Pink

The boy flicked his thumbs and two flaming jets shot out from the tops of his fists. “How did you get those lighters?” the volunteer said while at the same time conceding to his possession. If there was ever a time for a pyro at English camp, this was it. The volunteer had already squatted for half an hour lighting the fuel of half a dozen Chinese lanterns, and the solid blocks were living up to their quality – his fingers were covered with hardened bits of the waxy fuel that had dripped down before liftoff. And not all were achieving liftoff – the beach was littered with the skeletons of the overzealous and impatient. Yet, with steady hands and a little bit of verbal encouragement, a lantern would delicately lift from one’s fingertips and join the glowing host rising into the sky as the sun took a bow and acquiesced to the dusk’s new light.