We plant the bombs like flower bulbs, pushing them deep into the black soil of the moor.

The first explosion sends huge sprays of earth into the night. Laughing, Francis crushes his lips against my cheek. 'I told you! Just look at that!'� The second splashes more earth upward. The ground shakes.

For weeks after school, we'd copied plans from the internet; saving rockets from bonfire night; laughing as we sawed smuggled lengths of pipe.

Francis gestures. The third bomb detonates.

Sleeping at his house, I watch him, my insides sad, wanting to make him safe, to suck the anger from him.

I would, if he asked.

Face serious, eyes all pupil, Francis says, 'There's four. Where's the fourth?'�

I know Francis will leave it for someone else to find.

'I'm going to check,'� I say.

'Don't be so fucking stupid. Never go back to a lit-'

A giant fist punches my chest. The world is badly tuned radio.

I feel his arms around me, cradling, pulling me to my feet. In the cold, his cheek is warm against mine.

I hear nothing but thick ringing.

He could be saying 'I love you'.

Kissing him, I taste soil and gunpowder.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...