The Nostalgia of Fireworks

Reads: 281  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Please read my short story The Nostalgia of Fireworks.

Submitted: June 02, 2013

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 02, 2013

A A A

A A A


I woke up New Years day. I didn't want to get up. The alarm clock said six thirty and I looked at it and thought I didn't want to live another day. I didn't was this New Years and I didn't want to suffer this symbolic turn over of time. I sat on the edge of the bed and put my socks on.

I walked out of my room and looked out a window. I could tell it was going to be a hot day. I would have to wear my blue bonds singlet to keep cool. I went out into the already heating up morning to sell poems. I sell poems. I read plenty of poems to keep up with current fashions of poetry and spend hours at my writers desk, a big heavy wooden number, scribbling in my thoughts book.

I meet friends all the way though town and cop many a Happy New Years from them. I meet one of my friends that has a unintellegent, numb, dunces face. He has a beard. I always admire a man with a beard. They take a conserted effort to grow. With my slow friend we exchange the simplest conversation. At the end he says Happy New Year. I say New Years doesn't make me happy and it is just a reminder of grey clouds that you see in life and then blow, floating over, your grave when your dead. I said don't wish me a happy New Years. The poor old fellow looked at me confusedly.

The day passed slowely and I stopped in the tavern for a beer. I don't usually drink alone but I had nothing else to do. Afterwards, I continued selling poetry with a ciggarette hanging out of my mouth. The beer made me feel tipsy, in my stomach, and made my head buzz. I didn't mind selling poems when I was drunk, I didn't write them drunk, so that was enough for me morally concerning people's critisisms and, me, showing respect.

In the afternoon I met up with an old friend. She was old, chubby, with disrepair and looked at you with narrowed bulgy, mothering eyes. Any guy knows it is good to have a friend like this. A female friend. Blokes'd pay a lot of money but I knew it'd never turn sexual, we'd been friends to long.

I chewed down salad those tasty greens dishing out there goodness. We ate our meals in that dainty little upmarket restaurant, shoving big fork fulls of food into our mouths. To say we were grateful was an understatement. In the dusty, dark, ceader restaurant we talked about the pension being to little and how we got over-charged on a special at the grocery store on a reciept and went back and saved $3.75.

I walked around the park by myself. I admired the green grass and the huge trees. I admired birds and watched children play on playground equipment. One child was crying, running after a ball, the dad of was - being cruel - and playing keepings off. The poor child. I smiled.

New Years day was evident. People all crowded around the seafood shop buying prawns earlier that day when I was passing through the shopping centre. It is amazing how people crowd so close together. There was a big crowed at the sea-food shop.

It was time for the 9.30 fire-works. It was dark. I don't mind fire-works. I love the sky, the peaceful, soothing, cool feeling from the sky. I didn't mind others were there. Infact, I felt a comradery with them. I shouldered my way through the crowed with my friend Dale. I had known him since I was a spring chicken, as they call them. Fresh to the esplionade. Dale had a trimmed grey beard and still had those moo-cow eyes, bright brown hazel that he had when I used to know him. He'd retained them.

We ebbed and shouldered through the crowed to stand near a water feature. Like the jets that, like urine that flooded out of those sprinkles in the fountain I felt polluted. I felt a terrible anxiety and a deep well rooted sharp pains of nostalgia shooting through my chest. Dale and I, and the minions that surrounded us, all the filth of the crowed, stared at the ceiling that busted out with fire-works. They were blury through my old eyes.

The End


© Copyright 2020 The Sheep. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:

Comments

avatar

Author
Reply

More Flash Fiction Short Stories