Black Fireworks

The fireworks were black. I didn't know who set them off, or where. But they amazed me. That night was fireworks night, were all the newbie firework makers show off their talents. Fierce golden lions, emerald fairies, blue slyphs, red salamanders. All impressive, amazing, awe-inspiring. And ordinary. I had seen this all before, five years running now. I only came because my little sister made fireworks and she always begged me to come. And I always relented, partly to shut her up and partly because I felt responsible for her.1

You've noticed, haven't you, that my reasons were nothing to do with the fireworks. I suppose I didn't like them. They were too loud and created flashing, distracting dots in front of your eyes. And while I slipped into my shell, hiding and wishing they would stop, everyone else laughed and danced. The fireworks seemed to weave a magic spell on them, intoxicating them more than wine. 2

The less-party goers sat with their boyfriends, kissing. Star-struck. No, firework-struck. They would murmer in each others ears', secrets and promises. In a way, I hated them more. They wore enough makeup to paste a fish, and ended up lathering half of it on their boyfriends. They laughed in high voices at every word their boyfriends said and smiled sweetly. They wore skinny jeans, mini skirts, tight T-shirts, fashionable.