Burning the FieldsThe air isconflicted bycontrasting scents:the sharpness of fire,the cool, gritty mud.You feel the heatbehind Plexiglaswindows, as earthboundthunderheadsunfurl like chiffonhems from acream couture dress.The sparks are lickingand biting at theclay colored sky.She would look perfectjust standing at theedge of the fire.
Legendarium"Its like watching the best movie ever, says The Author, but you canonly explain it to others using sign language.Might as well show photos to the blind.The Author onstage: her soft hands in the pocketsof a green panda hoodie. Black emo glasses, short hair.Any and every unassuming student.Onstage, instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment: Recycled news footageof fans in line for 6 am signings and midnight releases.The camera pansover breathless, expectant, bespectacledfaces in robesand wizard hats.When you have a story in your head for this long, it becomes everything.Shes drawing faces in the margins of notes, faces shes been drawingfor well on twelve years. Shes writtenabout as many pages.Its not the fame I want, not exactly. Not in this industrywhere pop is king and your novel is only worthso many matinee movie tickets. She says, Anyway, itd make a horrible movie.