I didn’t see it coming. Traveling alone, many summers ago, I stumbled onto a festival in an ancient Spanish city. Revelers milled over cobblestones, under ironwork streetlamps. Calloused fingers strummed guitar strings while men in white shirts and tailored vests danced with women in florid dresses that flared as they twirled, this way and that. My clothes didn’t match the occasion, but I met only smiles and warm glances, so I followed as the crowd spilled across an esplanade toward the stonework walls overlooking a broad river. I felt strangely at home.
Across the water, a small flame lit up in the dark. People around me held their breath as distant fuses hissed and tiny, invisible rockets took flight. I followed their eyes, expecting a civilized drizzle of sparks above the water. Instead, something exploded directly over our heads, a thunderclap and a burst of light, close enough to fill the sky and dampen my hearing. An errant launch? No. The people around me tittered and gasped as more followed, a convulsion of color and brain-rattling percussion that felt close enough to touch. I gaped like a child, neck craned, until something smacked me in the face.
A black streak. An impact, against my right cheekbone. I only felt the echo, then a sting. My hands shot up in a defensive reflex that came too slow, but my fingers found no blood. Looking around, I spotted the culprit still rolling on the ground and held it up to the shifting light. A sphere, charcoal black, half an inch across, missing a small chunk that must have been chipped off by my face. An undetonated pyrotechnic. A dud. I imagined what it might have done to my eyeball had it landed an inch north, and shuddered.
Fireworks have never been safe. They cost us limbs and fingers, eyes and ears, buildings and forests. Like mortars without shells, they paint ephemeral images of war onto the world around us. They were designed for that, centuries ago, to strike awe and celebrate the might of the powers that be. Back home, they sing of the rockets’ red glare — but only resonate as far as their thunder is permitted to roll. Safety first! That’s reasonable. Fireworks are about as exhilarating as they are dangerous, but I never expected to be the target.
With the dud in my hand, I felt untouchable. This was the one with my name on it. And it missed. So I buttoned it into my shirt pocket like a talisman and got back to the show. Later, whenever I needed to call up that feeling, I’d pull out the dud and roll its chalky surface between my fingertips. But life changed, as it does, settling into a dull but comfortable routine, and the dud disappeared. Or so I thought. Not long ago, I was organizing a box of memories when I heard a curious rattle from an old black film canister. Popping it open, I breathed a little easier.
This story appears in the July/August 2025 issue of DeseretMagazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.