“Explosions in the Sky,” by Su Wu
She’d been hanging around for a few months before they let her near the gunpowder — the charcoal made of willow branches mixed with fertilizer, salt and sulfur. As it was, she wasn’t particularly consumed with fire. She didn’t dream of sparks. It was more the idea of putting care into something that was destroyed soon after — something that only happened once. She liked things that ended.
The whole room smelled like unsmoked tea, a bit sharp and dirty, of iron and copper and other things in your blood. A really big explosive is the opposite of disposable: it lasts no longer than enough. The casing is made of paper, with a small, hardened husk for flash powder and an ignition for a slow burning fuse. You handle it gently, and then suddenly, there’s nothing left.
One day, she was given an assignment: the square would be crowded for the lunar celebration, of people dressed in red to ward off the beast. There would be security there and stalls selling sticky cake. She checked her nerves; she was ready.
She made her way to the square and quickly lined up these things like life: nasty and brutish and over far too quickly. She lit the fuse and the lift went off, leaving a curling line of smoke, a sudden urge to sneeze. Look up at the raining stars, at the sparkling elements. Copper burns blue, calcium burns orange, lithium burns red, magnesium white. Fireworks.
