“What are those, Paolo?”

The man’s eyes fell briefly down to the child at his side, and then turned heaven-wards to join in parallel his gaze. It seemed unlikely the obvious was what was questioned: Celebration, all around. Percussive bombardment of the sky to herald in another year – Irish betrayed by the calliope that screeled the people’s anthem: Drunkenly sung, and always many mentioned, “Alas – our Kirsty.”

It seemed unlikely any of all of that was being questioned, therefor the father sought, again, to follow the child’s line of sight: Upwards, and towards the aerial display. The boy scowled into the sky with rigid fear, and the father wondered, “Fireworks? There’s smoke up there. Some branches. You see something in the tree? What’s it you see up there?”

The child answered, “Fingers.”.

Amusement faded quickly as the man returned his eyes, above, to resolve what appeared long, knobby-knuckled digits reaching from the darkened, clouded sky. Long tentacles wept down through the smoke and fire. Enshrouded; slowly, slinking towards the celebrants.

The word of warning yelled as Paolo ran with his son bundled in his arms was unfortunately timed with the widely sung, “Choir,” and was interpreted as the same by those in proximity.

What was seen, was later reported to authorities, but ignored. Those that reported declared the scene secured, until authorities, “Can determine exactly what was in those fireworks.”