Kids have a natural talent for doing risky things.

Sometimes those things are brilliant.
Sometimes they’re creative.
Sometimes they’re hilarious.

…and sometimes they are just plain stupid.

Me?

I had a special knack for doing things that somehow managed to be all four at the same time.

Growing up, one of my more “unique” skills involved fire. Looking back now, I realize that if my childhood had taken place a few decades later, someone probably would have gently suggested counseling for “pyromaniac tendencies.”

But back then?

It was just called being useful.

You needed a fire? I was your guy.

Flint, rocks, sticks, matches, magnifying glass, half a spark plug and a prayer—it didn’t matter. If I could make a spark, I could make a flame. And once that flame appeared, it was only a matter of time before it turned into a respectable little campfire.

At cookouts I was the designated fire starter. While the adults worried about seasoning meat and slicing onions, I was out back with charcoal and lighter fluid like some kind of primitive backyard wizard, coaxing flames into existence.

It was a skill I took a great deal of pride in.

Which, in hindsight, was probably a little dangerous.

Now that you understand my particular relationship with fire, let me tell you about a certain moment of curiosity that caused a minor emergency response in my neighborhood many moons ago.

The subject of that curiosity?

Fireworks.

More specifically—firecrackers.

Those tiny little explosives fascinated me. They were nothing more than small pieces of rolled red paper with a string sticking out of them, yet somehow they could produce a satisfying little pop.

One afternoon, one of the over-caffeinated brain monkeys that lives inside my head called an emergency meeting.

The question on the table was simple:

Why do they explode?

I mean, they were just paper… right?

A memo was issued.

And as soon as I could get my hands on a pack of them, I set out to conduct what I believed was a perfectly reasonable scientific investigation.

I managed to acquire a pack of about a hundred little firecrackers and began carefully taking them apart.

It didn’t take long to discover their secrets.

Inside the rolled paper was a small amount of silvery-gray powder—probably gunpowder or something close to it. Whatever it was, it looked suspiciously flammable. There was also a small string wick that had clearly been soaked in the same powder.

Naturally, I organized my materials like any proper scientist.

Wicks went into one cup.
Powder went into another.
The pieces of red paper wrapping went into a third container.

For a moment I simply stared at my collection of dismantled explosives and thought to myself:

“Huh. That’s it?”

They didn’t seem all that impressive when separated into parts.

So I decided to put one back together.

I rolled a piece of paper, poured a little powder inside, stuck the wick in place, sealed it with glue, and waited for it to dry.

Then I lit it.

…and nothing happened.

Well, not exactly nothing.

It fizzled.

There was a brief little sizzle, a wisp of smoke, and then disappointment.

I tried again.

Same result.

Smoke.
Sizzle.
No boom.

This was unacceptable.

So I studied one of the untouched firecrackers more closely. The only difference I could see was that the paper seemed rolled tighter.

Light bulb.

So I made another one, this time rolling it much tighter. I even added a little tape to make sure everything stayed compressed.

Moment of truth.

Match to wick.

Spark.

Sizzle.

The tiny burning ember slowly crept along the string like a fuse in a cartoon.

Then—

Pop.

A tiny boom.

It worked.

Big light bulb.

This is the moment when things usually go wrong in childhood stories.

Because once the brain monkeys realize something works, they immediately begin asking a much more dangerous question:

What happens if we make it bigger?

Within minutes I had launched Phase Two of my completely unauthorized backyard research project.

I dismantled every firecracker I could find.

Powder into the pile.
Wicks braided together to form one longer fuse.
Newspaper gathered for structural support.
Glue for reinforcement.

After a while I had constructed a small ball of newspaper packed tightly with explosive powder and threaded with a single long wick.

It was roughly the size of a baseball.

I stood back and examined it with great seriousness.

Something about it didn’t feel quite right.

Then I realized what it needed.

More power.

So I grabbed a large box of matches—about three hundred of them—and began carefully shaving off the red phosphorus tips. Those went straight into the pile. Some of the matchstick wood joined them for good measure.

At this point my creation looked less like a firecracker and more like a suspicious science project.

Still, it didn’t feel tight enough.

So I wrapped the whole thing in several layers of newspaper soaked in homemade papier-mâché paste.

Once that dried, I added two layers of black electrical tape.

Now it felt solid.
Dense.
Serious.

I nodded to myself.

Yes.

This would produce a very satisfying boom.

A creation born of youthful engineering, reckless science, and the boundless confidence only kids seem to possess.

I carried my creation out to the backyard and approached the old brick grill that sat near the back fence. Next to it, I dug a hole about thirteen inches deep. Carefully lowering the device into the hole, I stepped back and lit the wick using a long match.

The fuse caught immediately and began sizzling.

Satisfied with my work, I ran to what I believed was a safe distance.

The fuse burned slowly.

Too slowly.

After a minute I crept closer to check on it.

Still burning.

Still smoking.

This thing was going to explode any second now.

Then suddenly—

HISSSSSSSSSSSSS.

A thick plume of white smoke erupted from the hole like a miniature volcano.

Not a little puff.

Not a small cloud.

A massive rolling plume of dense white smoke that began expanding across the backyard with alarming enthusiasm. Within seconds the entire yard was swallowed by it, spilling into the neighbor’s yard and drifting beyond the fence toward the alley.

The air smelled like fireworks, burnt matches, and every questionable decision a kid could possibly make.

Naturally, I did what any responsible young scientist would do. I ran inside and pretended nothing had happened. From the window I could still see the smoke drifting through the yard. Then I heard something.

Sirens.

Getting louder.

And louder.

Then suddenly my mother burst through the house and ran toward the backyard shouting:

“¡Algo se está quemando!”

The fire station happened to be located just a few blocks away, and apparently the smoke was visible all the way over there.

Which meant they arrived very quickly.

They cut the lock on our back gate and rushed into the yard with hoses ready, spraying water toward the grill area where the smoke had originated. Slowly the giant cloud began to thin. Eventually the firefighters located the epicenter. There, in the dirt beside the brick grill, was a small hole filled with blackened mud.

Ground zero.

The firefighters studied it for a moment.

It did not take long for the adults in the room to begin forming theories. There was a brief conversation with my parents. The firefighters eventually packed up and left. And the neighborhood returned to normal.

Looking back now, I realize I was extremely lucky.

If that thing had actually exploded the way I had intended, it might have done some real damage.

Possibly to the grill.

Possibly to the yard.

Possibly to the kid standing nearby holding a box of matches and a terrible idea.

And yes.

I know what you’re wondering.

What happened to me afterward?

Well…

That’s classified.

We don’t talk about Bruno.

Let’s just leave it at that.

But yes.

I could start a fire pretty good.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.