Short-fuse

Here's a fun little piece from an online forum I'm always on. I was given a one-word (or one-phrase) writing prompt. It was given at random, and I had just had to write something related or inspired by the word. Nothing very long. I scribbled it out in less than an hour without revising. My word was Short-fuse. This is what I came up with:

“Why even bother with all of this, Bobby, you know how you get.”

“Because, Ev,” Bobby griped, “I’m a patriot, and this is what we do on the Fourth.”

“You fought for your country’s freedom hon, isn’t that enough?”

“That will never be enough!” he barked, realizing even himself that he was teasing the cusp. He settled the matchbook into his trouser pocket. Letting the fervent July air enter his weathered lungs, he gathered himself. His line of sight climbed the flagpole in his front lawn. Old Glory awaited his gaze atop the pole, dancing a tired dance in the evening’s tepid breeze. For the first time Bobby saw the banner as a piece of defeated cloth. It seemed to yearn for the ground, as if too much had been asked of it. Not unlike the old man, he thought.

Evelyn knew her husband had calmed down. Her concerned expression was transitioning into a neutral one on her wrinkled mug. The war had rendered her lover an emotional wreck. Undiagnosed bipolar disorder, she was sure. So what if he had crawled across mine-riddled fields for a handful of months so long ago, she thought, she had been the one evading explosions in the many years since. However sure-footed for her old age, she hadn’t taken a comfortable step in decades.

“What’ya say we do one more and head on in?” Evelyn suggested.

“Yeah… okay, babe.”

Bobby was calm now. He collected the matches from his pocket and an unspent mortar. He struck a match and introduced it to the wick. Evelyn caught a glimpse of a courageous man in the orange glow that painted her husband’s face. The smoky scent of sulfur yielded a mild ache in her head.

“Drop it, hon.”

“Wanna make sure it doesn’t go out,” Bobby retorted, despite the lively sparks darting at him. He clutched the small explosive as the sparks raced down the wick. Daring it.

“Dammit, Bobby,” Evelyn snapped, “drop it in!”

Bobby placed the mortar into the canister.

“I know what I’m doin’ Ev, don’t you question that!” The composure was gone. Evelyn paused, anticipating the bang. There was no bang.

“Son of a bitch,” Bobby spit, and started over to the canister. Yeah, the blast of the mortar would rattle his soul, but he owed this to his freedoms. To his country.

“Give it a minute, Bob.” Evelyn held out an arm in a weak halting gesture.

“It’sa dud…” His voice trailed off. He leaned over the canister and peered into the cardboard cannon. “Damn thing’s upside-down, wick’s on the bottom.”

Evelyn remained silent. She didn’t know why. She knew Bobby should’ve tipped the canister over. Maybe the old woman was too worn out from avoiding mines. Jaded from living in fear.

Evelyn didn’t jump when it went off. She simply watched as the explosion devoured her husband’s face, granting her a freedom forever unknown to Bobby.