my God-given name there on the envelope, not my neighbor's, well that’s when the idea hit me.

I left my apartment and walked there. It was only a block away.

Inside the store, a lady and her son were staring at two heads of lettuce floating down the first aisle like UFOs.

Her kid was bear-hugging a bag of sweet potato chips. Read more...

Four Stories by Christopher Prewitt


God's Pantry

Now I'm a poinsettia, and the rain keeps coming. You are down in the courtyard looking up to me here on the balcony. Your dark hair soaking, your hands keep brushing it from your brown eyes. You are telling me a secret. About the people of Norway, and two in particular, one with false teeth, one with a failing kidney, who reluctantly made love inside the mist of a fjord, then, having dressed, firmly shook hands and established a business of renovating haunted forests across Northern Europe. At last the people can gamble with thunder.

This is why you're trying to drown?

About Our Coffee and Other Fare

Please Note: All of the coffee served at The Irreal Cafe is fair trade, organic, shade-grown and not real. All of the food served at The Irreal Cafe is organic, vegan, locally sourced and not real. See "At Our Cafe" for more about what we would serve at The Irreal Cafe and how we would serve it if there were an Irreal Cafe.