Eating while flies swarm around my fresh-off-the-grill hot dog, I shield my eyes from the blazing July sun. Ketchup heated from the humid air slides off the meat onto the bun and then onto my fingertips, making a sticky tomato paste. Oils from the grill glisten in the late afternoon light. I practically inhale the hot dog, finishing it in less than a minute. Licking my fingers and wiping my hands on worn-in jeans, I try to erase the smell of grease off my skin.
Later that evening, I spot a group of friends lighting sparklers in the soccer field at the county recreation center and sprint over to grab a few before there aren’t any left. The adults tell us to stand like a statue and to hold our arms out as far as possible while they use a lighter to ignite the mini-fireworks. This is what I live for as a child of nine: lighting things on fire and not having a care in the world; pyro and mania. Independence ran through my veins like a drug.
Shwoop, a sound similar to air being sucked out of a tube, is emitted from across the open field where firetrucks are assembled. Pop is heard next and the twilight sky is painted with purple streaks of explosive matter. A crackle and sizzle follow as the fireworks fizzle out. Another explosive is shot into the air, this one a vibrant red, navy, and white for the United States. I gaze as one after another, fireworks are shot into the sky and light it up for over half and hour. Pyro, independence, and mania make one hell of a Fourth of July.
I'm thinking I'm going to be sharing some of my personal writing every Monday! This way, I can have initiative to keep up my writing outside of my blog posts. Hope you enjoyed.