She was heading to the bonfire supper, an annual event held by the bookstore staff and friends of the town where the group would settle in a dead field, wrap themselves in blankets, light a small bonfire, and cook cans of beans and buttered peas, fry potato strips and sausages on a grill, and boil milk for hot cocoa. They’d sit with their backs against stray logs or lawn chairs, boot soles and pants wrinkled hot by the fire, swapping poetry and quotes while the lavender sky dissipated and the chill air drained down. They laughed and huddled and thought in silent communion about the power of words and the beautiful pain that they caused. Someone would bring a small transistor radio, usually Ash with her Sony portable that reached miles out with its plump antennae, and they’d listen to small stations from faraway towns. Voices talking weather and climate, world events, wrecks and injuries sustained, updates on technology and stories about soldiers in drunken war light.
Writing month, day nineteen, word count: 18,042