Read Online One Night Burns (The Vampires of Livix, #1) by J Gordon Smith - Free Book Online Page B

louder and everyone moved to line against the parade barriers. Some took places in the parade as the marching band streamed from behind the Mayor’s stage and went around the town square. The band made three loops around the town square allowing people to join in their positions in the tornado of sound.
    Garin and I laughed at the little kids on scooters with driving hats and suspenders. Church groups eased by on floats. Old time tractors chugged along pulling a threshing machine. Wagons pulled by horses advertising a local riding stable. The police rode horses. A group of outlaw cowboys clicked by with their spurs ringing to the beat of music having also affixed heal and toe taps to their boots. Ten feet tall guys and girls on stilts strode by with teens on skate boards and unicycles weaving among them. A low pair of mid-century cars with excessive tail fins drove by. Placards hung on the sides by the local dentist offered kids coupons for every pound of candy brought to him from the parade. Right behind the dentist a big ring of little old ladies in lace tossed fistfuls of candy at the kids on the curb. Some kids from the crowd darted out between the dresses and lace and snatched up the bits of candy that fell.
    The low rumble of a local Harley-Davidson rider group rode by on highly polished bikes. Most of them wore modern riding leathers but riveted tall stovepipes on top of their helmets. “How tall do you think those hats are?”
    Garin squinted, “Must be at least five feet tall.”
    Behind them circled a dozen classic big-wheel bikes. They zipped and turned and twisted among themselves so much I worried they would collide. A full fife troop came next dressed like they strode out of General Washington’s army. The snare drums rolled and struck the beat of the march. Exquisite uniforms covered them down to the long buttoned coats that trailed below the knee.
    Garin poked my side a little too roughly. I glared at him. He said, “See those coats? I sense they’re coming back. A lot of Festooning there.” I poked his chest.
    A group in full Civil War gear followed. First the Confederate States Army and then the Northern Union Army as if the North still chased the Southerners across Georgia, but in a gentlemanly way.
    “Look at that.” I bumped Garin. “Every so often the front line of the Northerners and the back line of the Southerners break out and fight.”
    Garin said, “They’ve been practicing a lot. That’s a completely choreographed brawl of sabers and bayonets with a lot of show. That’s new this year.”
    “Amazing. Look at the guy on the end! He’s funny.”
    Real veterans of recent wars followed the progression. The surviving World War Two soldiers now well into their eighties. They rode and waved from the back of a vintage pickup restored by the local produce store. Behind them followed the subsequent major confrontations. The audience stood and clapped and cheered for them. Local hopeful politicians ran behind with their wives and kids and friends handing out buttons and candy and fliers.
    “This is the part I always liked,” I pointed behind the hardware store float that crept passed us. “The Parasol Ladies Dance Corps. Several dance companies get together and do this.”
    Late high school, college, and younger women danced with parasols. An outer ring of the older women who wanted to participate but avoided the serious dancing wrapped around the real action of the group. About half the women dressed in shades of white lace while the rest wore dark colors reminiscent of Victorian peacock feathers with green, mauve, ebony, and chocolate brown.
    They made a twirling dance of good and evil played out with parasols and sweeping skirts. Sometimes the hero and villain battled with folded parasols like swords. No words said amid the artful motions and marching feet. The story told in dramatic gestures of weeping and wailing when the hero was wounded and vigorous dancing when the villain stumbled