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“After the Rain” is a quietly evocative short story that juxtaposes adult weariness with youthful abandon, memory with immediacy, and caution with spontaneity. Through a single, rain-soaked evening in Southern California, the narrator is transported both physically and emotionally—from a damp auto shop to a flooded creek, and from the responsibilities of adulthood to recollections of childhood innocence.

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 "After the Rain"

  By Harry Arabian

The rain had been relentless all day, falling in sheets that hammered the tin roof of the auto garage like a thousand impatient fists. I’d spent the better part of my shift juggling Home Depot buckets beneath stubborn leaks, watching as they filled with muddy drips from the ceiling. By closing time, my arms ached, my boots squelched, and my clothes clung damply to my back. I was ready to be home.

Driving through the misty Irvine dusk, I took the Jeffrey Street exit, already picturing a warm shower and leftover stew. The fog had rolled in thick, turning the world ghost-gray. Street signs blurred into shadows, and somewhere in the murk I missed my left turn onto Irvine Center Drive.

Instead, my tires hummed toward Barranca, where the bridge loomed ahead like something out of a forgotten dream. That’s when I saw it—the San Diego Creek, usually a lazy trickle beneath the bridge, had transformed into a roiling, chocolate-colored torrent. The road was closed, barricaded hastily with blinking lights and orange cones. Water spilled over the concrete lip of the bridge like a boiling cauldron tipped too far.

I eased the truck to the side, curiosity pulling stronger than fatigue. Rolling down the window, I let the sound of rushing water fill the cab—deep, thunderous, alive. A rare sight in Southern California, this kind of flood.

 

Then came the sound of children—shouts, laughter, the unmistakable slap of bodies hitting water.

I stepped out, boots sinking slightly into soaked earth, and walked closer to the bridge. At first I thought I was imagining it. “Bad day to be playing baseball,” I muttered.

But there they were: a dozen kids—maybe more—sliding on bodyboards down muddy slopes into the frothing creek like it was a theme park ride. The flooded channel had become their spontaneous waterpark, a playground born from chaos. Their silhouettes flitted like fish, arms flailing in delight, squeals echoing between the eucalyptus.

The scene pulled me backward in time.

New Hampshire. Spring melt. The Pemigewasset River surging high and fast with snowmelt. We’d stand at the banks with sticks and stones, never daring to go in. The current there was wild, unforgiving. Cold enough to bite bone. But we knew its moods. Knew where it turned under the bridge and what it could steal if you let it. We respected it—feared it, even.

But these kids? These Southern California kids didn’t see fear. They saw fun. They saw warmth in the dead of winter. They saw opportunity where others saw danger.

I smiled—half in awe, half in disbelief—just as the wail of sirens sliced through the mist.

A police SUV appeared on the far side of the flooded road, red and blue lights pulsing against the low clouds. The loudspeaker crackled, a voice booming across the water: “Exit the water immediately. This is not a safe area. Clear the creek now!”

The kids groaned in protest but began trudging out, boards in tow, laughing and pushing one another like it was just the end of recess.

I stayed a moment longer, watching them go, their bright jackets cutting through the fog. Then I turned back to my truck, the sounds of the flood fading behind me.

Another story for the day. Another glimpse of life’s strange poetry—hidden in the downpour.