Flash has always held a special place in my heart. My very first editing role was at a little flash fiction mag on campus when I was an undergrad. I’ve been fortunate to edit and publish some terrific flash over the years, but Mario Aliberto III’s “Searching for God in a Mosh Pit,” the winner of our first Flash Challenge, might be the first that I wish I’d written myself. Here’s a story that knows exactly what it’s about, that puts every single syllable to work—including its title, which rolls right into the body of the story. Here’s a story that knows its scene, knows how to transport the reader right into the swirling chaos of a punk club; a single, breathless sentence that’s equal parts reverent and raucous. Aliberto III’s prose had me tapping my foot to the beat with the very first word. — Cole Meyer, Editor in Chief
inside an underground club in Tampa, and I tell Betty this isn’t my scene and I’m not feeling religious, but she’s already been raptured, and the Judas Apologists are at the altar, dueling electric guitars preaching distortion, so punk, and the drummer is puking into a bucket but stays steady bible-thumping a 4/4 signature, and Green Mohawk Guy is raging a sermon into the microphone, God’s a deadbeat dad, and holy shit that’s punk, as punk as the acolytes in band T-shirts moshing in service, and Betty and I are penitents at the edge of the pit, and she’s waiting for her chance, and I’m waiting for her to give me the word, and the pit is a thrashing venomous snake who won’t bite true believers, which is probably why I catch an errant elbow to the face, and my ears are ringing, and I wipe my nose and leave a stigmata on my palm, and everything smells like bodies and blood, except Betty, who smells like cinnamon gum and hair dye from a fresh crown of purple highlights, and she’s bouncing on her toes, waiting for her chance, and I’m waiting for her to give me the word, and the guitars’ last notes hang suspended, feedback reverberating, and the drummer paintbrushes a high hat, tzz, tik-ta-tizz, tik-ta-tizzz, and Green Mohawk Guy whispers a benediction, Let’s sue God for child support, and the pit roots to the floor, a congregation swaying and sweating and undulating holy spirit possessed, bodies awaiting a resurrection, and Betty is waiting for her chance, and I’m waiting for her to give me the word, and the pit is waiting to be blessed, and the guitars resume their preaching, and the pit begins to hallelujah, and the guitarists’ fingers blister a revival of speed riffs, and the drummer flagellates the drums something wicked, and Green Mohawk Guy screams, I’m an abortion, over and over, louder and louder, and the pit fucking loses it like a bomb has gone off, Sodom and Gomorrah, and Betty shouts, Remember me, she’s so punk, and I interlace my fingers like a prayer, and Betty steps into my hand cradle for a boost, and I launch her backwards onto the heads of the pit to crowd surf, but one of her Doc Martens catches me under the chin like an uppercut, and I’m sat down on my ass, and an apostle nearby steps away from mass to take my hand, pull me up before I get stomped, and my jaw is tender, my nose bleeding again, I’m lightheaded, I can’t see Betty, and yet I have faith, so I tell the guy, My turn, and he doesn’t hesitate, boosts me and launches me, but not before saying, That’s the most punk shit I ever saw, and I am baptized in the pit, a sea of people tiding me towards the stage, and Betty is surfing on her back next to me and grabs my hand, and we are both Jesus Christ posed, together in this paradise, and now I totally get why Jesus did it, why he gave his life for us, because if this is what it feels like to be loved by everyone, I would have let them nail me to a cross, too.
Mario Aliberto III is the author of All the Dead We Have Yet to Bury (Chestnut Review, 2025), and his short fiction has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Fractured Lit, The Pinch, and other fine journals. He lives in Tampa Bay with his wife and daughters, and yet the dog still runs the house. Find him online at marioaliberto3.com.