[Lawtan]

The light casts down from a full moon tonight, sprinkling silver through the damp pine trees. Foot tall ferns mixed with thorny bushes and off-colored honeysuckle vines surround a clearing. A mist rises from the forest soaking the coats of those who cross through with numbing water. In the clearing is a circle of half-eaten foam chairs, salvaged from the dump, and carved log-chairs. Scattered dirt, mixed and uneven – a pit – serves as a centerpiece to the array. Freshly chopped wood, covered in canvas to keep it dry, lies nearby. A lone dead tree, hollow, stands in the clearing, 100 years old, ten years dead, it’s last long limb shattering the silver moon to twilight shade. Within the deadfall, a secret – a battered grenade of violet smoke, a hole drilled in and ignition removed, ready to sprinkle the colored potassium chlorate over a flame.

With soft crunches and the occasional complaint, a group of people pass through the bristles and thorns to the cleared ground. Quietly, one person takes off his backpack. Opening up a gathered assortment of small and long timber and dryer lint starter, he goes to the pit and sets up the fire. Taking the flint and steel, she strikes. Sparks shower once, twice, and a flame emerges from the starter. While she gradually builds the fire, a man with a binder of paper grabs the grenade. Using a spork, he scoops two handfuls out of the green thing, and returns it to its place. Giving one handful to the firestarter, the storyteller opens for the others.

“Welcome to the first meeting of the Bards of Taliesin. We are gathered here in the dark of the woods tonight to honor the Muses and spirits of literature. Tonight, we open ourselves to the Great Unknown of these woods. In the name of constructive creativity, I bid you step into this fairy circle, and leave the impossible behind.”

Both the storyteller and firestarter empty their hands into the flame, creating a white flash and a plume of smoke. They then sit on a rock near the fire, waiting for others to join in.