You’re learning, says Raven. A bit soft in the head, but at least you’re progressing.
I put another piece of kindling in the flames, keeping the fire. It’s fire season in the forest. While there is no big risk of flames causing mass destruction here, of all places, I try to be mindful of the possibility and restrain the firebug inside. It seems like that critter has vacated anyway, which is just fine by me. My inner firebug got me into as much trouble as fun over the years and I’m tired of manufactured crises.
What? Are you not talking to me?
I look up, shrug, look back to the flames. Odd thing, I say. I’ve found I have less and less to say these days. Writing… Talking… I’ve been more inclined towards silence I guess.
It wasn’t that One game we played, wassit?
I shake my head, not looking up. Nah. I was going towards quiet before that happened. No harm, no foul. I’m just grooving on the quiet. I’m thinking it might be my new thing.
They hop towards me and perch next to me on the log that has been coopted as my chair this evening. I glance over and marvel at how their black eyes mirror the short flames of the campfire.
Your game sucked, though. I thought I should mention it.
It was meant to be amusing to only one person.
I point by way of thumb at Raven.
You’ve got it.
I toss on another small branch. It is just heavy enough that it kicks up a few sparks, which danced in the manner of the fae before they wink out of existence, with less life than a mayfly.
Are you ready for another game? they ask.
Not really.
Too bad, you’re getting a new game all the same.
I snort. Could this one at least be more amusing? Maybe a little less drama? Maybe suck significantly less than the last one?
It was their turn to make something that sounded like a mockery of my own snort. That’s up to you, Young Grasshopper.
I’m no Kane. But how is it up to me?
It’s always up to you. Eventually you’ll understand that. Even if your head is as soft as fresh cowpies.
I sigh. Fine… When does it start? Our “little” game?
It started before you were born. We’re just now getting to an interesting part. Any time now…
I turn to ask them to explain what that’s supposed to mean.
The log is empty.
I turn back to the low fire and add some more fuel, resisting the urge to pile wood on it until it becomes into a bonefire. Bonefire, bonfire. Does it matter?