The walls were palate-smoothed plaster, showing swirls and solid drops. I stirred the ashes with an embered stick, sifting for the Atoms. The End sat in an alley of weed clumps. I’d forgotten how I found it, and soon the sky spelled phlegmatic. Everything on the cement began to float. The yokels on the sidewalk cringed back a bit and looked askance lonesomely. Summer dove into the foyer, clicking her discs into place by heaving her gut against a giant rubber band. She repeated the process several times until her head rolled. I lounged on a pile of towels and dozed, whites of my eyes aglow. Calamity kicked the door until it splintered. With her, an M.D. from Malta, of unknown function in cytology. They found me, but it was too late. I was a complete and crazed thespian, channeling two world wars, a blender, an air conditioner, a guinea pig, a pedestrian crossing Queens Boulevard.
Adam Moorad is a salesman and mountaineer. He is the author of four chapbooks and a novella. He lives in Brooklyn.