The Organ Grider

by Marcus Silcock

Every morning, Mags sat naked on the beach, counting her breaths, awaiting nothing, purely centred, while the tourists flocked the promenade, purchasing one thing after another, and licking their ice cream. Mags could still see the cave of her former lover. Her man there, chained to the rocks, the birds pecking his liver. He could live in that cave without her.

The organ grinder cranked the music. It pumped through pipes. A steady, breathy wheeze. Marches, waltzes, or opera themes. A clockwork pulse to tap your feet. The golden retriever sat on the ground next to him and retrieved the money. The organ grinder was munching on peanuts. The shells encircled him.

On the night in question, Mags looked up to the sky. It was hazy. Something was sweeping the landscape. She could hear wingbeats. So many of them. Flapping into the sky. The birds leaving their nests for other ones.

It was hard to emote but emote she must. Who does not delight in the golden retriever. The golden retriever was a real people pleaser. It’s name tells you everything. The golden retriever retrieved her.

They roamed the beach towns together. They made music like an old carnival fading at dusk. They made little money. Sometimes, the organ grinder made porridge, swilled with honey. He was prickled and spiky, but it didn’t matter. He knew how to move his hands like feathers.

BIO: Marcus Silcock is a high school teacher in Barcelona, Spain, originally from Portadown, Northern Ireland. He co-edits the surreal-absurd literary magazine Mercurius. His recent stories have appeared in publications such as: Willow Springs, Maudlin House, Blood+Honey, The Gorko Gazette, Bending Genres, Fictive Dream, Broken Antler, and Your Impossible Voice. His latest book is Dream Dust (Broken Sleep Books, 2025), a collection of microfictions and prose poems. Find out more at www.nevermindthebeasts.com and @marcus.silcock on Instagram.