Magritte in the OR
The grass he lay on felt as smooth as cotton sheets. He sighed contentedly and opened his eyes to the navy-black sky embroidered with stars. A portly moon hung directly above. He looked at it, and was surprised to see gone the patterns forming its “face”. Suddenly, several paces from the first, a second fulgent moon flashed open.
“What on earth…?” the man murmured. His lids widened.
There was a third bright sphere, then a fourth. A fifth and sixth followed. They themselves formed a larger circle, floating high overhead, lighting the night like a noon picnic. The man tried to scramble to his feet, but couldn’t get up.
“Jamie!” he called. “Jamie, where’d you go, the sky’s acting berserk!”
“Calm, calm,” he heard by his ear. And then further away, “Could you bump up the anesthesia? He’s taking too long to respond.”
The same voice, closer again: “Mr. Thompson, everything will be fine. It’s a new procedure but we’ve had great success so far. Your wife felt compelled to register you, remember? Please try to relax.”
The many white moons were melting into a total black. The man attempted one last ineffectual wiggle, and then was still.