Flash Fiction

Omo Cod, the stool pigeon, ate from the bird seed without choking. Bok bok plink plonk. His neck made rapid rocking motions. Food slid down smoothly. Across the table The Librarian turned to break the bittered silence. The red noise that issued from The Librarian's throat was a colourful memory of the new days of stereo where mono was less than a full biography of anyones life. The noise travelled on a critical speed wagon across town to where Viola Erga was attempting the fly zone in the presumed jet stream. Omo Cod and Viola Erga were once lovers.

The Librarian claimed he was a cold war cook and he never ate not nothing. He said, the dead are the only ones at lunch.

And above all this the nuclear angel loved making connections at the neural level.