It’s Guy Fawkes night! That wonderful day of the year where we celebrate the burning of traitors. Here’s a short romance for the occasion.
Jason snuggled close to Bri, his head resting on his shoulder. A few feet away, sealed off behind barred fences, flames leapt, kindling crackling, the Guy at the centre (which for some reason looked more like father Christmas than Guy Fawkes) already turned to ash. Around them a few couples were doing the same, blankets spread out under them. Groups of friends, students and teenagers stood huddled together, wrapped in hats, gloves and scarves, some of them waving sparklers in the air, trailing their names, letters seeming to linger just a fraction of a second before dissipating.
In the distance fireworks cracked and popped, sending showers of red, green and gold falling from the night sky.
Bri curled an arm around Jason’s shoulder, and they sat together as the flames sank lower, the embers smouldering, the fire dying.