Bring your creative kindling to our campfire!

Contour and Consequence

Smoke, smoke, smoke. The man with the fire is a good man. I can hear the purple heat. It’s all curled and wavy like the sea. I wish I knew where the beacon had fallen. Maybe the man knows. He’s good, but not good enough to keep me away.

To have been born in the morning was a mistake. All I can remember is the rain on that day. It’s coming back. The rain. It was warm though. Or was the feeling of the saline? Of the IV?

I can feel something heavy in my chest. I believe it’s my heart and it’s full of memories that I can’t remember. Tuesday afternoon walks. The sun is good.

There is music. Where did the music come from? Perhaps it was the sigh.

I’m afraid. Not of the fact that I don’t remember, but of the fact that I can fear.

This is death.

At least I believe it is death. Are the memories and feelings mine? Or do they belong to all of us?

A girl. A poem. A bird.

Why is this what I took with me? And how long can I hold on to it?

Do I want to hold it?

I do.

Please. Just for a moment longer.

I can feel it slipping.

Down the hall

Of my consciousness.

Every contour and consequence of life


How wonderful and sad it would be

to make one last call