Every November, we gathered cooled firework sparkles from rooftops and gardens. The nights smelled of gunpowder. My feet slipped on the roof tiles, but I didn’t fall. We plucked sparkles from gutters and rested on chimney tops. The city was filled with sleep hush. I stared into my handfuls of sparkles until my eyes blurred with the jewel colours. I hid the green ones in my pockets. We washed the others and took them to the makers. We watched them put the sparkles in new fireworks. The same sparkles fell on Ancient China, they said.
We were the last firework gatherers. Now, there are no footsteps on the rooftops. Each year, the fireworks grew thinner until the November nights became silent. I wait for winds to blow the sparkles from hidden places. When I glimpse them in streets and hedges, I take them home. My rooms still glimmer with their colours.
About the author:
Rebecca Harrison sneezes like Donald Duck and can be summoned by a cake signal in the sky. Her best friend is a dog who can count. She was a finalist in the first Wyvern Lit flash fiction contest. Her stories can also be read at Pigeon Holes Magazine, Hermeneutic Chaos, Unbroken Journal, Fiction Attic, Remarkable Doorways Magazine, The Fable Online, Maudlin House, and elsewhere.