If You Give a Dragon a Firework

By Zoe Anastasia 

“Let’s not say anything about fireworks to Mossy.” Grandma arches a brow as she carries a platter overflowing with red, white, and blue striped donuts to the front door. “I would hate for anyone to lose a finger today—or a talon.”

An emerald blur shoots through the open window, warbling a made-up song about strawberry shortcake.

I smile. “Don’t worry, Mossy is quite distracted. There’s no need to mention anything that could ignite.”

The tiny dragon slams into my shoulder and scrambles for a grip as we step into the sun-soaked garden. “Ginger! Did you see—”

A golf cart zooms toward our home and swerves onto the dirt driveway. Our new neighbors wave from the front seat. They’re wearing star-spangled sunglasses and dollops of sunscreen.

“How’re the festivities? Got some fireworks? We went all out this year. Bought five cakes!” Mr. Clark motions to a stack of fireworks piled precariously in the back. Twin boys hold it together with a death grip.

I exchange a glance with Grandma. This is Mossy’s first Independence Day—it’s not like he knows what “fireworks” means.

Mossy perks up. “Cake?” He sniffs the air and tilts his head. “Explosive cake?”

Oh great. He smells the gunpowder.

Mr. Clark chuckles. “Not that kind of cake.”

Grandma walks over to the golf cart, giving me a “you-know-what-to-do” look. She smiles at the neighbors. “I think I’ve about baked enough food for ten families. Would you…”

“Hey Mossy,” I whisper, drowning out Grandma’s words, “how about we get some early dessert?” I wave a donut in his face, but he’s laser focused on the fireworks.

I turn toward the picnic table where Grandma laid out our Independence Day feast, but Mossy only cranes his neck behind me.

“Nobody answers questions! What are colorful boxes? They smell like cannons!” He lifts into the air and barrels toward our neighbors’ vehicle.

“Mossy!” I chase after him. This can’t end well.

Mr. Clark ducks as Mossy swoops overhead and lands on the stack of fireworks. A massive box tumbles down. The boys gasp.

I lunge forward and catch it. The weight makes my knees buckle, but I pull it close and sigh with relief. Until I look at the artwork. A fire-breathing dragon smirks at me.

“Tell me about boxes!” Mossy bellows. “What are they?”

Mr. Clark frowns. “Fireworks! Haven’t you heard of them?”

Mossy glares down his tiny nose at me. “Nope.”

“His first year,” I say quickly. “Mossy, they’re just colorful lights. Nothing to get too excited about. Maybe next year?”

“I love colorful exploding lights! So much!” He climbs into the front of the golf cart, where Mrs. Clark is holding Grandma’s plate of donuts. “Can we have one? Please please please?”

Mr. Clark shrugs. “You gave us dessert, so I don’t see why not.”

Grandma’s eyes widen in horror.

I shake my head. “That’s really not ne—”

“Take that one. It fits a dragon perfectly.” He nods at the firework cake in my hands. “Well, we have to go now. Gotta start preparing for the show!” He pats his stack of fireworks, cranks up the music, and shifts the golf cart into reverse.

A moment later, we’re left in the dust, with Mossy flying around us in happy circles. “Yay! It’s gonna be the best night ever!”

I stare at the box in my arms—and the number in the corner. Twenty-five total shots. There’s no way we’re going to persuade the tiny dragon out of this.

***

As night falls, we set the firework cake in the center of the glade. Mossy, having just washed whipped cream off his snout, releases a flame to dry himself.

My heart stutters. “Careful!” I shoo him away and search for the wick. “If you want to light this, you must do it at the right time. Not while I’m standing over it.”

He bobs his head. “Can do that. Very good at that. Don’t want a toasted Ginger.”

I snort. “Thank you.”

“Tell me when it’s about to happen!” Grandma shouts from her lawn chair—a faint silhouette in the farthest possible corner from the dragon and explosives.

“Almost there!” I meet Mossy’s emerald eyes and tap the wick. “Light this section. Nothing else, you hear?”

He bounds forward, his little tail wagging in excitement. I really hope they don’t add dragon disclaimers to fireworks because of this.

“Ready!” I yell to Grandma.

Mossy breathes a small flame, igniting the end of the wick. The light shines across a sideways dragon face.

Wait.

That should be up.

That’s definitely not—

BOOM.

Lights explode across the yard, shrieking and wailing. The box shudders and flings itself in circles, shooting fireworks in all directions. The whistling pierces my ears. The box spins toward us.

I grab Mossy and dive behind our raspberry bushes. Red, white, and blue sparks explode around us. Ashes rain down.

The dragon wriggles underneath my arm. “Very scary, very scary!”

I hug him close until, twenty-five shots later, the fireworks stop and the night is again a blanket of darkness. Grandma climbs out from behind a tree. I stare at the side of the smoking cake.

Mossy inches forward. “Is it done?”

Grandma releases a tense breath. “That went about as well as expected. Everyone still count ten fingers? Talons?”

“Uh…” I brush a curl of singed hair behind my ear. “That was definitely my fault. Sorry about that…”

Mossy puffs up his chest like the dragon on the now-incinerated artwork. “Next year, I teach you fireworks! Nothing sideways allowed.”

I giggle. “No. Next year, we’ll stick with sparklers.”

He tilts his head. “What’s a sparkler?”

Grandma shoots me a look.

“Uh, who’s ready for bed?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Zoe Anastasia grew up in an Army family, moved all over the country, and discovered along the way that whimsical fantasy stories feel like home. She writes to illuminate the darkest places and show the girl tucked in the corner that she is seen and belongs. When Zoe isn’t daydreaming about magical humpback whales and butterflies who can speak, she’s usually wandering through nature or making apple cider donuts at her local pumpkin farm.

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