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Ben Cerasi

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Oct, 2021

Stories (34)

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34 Stories

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The Feast That Follows

Ben Cerasi

“The Feast Of The Charred Stag”— Archived, Plymouth Historical Society, 1628from the account of Kehteau, the one who walked ahead Child, if you wish to know how the Pilgrims thanked their god, I will tell you. But I warn you: once you hear this story, you will never look at a feast without tasting blood in the broth. The Night before the “Thanksgiving”The sickness came first. Not the fever that kills the lungs — the other sickness. The one that kills sound.The woods went quiet. The soil grew cold underfoot. Even the crows avoided the Pilgri...

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Saccular System Crash

Ben Cerasi

The rain had turned the dirt road to tar. The woods had been silent for miles, the kind of silence that lets you hear your own blood. She was five-six, shoulders tight under a flannel gone gray from ash and sweat, a twelve-gauge riding her forearm like a promise. The mansion rose out of the pines wrong—too clean, like a tabernacle had scraped time off it. Glass unbroken, paint white as bone. A brass plaque half buried in moss read THE HAVEN INITIATIVE. The front door wasn’t locked. It sighed open, warm air spilling out that smelled lik...

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The Green Veil (Redaction 001)

Ben Cerasi

"Sorry Mama, ain’t coming home. I’m damned with Uncle Sam, and the hills I roam." The jungle stretched in every direction—a tangle of verdant scars and jagged canopies swallowing the remnants of forgotten empires. On the outside it looked like chaos. Untamed. Primeval. But I knew better. This was nature in full control. Every branch, every vine, every bird call like a coded transmission. The jungle didn’t grow—it arranged. Ruins poked out of the overgrowth like half-buried landmines from another war. Broken idols stared up with blank stone e...

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The Delta Devils (Conclusion To Brackish Mass)

Ben Cerasi

The Brackish Mass waited for me on the Delta like a beast dressed in Sunday’s best. Miles away from the San Fran bay. Lanterns hung low over the rickety docks, their flickering light cutting through fog thick and sour. The air reeked of sweat, cheap gin, and something fouler—fish guts tangled in mud, old blood long buried but never gone. Faces drifted past, hidden behind cracked masks painted with shark teeth and crooked grins. Hooks swung from leather belts, catching firelight—a tool for catch or punishment, I couldn’t say which.Children wi...

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The Brackish Mass (A Harold Tempt Case File)

Ben Cerasi

The fervent and the faithful came—trailers of white foam flickering like ghosts on the water’s surface, their riverboats and wagons pushing through the churn as if the river itself was swallowing them whole. The rivers don’t flow here. They churn. They fold back into themselves like a breathing thing, rearranging the geography with each flood—towns forgetting their names like bad dreams lost in the morning mist. I stand on the cracked opening, watching the edges blur, the horizon curl inwards like a page tearing itself apart. The river is a...

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All Capes are Bastards: The Shadow Ban

Ben Cerasi

The game of life and death is rigged with loaded set pieces.  The driver’s hand brushed the rearview mirror—again. Every thirty seconds, like a tick, like a habit he couldn’t shake, his fingers trembling as he fought the tightening in his chest. There's No way they got the plate. He’d switched the numbers. It was clean, and smooth—just like always. Clean. But clean felt like a lie, the sweat on his palms slicker than the night air pressing in around them. Wasn’tt the Sinner’s Den that had him twisted up, not the usual dive full of bro...

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The Umber Squall (A Case File from the files of Harold Tempt)

Ben Cerasi

"All flesh would perish together, and man would return to dust." The Book of Job flapped against a weathered fence post, the brittle paper snapping like the skin of something long dead. It wouldn’t be long before the wind took it and swallowed it up with everything else.  I used to imagine if Hell existed, it would be fire—scarlet and tangerine flames caked across canyons, licking at the bones of the damned. But that was a child's nightmare. No, Hell wasn’t fire. Hell was dust. Hazel dunes like dead high tides, stretching to the horizon...

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All Capes are Bastards: The Painted Prophet

Ben Cerasi

The city wasn’t just steel and asphalt, not to him. It breathed. It bled. Every building was a rib, every alleyway a severed vein. The streets were brushstrokes of history, painted over again and again, each new layer hiding the violence beneath. But blood seeps through the paint.And Elias had seen what lurked underneath—the original image. The first wound.Not lost. Only buried.And now, something beneath the city had opened its eyes.It had been waiting.And it was hungry. The painting had driven Elias Mercer somewhere beyond the reach of rea...

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All Capes are Bastards: The Red Feathers

Ben Cerasi

All capes are bastards.People stamp it on us like a mark of shame. I'm fine with the title of bastards. We inherit nothing—no deeds or legacy. We inherit the needle-marked sirens that wash up near North Beach. I find grime between the cracks. The demons that never get exorcised. The blue glow from the screen carved shadows across my face, catching on the red fractures in my eyes—the kind that came from too many nights where sleep was just a rumor. I ran a hand over the stubble lining my jaw, feeling the weight of too many hours and too littl...

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Manos De Sangre

Ben Cerasi

The devil below me had tasted many delights in his journey through the Global South. Regimes had risen and fallen beneath his boots. He had witnessed Fortunes being made and lost in the time it took to pop in a fresh magazine.  They rarely ever tasted as sweet as the blood leaving his mouth. Diablo Jaguar wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his gloved hand, laughing. A deep, jagged sound. It matched his Hands of Stone. The crowd roared around them, half-drunk from cheap beer and the thrill of violence. Money stopped filling th...

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All Capes are Bastards

Ben Cerasi

I came into this world kicking and screaming, covered in red, and I’m pretty sure I’ll exit the same way. The alley reeked of rain-soaked trash and stale sweat. The mack daddy's joints rattled, his muddied feet sliding to a stop against a dead-end brick wall. He wasn’t out of breath yet, but I could hear his heart hammering through the quiet. They always run. Maybe he should have hesitated to lay hands on women working the corners and taking a major cut.   I owed a favor to a few women and a couple of nonbinary folks who worked the...

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Harm Be Done

Ben Cerasi

The room is unfamiliar and I don’t know how I got here.  The wraiths we become as our skin sheds start to reflect the cracks in the mirror, and the shadows bleed into the streets. My eyes gradually began to acclimate to the dim and eerie bulbs in the deserted hall of mirrors. The red fissures in my eyes matched the scarlet stains on the glass as I  pursued an uncanny ghoul across their haunting ground. A chilling fog had settled inside this long-abandoned structure. Every step I took reverberated through the cold, lifeless air, se...

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"Where the Marigolds Wilt"

Ben Cerasi

The endless rows of hollowed-out orange and wicked gourds grinned their jagged grins at me as I left behind the city’s polished façade. Out where the sidewalks surrendered to gravel and asphalt gave up to sunbaked dirt, it was different—grittier, lonelier. The county lines weren’t drawn with rulers here; they were sketched by time and neglect. This wasn’t the part of town you saw on postcards, no tree-lined boulevards or corner cafes. Just long stretches of empty fields and the occasional truck kicking up a cloud of dust. Out here, people wa...

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Autumns Ashes: A Chapel Black Casefile

Ben Cerasi

C: Files Uploaded: Freedom of Information Act—California Bureau of Investigation. Violent Crime Task Force. Authorized by the CA Attorney General.Subject: Applied Criminology—Special Agent Rachel Tempt. Audio files are attached. Every bullet leaves a trail of paperwork behind it, a lawsuit etched in brass casings. There’s no honor in it anymore. Just silence after the gunshot, then the endless colonoscopy of post-shooting committees. They’ll pick apart the moment, frame by frame as if that could explain why we stare down the abyss and still ...

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The Stain of Samhain

Ben Cerasi

The smog that greeted Liz as she left her Jeep was thick and putrid, curling up into the sky as the last light of day faded behind the mountains. The sun’s retreat only seemed to feed the fire; the flames licked hungrily at the darkening sky, growing brighter with each passing second. Liz’s fingers tapped nervously on her holster, her heart racing as she drew closer to the smoke. As she moved toward the rising flames, the smell hit her like a punch—burning meat, charred flesh, and something sickly sweet, twisted with the acrid tang of melti...

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