Fireworks: A Short Story

Writers Statement
The stimulus for this piece of writing was “What other choice did he have?” There isn’t really a particular audience for this text, although it probably isn’t appropriate for anyone under the age of fourteen and would likely be more commonly read by young adults. Furthermore, I have written this piece in a third person narrative. The purpose of my piece of writing was to give emotion to the reader/audience.

Fireworks

What other choice did he have? There hadn’t been any other way. The gun shook in his hands, slightly smoking, as his arm lowered to his side. The crimson liquid that now poured from the young boy’s body stained his shirt and the cheap shoes he was wearing. A bag, green in colour, lay next to the boy, somehow

The sun had just begun to set when he left, and now the moon was high up above him. The night was eerily quiet, or maybe it was just him. Maybe he didn’t want to listen to the world anymore.

A dull ache had begun in his side. Lifting his shirt, he saw a large bruise beginning to form. His memory flashed to the struggle with the boy and he visibly cringed. The boy that now lay at his feet, dead, had been merely fifteen, he had barely lived. And he killed him for what? A wild goose chase that had led him nowhere? A senseless game someone was playing with him? He yelled in frustration, pulling even more at his hair. His head pounded softly against his skull, reminding him that this wasn’t a dream, no matter how much he wanted to wake up.

A small bundle fell out of his pocket as he attempted to stand. He sat back down and picked it up. It was his wallet. A small thing it was, bound with leather and stained with small spots of coffee - it had been a gift from her. It contained scarcely anything – a $10 bill, multiple credit cards and a driver’s license that was due to expire in less than a year. As he opened it a faint smile etched across his face. A small photo, around the size of a business card, sat in the wallet. The photo was of a young girl, eight years of age, her features almost identical to her mother’s spare the dark locks she gained from him. The photo had been taken two years ago; only

How many people was it okay to kill, just to see her face again? See her smile like she had discovered the world for the first time or hear her laugh, laughter that could light up even the darkest of days. Watch her eyes light with excitement when the neighbour’s dog found its way into the backyard, again, or feel her soft hands wrap around his neck when they watched the fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Every year they had watched the fireworks, she had loved them. The way the bright colours would light up the entire sky in flashes, the distinct echo after each bang, the way everyone would ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ and how she would giggle at how silly they sounded. But all the bad things he had done just to see her again, they hadn’t been worth