by Sarp Sozdinler
The giant yellow duck popped out of my dream and passed by our windshield. It just stood there, not needing to be seen by anyone yet probably gazed at hundreds of times a day. It stayed confident, unfazed. It was huge, though not monumental; white, but not ghostly; it had a door where the duck’s belly met the street, yet it was not inviting. The duck just looked out of place, like a child left behind in a shopping mall. It looked as if the poor creature used to belong to a different, more flooded world but then the waters receded one day and beached it in the desert. And if the waters were to come back in the future, they would flow in from all directions and flood the world again, only to emerge the duck as the sole survivor of a sunk, smelly world, like a proud baby in a giant washbowl.
Sarp Sozdinler splits his time between New York and Amsterdam. His work has been published or is forthcoming on HAD, No Contact, X-R-A-Y, The Masters Review, The Offing, Epiphany, and elsewhere. You can find him sharing irrelevant stuff online under @sarpsozdinler or posting work on sarpsozdinler.com.