As the dark wind descended upon the small town of, Crawford, Louisiana, a young boy by the name of Jeffery slept innocently; ignorant of the havoc that would soon entrap his little nothing of a life. He awoke that morning covered in ash. Everything was covered in ash. He ran into his parent’s bedroom to see what was going on, but found nothing but a large pile of ash lying in their bed. He started screaming in horror thinking of the many gruesome things that could have happened to his parents. His scream was one that would make the throat bleed. He ran outside, but found his town emptier than a sack of potatoes in Ireland. There was no one in the church even though today was Sara-Lynn’s wedding. The wretched stench of human flesh rained from the heavens, as Jeffery ran through the streets crying for the gentle touch of his mother’s soft fingers.
The toy factory on Winters Street was on fire. The sweet passion of Mr. Winthrop’s comb-over reminded sweet Jefferies of the desolate winter to come. As butterflies floated among the willows, so did sweet Jefferies arms among the air. He knew it was the time. The time had come and there was no going back. “BATMAN!” he yelled helplessly. But Batman wasn’t going to come. Batman died three years ago in the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire.
Jeffery made himself a chicken parmigiana sandwich on toasted wheat with a side of green beans. Then he called to his father’s green blazer to fetch him his slippers. He had named his slippers Sal and Jennifer. One was green and the other one was greener than the extinct ferns of his mind. Sweet Jeffries was truly a renaissance man of sorts. He danced with the black wind and he soared through the corn fields like Milton. He’d tried cheeseburgers before, but never cheese. He’d felt the sea on his brow but never been to the ocean. He’d studied the works of Kepler, but never eaten a sandwich made of pork.
The drunken maze of his mind was lost in Jack Nicholson’s ideals of a humble mutton joint. His chin, as square as they come. The lost mysteries of East Ciderville were destroyed by the intoxicating scent of apple brandy. His pupils were as bright as the darkness and the whites in eyes were as bright as the grand madam’s left heftshire. The tales of tails in the seven seas of North Harbinger.
Jefferies awoke collapsed on a pile of cracked bricks and rescinded letters of Millard Fillmore’s third term campaign slogan ideas. For a time, he believed he was in his mother’s womb, being cradled to sleep by the periodic beating of love. When he came to, he understood that he was in fact in his mother’s womb. The womb of destruction.