My party and I use the fire for everything, but telling stories. This century is too hyperkinetic — or do I mean telekinetic — for telling stories.
Telling stories overuses repetition, which is an obstacle to what my party and I are trying to accomplish here. Here, there’s a forest, a fire, some woods, blue night, a bear, cookware, hand-washing stations, paper salt and pepper shakers, a tent, ways to celebrate the new season of new rituals. Drop that bouillon cube in the boiling, hard-anodized pot; incense of camphor and sparklers; Tuvok’s meditation lamp, other ways to celebrate.
The rest of my party tends to the fire while I meditate. Fire rages, then dims, rages, dims, but all I see is one steady, comforting flame, so I walk right into it.
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