by Rebecca Brown
We are incandescent in darkness, in the campfire’s copper glow, its rollicking flames. The trees beyond our circle soar through shadow–beyond the beyond, the safety of our A-frames. But between them, the night is so thick, so unfathomably deep, we know our flashlights will soon become sabers.
We are not yet ready to battle the night.
Sabrina, Jenny, Chris, and I giggle-whisper between camp songs sung joyously off-key. We cackle when Matthew swallows singed marshmallows, when Katie’s are gobbled by flames, when Max stuffs chocolate bricks and graham crackers in his tiny mouth. We shiver and think fondly of our sweatshirts strewn on each other’s sleeping bags. But one look at the night, and we huddle closer together.
We are not yet ready.
Instead, we speculate about counselor crushes, realizing two of our favorites have disappeared. Are they making out by the white oak? Lost on coiled trails? Attacked by bears we’ve been told are “likely not” in the area? We slap at mosquitos who penetrate the layers of toxic spray encasing our skin. We adjust our stiff, bright friendship bracelets, soon to soften from showers, sweat, sleep.
Finally, the camp director strums a John Denver tune. Her St. Bernard yowls. We find our harmonies at last, for this is the grand finale—and the song is a benediction.
We rise, linking arms, brandishing flashlights. We mutter our prayers to the Duracell gods. Sabrina, the bravest, pierces the darkness first. The night does not cower.
I think, “We are still not ready.”
But we run together, squealing, shrieking through the beyond. Our light bounces from trees to trails to shadows we still cannot breach.
Tomorrow, we’ll nestle in all the brightness of home.
Tonight, we are girls who, for a few moments, need to dare the darkness.
Rebecca Brown works in higher education by day; by night she writes poetry, horror comedy, and, more recently, flash nonfiction. She has several academic publications, including book chapters, reviews, and a co-edited volume of essays. When she’s not sitting at a computer or talking to the resident community cat, she’s usually reading about monsters or meandering a park trail.
Emerge Literary Journal 