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Dandelions/Newton's Shop of Magical & Aesthetically Pleasing Artifacts
Dandelions/Newton's Shop of Magical & Aesthetically Pleasing Artifacts
Dandelions/Newton's Shop of Magical & Aesthetically Pleasing Artifacts
Ebook36 pages30 minutes

Dandelions/Newton's Shop of Magical & Aesthetically Pleasing Artifacts

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About this ebook

The first of seven pairs of short stories by Matthew Jankiewicz. The first short story, "Dandelions", is akin to the style of magical realism, a genre popularized by Gabriel García Márquez, Haruki Murakami, and Alice Hoffman. The second short story, "Newton's Shop of Magical & Aesthetically Pleasing Artifacts", is a blend of fantasy, comedy, and horror with a plot as intriguing as its title.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateMar 9, 2013
ISBN9781301690299
Dandelions/Newton's Shop of Magical & Aesthetically Pleasing Artifacts
Author

Matthew Jankiewicz

Matthew Jankiewicz is a graduate student in the fiction department at Columbia College Chicago. He is also the VP of fiction at Daydream Alchemy.

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    Open-heart surgery at its best. Would like to see more from this author.

Book preview

Dandelions/Newton's Shop of Magical & Aesthetically Pleasing Artifacts - Matthew Jankiewicz

First Story: Dandelions

Second Story: Newton’s Shop of Magical & Aesthetically Pleasing Artifacts

Published by Matthew Jankiewicz

Copyright 2013 Daydream Alchemy

Illustrations by Juan Andres Da Corte

Copyright 2013 Juan Andres Da Corte

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DANDELIONS

The first thing I notice as I step into the cab is how absurdly dark the interior is, as if I had discovered a secret underground cavern. The second thing I notice is the cloud of smoky air that hovers around me like a ghost, invading every pore of my body.

Where you headed? the cab driver asks in a scratchy, deep voice, stroking his plump fingers against his graying, scraggly goatee.

I tell him where I want to go, slowly, so that I don’t have to repeat myself. The driver turns around in his seat and gives me a questioning look as if he didn’t hear me correctly. He parts his lips as though he is about to say something. Then, thinking better of it, he slips the half-finished Camel cigarette into his mouth and, avoiding eye contact, turns around to fix his gaze back onto the road. I’m glad that he didn’t say anything. I’m not in the mood for meaningless prattle, especially with a wrinkly, leather-faced cab driver. He could never understand my circumstances. Nobody could for that matter.

There is a pause, a silence between us as thick as the smoky air. I am about to repeat myself when I hear the roar of the engine being woken.

To avoid the possibility of an awkward conversation, which lingers in this cramped space like humidity before a thunderstorm, I stare out the window. Through the smeared fingerprints on the dirty glass, the small local businesses pass in the quickness of a camera flash, most of them prominently displaying a For Lease sign in their front windows. From what I could tell, a lot had changed during the last two decades including the color of the sky, which, as I remember, used to be painted a light indigo, but now displayed the bleakness of gray cinderblock. The McDonalds that my parents took me to every Saturday afternoon with my grandparents is now nothing more than an edifice without a soul. Thick wooden boards covering the windows are spray-painted with images of hands giving the middle finger,

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