Outside of the Fox Hunt country club the royalty of East Tennessee golf society slowly begin to gather, waiting for the long summer day to die, for the darkness to become sufficient to allow for the fireworks. With the catering, bartending, and the massive pyrotechnic setup, it’s one of the few events of the year that the rarified citizens of Fox Hunt mingle with the common folk who serve their food and clean their houses and, on this occasion, blow stacks off of deliberately constructed black powder tubes.
All of that is forgotten to the young Tim Hanes, though, as he sneaks behind the safety cordon the fireworks team has put up to keep out the curious. Tim watches the rockets launch into the air with some indifference until something goes wrong. He knows something is amiss before it happens, watching the firebugs scramble in a panic for a few seconds before leaping away from a shadowed pile that is nothing more than a silhouette to Tim.
But then the pile transforms into a burning explosion, all of its stars hurling burning the ground instead of the night air. It’s as close as Tim has ever been to real danger and it freezes him solid, the heat of the chaff flying by him, phosphorous flares raining down around him, inches from his face. He’s not hurt by any of it, but it burns him nonetheless, the placidity, the privilege, the comfort of his position peeling away from him as the shockwave washes over him.
When he plunges into war, years later, against the protests of parents, priests, and peers, he thinks of that moment, never really having left it, and never tells anyone of it.
See the author’s published work here.
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