Fourth of July

Houston 11 Beth Houston Fourth of July The women packed up their picnic baskets, and the men wound up their various competitions, and the hikers climbed up out of the woods as the sun scratched open the bleeding wound of the horizon. Kids' voices mocked the pop bang and arching screech of the firecrackers as they staked their territory and stretched out beneath the red white and blue sky, waiting for the real fireworks to begin. The whole town blanketed the wide grassy bullseye of the park as the first test flares crackled, sparkling on the star spangled banner of twilight. Then the big display detonated, overpowering the smaller fireworks of boys playing soldier—huge powerful explosions, the kind that echoed for miles through the hills, the kind you could feel pounding like a heartattack in your own ribcage, that made you want to plug your ears but of course you merely oohed and aahed and squinted your eyes to the blinding fact it all represented. Then the grand finale of bombs bursting in air exploded in a glorious warzone of kaleidoscope colors and patterns that wept like falling stars on the drape of darkness. And streamers of tears glistened on the glowing faces of the citizens as the ground display waterfall of lights flooded into an American flag and everyone covered his heart and sang the national anthem almost through— when several kids screamed and gradually everyone turned to see the boy of ten or so, his hair sizzling like a sparkler, his shirt smoking, his face charred with anguish at having just burned. Paramedics arrived in seconds, and the siren faded with the last crackle of the celebration of war into a moment of dead silence, then everyone drifted home, choking on the smoke, murmuring like the insane at the confetti of litter. ...