Sometimes, when I don’t recognize the ghost looking back at me in the mirror, I think of the fireworks on the lake. I think of the whistling right before the explosion, spider webs of light streaking across the sky, the water coated in a thin film of ash and memory. I think of my brother in his hoodie, staring up a night sky that was alive with the burning remains of freedom. He was the fireworks, and I was the ground: bathed in his light, in awe, lucky to be burned by his embers.
I think of the ghosts I always assumed were waiting in the woods to haunt someone, too, and I realize that I can relate to them. I haunt the trees around our house, the furniture in our bedroom, the dishes in our kitchen. I stand on the back steps and stare at the trees, and I’m no longer a human, not quite a memory, but somewhere in between, some limbo that I share with Harvey and all his flaws. He’s a gas giant, glowing red and hot in the emptiness, and I am the cold, rocky world that can’t quite escape his gravity. I’m happy here. I’m okay with falling slowly toward the surface, the fiery death of a satellite.
I've thought about going back to the lake, but after that year, there were no more fireworks. Eventually, the whole park closed and everyone went home and never came back. All that’s left are the stars overhead, the distant band of the milky way, explosions of white hot heat so far away now that we’ll never know them again.
|Publisher:||Roman Theodore Brandt|
|File size:||65 KB|
About the Author
I was born in the wastelands of the American Midwest, and I still live there, much to everyone's regret. I started writing as a teenager as a side effect of what psychologists refer to as the "personal fable." I believed that I was unique, that my personal life story impacted the world, and that the world revolves around me. In my mid-twenties, I picked up writing again because I was sick of reading slosh and tired of having to go back fifty years to find books I actually want to read. I was especially over the only gay literature available in 2008 being soft core porn romance bullshit with jacked, oiled-up porn stars on the covers. I decided that if I wanted to read something that wasn't 500 pages of comma abuse and boners, I'd have to write it myself. So I did. It may not be the best, but it's what I want to read. Thank you for the support, and I hope my writing means something to you as well. I don't do flashy covers, because a good story speaks beyond the cover. I want my stories to pull readers in by the weight of their contents. Follow my author page on Facebook so I can feel special! The link is on my profile here.