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Fireworks

Cody Fletcher

    The sirens blared outside the apartment window, one after another after another, chasing after each other like screaming children at a block party and the pop, pop, pop, down the street is just some fire crackers going off. Ida winced and stretched, joints popping and cracking almost as loud as the “fireworks” down the street. She winced as she stubbed her non-existent toe on some phantom hard edge. The doctor had told her that strange pains would be normal, like a tv long unplugged with the last image burned into the screen, and that the pain would subside over time.
    “Damn fool of a Doctor.”
    She wheeled over to her door, the tower of locks like some ancient iron bastion barring the outside from her. She went through the tedious ritual of turning every lock, like some strange parade of tumbling ovals, small flecks of white paint fluttering down like confetti.
    The last nob rounded is stationary route as Ida eased the door open and rolled across the hallway. She knocked loudly on her neighbor’s door, the booming echo of her gnarled echoed down the hall’s and rebounded back. Amelia Isaac Higginbotham had the only police scanner on her, and the 2 widows would huddle around the speaker like frat boys at a beer n’ wing buffet. She was tall as an oak, and blind as mole but she slept as fretfully as an old diabetic with no legs, so she and Ida would often waist away the late hours of the night, lamenting the fool children killing themselves in the streets with those “fireworks.”

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