Black night sky pierced by bursting bubbles of color. Brilliance rains down on the back patio, singing blood-red bricks. Flames—leaping, dancing, hoping to escape—curl around the logs in the semi-lunar pit. Vigilant mothers reprimand squabbling children, “Don’t you dare put that sparkler in Claire’s mouth.” Fathers guzzle bottled beers, their cause a noble one; they are creating launch pads for errant roman candles.


Cuban grandfather in canvas jacket sits, the light show reflects in his cataract-ridden eyes. Alit by each Technicolor explosion, an expression of awe remains frozen in the upward slant of his imperialistic eyebrows. Impatient brother decides to take matters into his own hands; mayhem breaks loose as flying saucer unleashes its burning glory upon unsuspecting onlookers.


Spinning madly, uncontrollably. Apparently, experiencing a magnetic attraction to poor grandfather’s pacemaker. The smell of burning fabric alerts the patriarch of the impending disaster. Lucky for him, canvas jackets double as wartime armor. A doughnut sized hole laced with black ash, a badge of honor, leaves grandfather smiling proudly.

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