Monday, November 17, 2008
She immediately wondered where he found the bone dry black fir. The fire spat out flaming gobs of pitch like one of Tolkien's dragons. Next to the fire sat the WhisperLight Camper Jet sending wisps of aromatic cowboy coffee plumes downstream. He had said that fire was for warmth and ceremony, and that nothing heats coffee quicker than white gas. But that was last night and now it was dawn, cold and crisp. Steam rose from the river. She could barely make out the tops of the cedar trees through the mist two hundred feet behind the vapor of her warm breath.
Where was he?
Her stomach moaned causing a chain reaction that launched her random access memory, opening a file called, "breakfast alliteration". The first footnote was from Illusions, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Illusions_(novel) by Richard Bach. The reluctant messiah, Donald Shimoda, comments that the pan bread, prepared with great élan by the author at a campsite one fall morning in a Mid-West cornfield, "kinda tastes like a flash flood in a flour factory". It had remained with her since the initial reading some twenty years prior. How do you forget something as perfect as that?
She could go for some right about now. And four fingers of that joe.
An owl hooted.
"Remember where you came from, where you're going, and why you created the mess you got yourself into in the first place."