My Cardboard Balcony

The Python Firework by Belinda Roddie The python firework lit up the sky in a spiral of red and purple flame, catching the cosmos, glinting off the eye of the moon. Its technician would proclaim success for the new, innovative way to celebrate good old Americans' attempts to bloat up Independence Day each year with hot dogs and shenanigans involving sparklers. One child was afraid of the great burning serpent, and he shied away from the display and quickly made his mother take him home. A father pried his daughter's hands away from the cold rail before she could hear the python's last wail.

The fireworks, for a moment, seemed to manifest themselves as colorful, ashy flesh - the lights disintegrating just a little in order to reveal the bones of the night sky. I could pick out the stars like teeth. They were sharp, burning hot canines, never incisors or molars. They were meant to tear meat. They were intended to shred the moon when they got too close. My companion stood alongside me for a while longer, eyes focused on the adjacent carnival.