The men yakked of things past in ways making them present all over again. On the way from mouths to the fire, some things cooled before hitting the flames, a story dying with less violence than when it was born, switched out in the face of the story teller, who starts and looks around for a reminder of what he was saying. Not one of us can remember. We forget the stories that don’t burn. The ones that do, come from words that collect around the pit, taunting the flames with red-lipped whispers. Each syllable with its own perfect mouth breathing secrets on sparks, until the mouths multiply and a thousand tiny voices coil furiously, talking at themselves, at the fire and, all at once, the floating syllables caught in their own dance are struck by the lash of a burning tongue. The thousand tiny lips whisper their thousand last cries. We can always hear them hissing into the flames, then a familiar crackle inspires brief silence. We know how this works. Those stories burn but they do not die. Magnified by our reverence to them, they float upward, heaven bound, and lord over us until we rise to meet them.
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