Chase Shustack

There had been fires, yes, but no one could pin down exactly why they happened or who had caused them.

Those who died in the Siskin fires, such strange and awful mysteries were given funerals.

They were quiet and dignified, much like the people themselves.

And they appeared briefly in the obituary section of the Gazette before it moved on to more important matters.

The Siskin High School gym and the furniture store at the Sycamore Hill shopping plaza were rebuilt in only a few days, with little to no aesthetic or visual changes.

Even the worn paint and cracks were replicated, a testament to the architectural skill of Siskin craftsmen.

By the time July rolled around, the town had once more adapted to its usual conservative routine.

The fire department remained active with small fires here and there, but never again experienced the violence that few could barely remember.

No one ever bothered to question Walter Green about his startlingly explosive mental breakdown, and no one ever gave the rows of fresh graves in the memorial cemetery a second glance.

and no one ever gave a second thought to the old Siskin lumber mill, which too had returned to its usual stillness.

The canted log, with its headline still engraved in the fungus-eaten wood, sat untouched in the yard, a forgotten prophet.

On July 2nd, right after dusk, the mill stirred.

Its machinery screamed to life once more, coughing, choking, and screeching in the still hours of the early night, before regurgitating another canted log down its chute.

In a few simple words, blunt enough to make even the most experienced yellow journalist green with envy, the log spoke of a fireworks disaster that happened in a little town somewhere in Pennsylvania.

Terrible thing, read the log.

Teenagers messing around with illegal fireworks during a 4th of July picnic.

It conjured up vile images of bodies blown apart, limbs decorating ruined barbecue parties, and sparklers wedged in eye sockets.

But then again, that sort of stuff is only a trashy rumor.

The stuff you'd find in gonzo newspapers and smut magazines.

And the good people of Siskin are smart enough to acknowledge that.