On a cold Chicago evening, in June, after a winter lasting longer than eight months, what warmth is sought through fire. The low dance of flame insulated by the description orange. It burns through circuits, rises beyond anxieties that disfigure the momentum of some dream. The ghost of an element that sears holes straight through the chest, destroying the casing of whatever we imagined protected our hearts from imaginary undoings.
In an attempt to sweep away the ashes of my imaginary undoings, I will compete in favor of the literary construct BURN at Write Club: Literature as Blood Sport on Tuesday, June 17th at the Hideout Inn in Chicago.
Show starts at 7:00 PM. $10 cover. If I win, a portion of the proceeds benefit the Chicago Women’s Health Center.
With Calcifer by my side, fire demon of folklore: May all your bacon burn.
See you there!