Kennedy Hoss of Musket

Chapter 7: Light 'Em Up

Holding the bits of charcoal in my hands, I do not know what to do. I play the thought over and over in my head; these are not my parents these are not my parents. But I know they're dead, I'm certain of it, but I don't understand where they could be. My mouth goes dry and I want to scream at Hannibal. Surely she has some explanation for this. I'm considering asking Dr. Rosary, when something inside me splits. No. Why should I?

Dr. Rosary is the head of our town. We barely had enough money as it is, but in one way or another, it all circled back to him. That wasn't right. Maybe Musket is small, and maybe it isn't very resourceful, but it's my home. People live here. If this was America, shouldn't everybody matter? Why should something as simple as a fence keep us from our rights, our equal treatment, our only way to get help? It shouldn't! And somehow, I needed to make people realize it, and I had a pretty good idea of how.

I grab my father's old belt from under the sink with the straps and pockets on it and snake it through the loops on my pants. Holding the cloth over my mouth, I first empty the ashes in the bowl back into the jar, and then the contents of the colander. I secure both of my parents' jars firmly in the belt. Lastly, I pull on my pair of black military lace up knee high boots.

Outside of my house, there's a tiny woodshed that's been locked since my father died. I approach the shabby door and send my foot barreling into it. The door falls with a cloud of dust sealing its surrender.

Inside, I see a few boxes of rusty tools and some cobwebbed crates. What catches my eye is a large wheelbarrow in the corner with a tarp placed over it. With little hesitation, I whip it away.

My breath catches in my throat and I can feel my eyes widening at the sight.

Firecrackers of all shapes and sizes tower in the wheelbarrow before me, a bit dusty, but usable. Quickly, I throw the tarp back over the wheelbarrow and tie it down with some rope. I take the two handles and carefully ease it out of its hibernation, thanking my lucky stars that the wheel isn't flat.

I run over to Crow's house first. The adults in Musket work from 6 to 10, unless they have a job here or work for days on end. Crow's mom is at the sewing shop, and his father is probably working livestock. This means I don't have to worry about Crow's parents, or anyone else's.

"Crow!" I cry, hammering my fists on the doors of his barn-house. I throw a few stones at the windows of the hayloft where he sleeps. There's been glass placed in them, so he hears me below. He runs down and opens the door in record time.

"Bring out your ash jars,"

I say, breathing a bit hard. He gives me a quizzical look. "No time, just do it."

With that being said, I take the wheelbarrow and run it across to the ash jar tree. I break the long wooden handles off of it. It's at that moment that I see a truck back out from behind Allderman's. In it's bed I make out a long shadowy shape covered in a blanket or tarp. The truck is barreling towards Twain. Something clicks into place. Holding the handler firmly, I turn away from the scene and run across town to the rows of houses with them. Holding them firmly, I run along the houses letting the handles bang noisily on the doors. Lights flick on. I start screaming.

"BRING YOUR MATCHES AND ASH JARS!" I cry, picking up the pace. Behind me, I hear undistinguished sounds of voices and doors shutting, then the sound of feet thundering across the ground.

When I reach where I have placed the wheelbarrow, I untie the ropes securing the tarp and stand on the fence with a newfound pride. Before me, I see what appears to be all the kids in Musket standing in front of me, clutching their jars. Most have one, others two, some have more. I take my own out from my belt. Taking a moment to catch my breath, I hold my mother's jar high above my head.