4 Flash Fiction Pieces by Adam Moorad
“Calamity bathes her Glock in a casserole pan. Tits out.”
Fiction by Adam Moorad
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Summer
The window is made of fifteen little panes or so. Patuda, patuda, patuda, patuda, patuda, patuda, patuda, patuda, patuda, patuda, patuda, patuda, patuda, patuda. Calamity shoots out all but one. A number of panes fall away. Cats scram through the alley choked with rotten lawn furniture and polka dotted cloth. A charm of finches pecks a half-eaten birthday cake growing mold, white and teal. Kim stands there in his bathrobe watching the broadcast of the funeral march for Saint Austere which shows Coo DeGraw and other dignitaries, like Kim himself, standing on the wide walk of Catherine Street, silicon chips in heads switched to overload; a little riot broke out later, as was telecast.
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Transmit
Summer shacks up with the Troll at The End. Calamity stands off Kim’s bunk and folds back the bamboo divider. His wife is packing her bag. Again. She falls asleep on the train. Again. Rides it. To Coney and back. Again. Comes to in Polyp’s spoon. His enflamed eyes and skin invoke Alpha and Omega. Virility. Delirium. His arches tang of popcorn. Sirens flash about the flesh. Eagle sees and eats whatever. Sky is molt. A calling out. A torch.
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Jungle Party
It isn’t ugly. It’s an outrage. Dallas whales in the air, all threes prawn lapping Polyp’s heel. Troll plucks a chunk of shrapnel from her temple and gums it like a cigar slowly, making real worship of it. Summer bends on a velvet rail, glazed eyes balling the lion rug. Calamity saws the fig, a pint-sized version of her sunders through the exit of a world that doesn’t exist. Jesusbum clutches up fish dainties and crams them into his robing, and then utters a groan and stumbles from the room cowering like a bends patient shielding his face from the dry land. The Atoms pour cold beer on a stack of invoices and roll around in it, tweaking white piccolos whistling obbligato.
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Sunday
Troll licks Polyp. Dallas colics. Kim volunteers at the penitentiary buttressing kilned steel with the imamates for the new parish belfry. It takes all night. Summer splits a daiquiri with a Portuguese water dog on a pile of blocks. Calamity bathes her Glock in a casserole pan. Tits out. Holsters slung from her boot spurs. The Atoms make a meal of lunchmeat, their costumes and pitchforks prone against a lone streetlight. Polyp performs a series of parries, pivots and ripostes. Kim slaps the dash and confides. Clucks. Dallas sucks a block. It’s four o’clock in the morning. The volcano now wants everything but to erupt.
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Adam Moorad is a writer, salesman, and mountaineer. He is the author of four chapbooks and a novella. He lives in Brooklyn. Visit him here: adamadamadamadamadam.blogspot.com
[Photo Via: SodaHead/DeviantArt]