Sparks
--
July fourth, some year long forgotten, ages ago. She must have been a little kid, because she wasn't allowed to light anything big, but not too little, because unlike her brother she wasn't trapped on a grown-up's lap. The wind had laid down. It was late, the sky was dark and because of all the bright fireworks, it was devoid of stars, swathed in clouds of glowing smoke.
Staring up, neck craned back, she couldn't help feeling a little afraid. The colors spinning above her, drifting on the air currents, looked so bright and close. She could almost reach out... and...
Even now, years later, she isn't sure what happened. A fluke, a hallucination, she's afraid to ask, lest she seem crazy. But to her memory--faulty though it may be--she was there and those sparks were just missing her shoulders, shooting under her feet. She could feel their burning as they went by. The air was cold, frigid compared with the soft summer breezes below, and the smoke felt so hot by comparison, peppery, acrid, quickly cooling so far up.
On the ground, the boom of a shell made a little vibration inside her chest. This close, she could feel it head to toe. It rocked her to the bones. Every burst charge that went off went right through her, and up close, the sparks had so much more color. She didn't dare close her eyes, entranced, amazed, staring at every glowing star that went flying past. A few grazed painfully close to her, a couple singed hair, but she couldn't make herself be afraid. It wasn't that she didn't, at some level, understand that she could be hurt. But the fear just wasn't there-- as if she couldn't find the emotion, as if the place where it was supposed to be was out of reach. Wonder, curiosity, replaced it and there just wasn't room to be terrified between the color and the sound and the percussion inside her chest.
The next shell, she knew, came from her family far below. Its tail, a shimmering white plume, left a streak of heat up her stomach, and so close to her, the rush of raw, unbridled power when it burst registered as a flash of pain and light. But it wasn't a break-and-die kind of shell. It was her favorite, a red and gold willow, the bright sparks hanging in the air, drifting low for what seemed like hours. Without thinking, she reached out, unable to resist the final step, and caught a falling lump of fire, held it, flickering and bright, in her palm.
It was a live coal, the metals glowing but not burning off, not really, incandescent with their heat. An ever-shifting mixture of scarlet and ocher, curved on the bottom, jagged on the top, like the inside of a smile. Between her fingers, far away on the ground, a fountain was pouring color onto the concrete, delicate white sparks blurring together in the distance. She blinked, and they were close, separate, her bare feet were stable against the rough cement road, and the willow, it seemed, was almost done fading away.
In front of her eyes the fountain began shooting red and blue fish, big globs of color like thrown paint. The golden stars afterward burst into little cross-shaped thatches of gold, the sound reminding her of rain as they hissed out of their tube. It was as if whatever had happened was total fiction. She'd missed, maybe, two minutes on the ground. If that. The fountain had just been lit when she... had she really left?... barely even past the stage of sending a tiny plume of copper sparks from the fuse. It hadn't been long at all. And of course, she never told anyone.
July fourth, years later, ages from when she'd become so obsessed. Sarah had just a second to rest between waves of a hand-lit show. Giant pink and green peonies burst overhead, the fuses--for the sake of her personal sanity--linked. Peonies send stars out in an even globe, with the goal of a perfect sphere of fire. Within the pink and green, there would be--ah, there it was--a ripple of violet. Unlike the other professionals, her shells were packed with colorant, and the dark, intense hues were her trademark. Small lift charges--another personal twist--she'd adopted later, with more experience, and better materials. They just bordered on unsafe. But the crowds loved being so close to the action. Sarah had to admit she knew exactly how they felt.
The finale would complete in just five minutes. Her signature ending note, a red and gold willow, sat between her feet waiting patiently. Years ago the colors had been so vivid and bright. She was almost sure that this time, her own mix was a perfect reproduction.
With a sigh, she reached down, absently tracing the burn scar on her palm. Curved on the bottom, jagged at the top, like the inside of a smile.
What she wouldn't give for it to happen just one more time.
--
July fourth, some year long forgotten, ages ago. She must have been a little kid, because she wasn't allowed to light anything big, but not too little, because unlike her brother she wasn't trapped on a grown-up's lap. The wind had laid down. It was late, the sky was dark and because of all the bright fireworks, it was devoid of stars, swathed in clouds of glowing smoke.
Staring up, neck craned back, she couldn't help feeling a little afraid. The colors spinning above her, drifting on the air currents, looked so bright and close. She could almost reach out... and...
Even now, years later, she isn't sure what happened. A fluke, a hallucination, she's afraid to ask, lest she seem crazy. But to her memory--faulty though it may be--she was there and those sparks were just missing her shoulders, shooting under her feet. She could feel their burning as they went by. The air was cold, frigid compared with the soft summer breezes below, and the smoke felt so hot by comparison, peppery, acrid, quickly cooling so far up.
On the ground, the boom of a shell made a little vibration inside her chest. This close, she could feel it head to toe. It rocked her to the bones. Every burst charge that went off went right through her, and up close, the sparks had so much more color. She didn't dare close her eyes, entranced, amazed, staring at every glowing star that went flying past. A few grazed painfully close to her, a couple singed hair, but she couldn't make herself be afraid. It wasn't that she didn't, at some level, understand that she could be hurt. But the fear just wasn't there-- as if she couldn't find the emotion, as if the place where it was supposed to be was out of reach. Wonder, curiosity, replaced it and there just wasn't room to be terrified between the color and the sound and the percussion inside her chest.
The next shell, she knew, came from her family far below. Its tail, a shimmering white plume, left a streak of heat up her stomach, and so close to her, the rush of raw, unbridled power when it burst registered as a flash of pain and light. But it wasn't a break-and-die kind of shell. It was her favorite, a red and gold willow, the bright sparks hanging in the air, drifting low for what seemed like hours. Without thinking, she reached out, unable to resist the final step, and caught a falling lump of fire, held it, flickering and bright, in her palm.
It was a live coal, the metals glowing but not burning off, not really, incandescent with their heat. An ever-shifting mixture of scarlet and ocher, curved on the bottom, jagged on the top, like the inside of a smile. Between her fingers, far away on the ground, a fountain was pouring color onto the concrete, delicate white sparks blurring together in the distance. She blinked, and they were close, separate, her bare feet were stable against the rough cement road, and the willow, it seemed, was almost done fading away.
In front of her eyes the fountain began shooting red and blue fish, big globs of color like thrown paint. The golden stars afterward burst into little cross-shaped thatches of gold, the sound reminding her of rain as they hissed out of their tube. It was as if whatever had happened was total fiction. She'd missed, maybe, two minutes on the ground. If that. The fountain had just been lit when she... had she really left?... barely even past the stage of sending a tiny plume of copper sparks from the fuse. It hadn't been long at all. And of course, she never told anyone.
July fourth, years later, ages from when she'd become so obsessed. Sarah had just a second to rest between waves of a hand-lit show. Giant pink and green peonies burst overhead, the fuses--for the sake of her personal sanity--linked. Peonies send stars out in an even globe, with the goal of a perfect sphere of fire. Within the pink and green, there would be--ah, there it was--a ripple of violet. Unlike the other professionals, her shells were packed with colorant, and the dark, intense hues were her trademark. Small lift charges--another personal twist--she'd adopted later, with more experience, and better materials. They just bordered on unsafe. But the crowds loved being so close to the action. Sarah had to admit she knew exactly how they felt.
The finale would complete in just five minutes. Her signature ending note, a red and gold willow, sat between her feet waiting patiently. Years ago the colors had been so vivid and bright. She was almost sure that this time, her own mix was a perfect reproduction.
With a sigh, she reached down, absently tracing the burn scar on her palm. Curved on the bottom, jagged at the top, like the inside of a smile.
What she wouldn't give for it to happen just one more time.