The fire flickered and clicked against the cobalt darkness high up in the mountains. It had been a hot day. Too hot, really. The heat made things difficult. By evening the sun had vanished and with it the blistering temperatures. Some flies were buzzing like fighter squadrons but aside from those and the crackling fire, things were silent. Five people were huddled around the source of heat and light, this ancient magic, poking their sticks without purpose into the flames and watching the embers pulse like some wizard’s spell.

There was Tom: the mountain man, the man with the plan, the ax and the propane. The man’s man. He planned all these nature exploits, chopped the wood and built the fire. He took time to show the others what he did and why he did it that way. He had eyes for Meg but told no one for although his easy manner was likable and pleasant he was not in touch with his emotions. It was something he knew he had to work on but never set aside time for it, preferring instead whiskey’s easy solution. Alcohol made him friendlier. His best friend was Marvis.

There was Marvis: the gangly guy, the guy who made the food, the brooding depressed college dropout who found work at a chain restaurant. He was an unhappy man who loved to cook. Only when he was in the kitchen did he feel alive. His girlfriend had left him and he still had not recovered. That was four years ago and he often lived in imaginary scenarios that involved winning her back somehow. He was addicted to his delusions because they offered him a brief glimpse into a world he’d once taken for granted. His journal was filled with love letters he would never send. Cooking was a brief relief. Marvis worked with Jimmy.

There was Jimmy: the frightened boy. He was afraid of the trees, and the darkness between them. A hellish experience with LSD years ago with bad friends had created this fear, nurtured it, encouraged it to become a debilitating phobia. He was no longer friends with those people and he’d never told anyone why he was withdrawn. Jimmy did not want to worsen the problem but he did want to face it. Maybe a camping trip with some new faces would help. Someday he wanted to go into social work and atone for the damage his family had done. Amanda was his sister. They weren’t close.

There was Amanda: the tall pretty blonde who played the guitar and liked to weave white lilies into her hair as though she emerged fully formed out of a Led Zeppelin ballad. She enjoyed portraying these romantic mythic images that no human could ever fully embody but it did not bother her. Amanda called herself a recording artist but avoided details when others wanted to learn more. She floated through the world as if subtle gold dust fell off her shoulders, and men followed her as if they saw it. She lived with Meg.

There was Meg: a dark-skinned dark-haired dark-humored dark-SOULED art maven with an intense love of Wayne Barlowe and Zdzislaw Beksinsky. One wall of her apartment was mapped with prints by HR Giger. She was a quiet girl and enjoyed any opportunity to spend time with interesting people who knew things she didn’t. She was uncomfortable in her thin, un-feminine body, a result of living with Amanda most likely, and found some solace in baggy clothes that draped over her like a curtain. She had no interest in camping in the mountains but had a reluctant affection for Tom and his confident way in the world.

Tom tossed another log on the fire with one hand and took a swallow of whiskey with the other. Marvis stared unblinking into the flames, his thoughts inscrutable. The back of Jimmy’s head was crawling as he imagined unseen demons yanking him into the blankness of the trees. Amanda strummed on her guitar idly, muted E7 chords ringing out into the cloudy starless sky. In the orange light, Meg traced the lines of her newest tattoo and wondered if she should ask Tom to pass her the whiskey bottle.