Marvelous 8th of February

Marvelous 8^th of February, my cousin and I returned home from a family party, back to my house. Three minutes pass and the call we’d been waiting for buzzed in my pocket. Another three minutes before the still-smoking hellfire red SUV came growling up the driveway and we hopped in and took off.

 

We arrived at the familiar door and entered. Ascending the stairs, the room lowered into place in front of us. People, in constant conversation, standing in one spot but speaking with juxtaposed movements.

 

Thin lines of smoke rose and were sucked into the collected fat globule sea above. Adding to the surreal was a television, not being watched, silent or maybe just muted by the large speakers screaming out musical blitzkrieg. I needed to find my friends. I slid out between the sliding doors and onto the patio.

 

Cannon fire rang out less faces out here but a variety of personalities at my disposal. My friends are here. Huddled and talking excitedly amongst themselves. A man with glazed eyes was out on the grass lighting fireworks aimed into the forest. Stumbling and falling and igniting another, the next.

 

Red and green explosions and pops and more cannon fire, ricocheted off the tall foreboding trees. Dazzling lights, blurs falling into a bubbling vividness and once again sparking down the dark silhouette.

 

Another cannonball.

This one finally sinking the ship and crew to their tangled seaweed graves.

The group that had accumulated now moseyed back, into the house and left the man and his havoc. We took seats around a large wooden table that had open cans and a destroyed food container, holding the skeletal chicken.

 

The ashtray was full, brimming with bent filters and buried ash. The embers at the bottom glowed and faded, quickly and became part of the mound. I was certain someone would come along and dump the excess and I had no doubt it would be filled again.