Edward Cody Huddleston
It’s late in the evening but the whole neighborhood is glowing. The column of fire is tall, taller than the tops of the old pine trees in my backyard. My ears ring from the explosion and my clothes are soaked from the shower I just stumbled out of. My neighbor cries as she watches her mobile home burn to the ground. Her husband hands her their infant son and her crying becomes less screeching and more sobbing.
Fire trucks and police cars arrive and, between their flashing lights and the flames, it’s brighter than midday. Soon, the fire shrinks and the ashes raining down become less red and more black. The smell of burning wood, grass, and plastic hangs thick in the air.
The husband puts a cigarette in his mouth and asks if I have a light.
to the afterglow