Cinders

     The cinders burn black dots on my skin as we watch the men with sparklers run
down the street. My brother nudges my shoulder, smirking as he dares me to join the stampede. I inch my glasses up with my knuckle as I inspect the frenzied protesters, their heavy march sending vibrations through the village. “I bet you won’t,” he prods. I glare at him and step off the curb, becoming engulfed into the crowd. The splintery wood of a “fuck the government” sign strikes my jaw and I hear the crunch of my glasses as ashes burn my cornea.