You are reading Fiddleblack #1
In Lordsburg, I saw a crow fall out of the sky like a piece of fuselage. In Brownsville, I saw dead fish wash up on the shore by the thousands. In Dubuque, I listened to the drone of locust gnaw on corn. In Lubbock, I saw a man barbecue the family dog. In Lodi, I saw a woman scrape road kill off the highway. In DeKalb, I visited an animal shelter devoid of animals. In Mesa, I saw two men fight over a Twinkie. In Corpus Christi, I watched a burning oil slick light up the night sky. In Kingman, I fell in love. In Barstow, I found a poisoned well next to a handwritten sign that said,
Safe Drinking Water. In Texarkana, I was in Texarkana. In Mobile, the local militia blocked the highway in and out of the town. In Eureka, I wished I were in San Francisco. In San Francisco, people stopped caring. In Spokane, the ammunitions depot was looted. In Seattle, ferries stopped operating, stranding residents on the Sound. In Long Beach, I saw throngs of people push, fight and shove for a single berth on a departing cruise ship. In Redding, I heard pirates boarded the cruise ship and killed everyone on board. In Tahoe, the lake was still blue. I picked up a rock and skipped it across the icy blue shore.
Dan Moreau’s writing appears in Redivider, New Ohio Review, Fourteen Hills, Los Angeles Review, Zone 3, and Hotel Amerika. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a finalist for the Micro Award, his work has received an honorable mention in the Common Review Short Story Prize and a grant from the Elizabeth George Foundation.