Sarp Sozdinler

Regional Magician

My landlord is a regional magician. This is different from a regular magician because his tricks only work in three counties and certain sections of a fourth. He appears at my door in a cumulus of receipts and says that I don’t have to think about rent anymore. Great, I say. He says, No, not like that. He says the apartment has vanished. I look behind me and the living room is gone. The couch is still there, hovering over the neighbor’s begonias like a thought bubble. He removes a dove from my mailbox. The dove is full of my forwarded mail. Utility bills flutter out of its beak. Apparently, the regional magic has its limitations. He cannot saw a woman in half, only a sectional. He cannot pull a rabbit from a hat, only a ledger. He asks me to step into a ring of folding chairs. For insurance, he says, blinking awkwardly. When the trick is done, my apartment is back, but everything in it is now slightly askew. The sink sings a song every time it rains. The oven blushes at the sight of roasted chicken. My bed refuses to lie flat unless I soothe it. What world, it cries in my sleep. What terrors. The regional magician smiles the smile of a man who’s lost the magic in his life. Abracadabra, he says, and my house bursts into flames.

Sarp Sozdinler is a writer based in Philadelphia and Amsterdam. His work has appeared in Electric Literature, Kenyon Review, Shenandoah, Wigleaf, HAD, and elsewhere. His stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfiction. He edits the literary journal The Bulb Region. Visit him at sarpsozdinler.com.