Tag Archives: After The Storm

After The Storm by Chris Benton

Our heavenly father was horny last night and decided to fuck our trailer park into countless pieces. I was fine with such destruction; I despised most of my neighbors, especially the younger ones, whose faces were already bloated by endless streams of beer and screams. What I wasn’t fine with was that my son, David, was missing after the storm. David was about to turn ten this Good Friday and both of us were looking forward to eating shitty pizza and watching fuzzy robots singing for us inside a safe, dark space.

I woke up in a bed of cattails nodding proudly at me. The sun was smiling like a maniac through a true Carolina Blue and I was strangely content within these kind reeds. I wanted to linger there for another hour or two, but unfortunately, my son was waiting for me.

The only thing I was wearing was a Slayer T-shirt. My legs and bush were bright with blood. When I found a handful of balance, my body began screaming, so I screamed with it. My legs were already beginning to go bye-bye when I stepped on Kelly Paulson. She was beneath a mattress and moaning like she was freshly grudge fucked by her crack head husband who was executed last year. I didn’t feel bad stepping on her; she was beyond insult and injury. Something had taken the top of her head off, showing the world just how bad her memories were. I knelt beside her and told her, “It’s alright honey, just stay calm, help is on the way.” It was the greatest lie of our age, and I was amazed how hot my tongue was when I told it. I felt like telling it to the world, right then and there, felt like becoming a prophet of its absurdity, traveling through ravaged land after ravaged land, preaching the futile infinity of its gospel.

She opened her eyes and smiled at me and said. “Travis, South Dakota.” Her eyes got the fuck out of earth and I continued my search. I heard the wails of the fire department, but there were several long leaf pines dying on the street. It would be some time before help would arrive. There was a cheap, brown, round kitchen clock hanging from a branch of one of the downed pines. It must have still contained its batteries because it was still counting the seconds, seven forty eight, David would have been finishing up his scrambled eggs with toast and strawberry jelly.

My legs gave out, but I kept crawling, kept searching, throughout the shredded ghosts of laundry and strangely intact toys and beds whose broken hearts were laid bare at last. There were no signs of children. Not a single limb. I knew then, the demented wisdom of disaster, how our Heavenly Father used storms to steal children, inhaling them into the vast, black vacuum of his urethra, so he may reward the winged brains of his psychotic firstborn with our purest souls.

Such revelations demanded a drink. So I crawled over to the remaining pile of my neighbor, Alejandro Gomez. He was there, dead, but there. And he was clutching a miraculously intact bottle of Montezuma. His son, like mine, was nowhere to be found. He looked pretty bad, though not as worse as Kelly. Close though. His face was painted red, ready for sacrifice, but he was still smiling from the dream he was having beyond the storm. I smiled with him and when I tried to take the bottle of Montezuma from his hand, his arm came off with it. What does one do in such circumstances? One holds the heavy limb of a loving father, and illegal alien and drinks deeply in memory of all those who are trying to find their home.

I finished the bottle and began crawling once more. The world began to lose its final colors; the world began to lose its final children. I found the surviving pile of my trailer. There were several papers I was grading the night before, garnishing the bed of my beloved boy. The bed was whimpering. I lie beside it, find his trembling face beneath it, and smile at my terrified miracle until the world turns blind.

CHRIS PROFILE PICBio:  Chris Benton was born and raised in Wilmington, North Carolina where he still resides (though not for long, thank Christ). His stories have appeared in A TWIST OF NOIR, PLOTS WITH GUNS, THRILLER’S KILLER’S ‘N’ CHILLERS, BLACK HEART, CRIME FACTORY, and SHOTGUN HONEY. He can be found on FACEBOOK…


Filed under Flash Fiction