Bubbles

One of the bubbles explodes, starting a chain reaction, and I reflexively jerk back —

“Dad?” Kell puts her hand on my shoulder, worried. “Are you okay?”

I grip the railing to reassure myself. I’m still on the porch, on solid ground. There’s no one around but the children, and the sky is quiet and empty blue. “No. No, it's alright,” I hurry to add. I smile at her weakly, and wince at the next string of pops — “It’s just a little loud, is all. Startled me a bit.”

Kell, quite rightly, doesn't believe a word of it. (Good girl, I think.) “Should I have them put up the bubbles?”

A particularly loud one (Boom) sounds — I try to ignore it, but I can tell by Kell’s expression I haven’t done a very good job. “No, no. Let ’em play. Besides,” I say, “maybe it'll do an old fraidy-cat good to see ’em used as kids’ toys, instead of weapons.” I pat her hand reassuringly.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see John (or possibly Jack) blow a stream of them at Jack (or possibly John). Fortunately for the blower, the bubbles all scatter and “popsplode” well before they reach their target, and their mother was looking at me besides. (They supposedly wouldn’t do more than sting if they hit, but Kell would probably ground the poor kid for life anyway. Boys.)

---

... yeah, I have no real idea what PTSD is like, and should probably do research before trying again.