Tuesday, December 10, 2013


Brian Williams is still in South Africa, reporting on the death of Nelson Mandela.  He wears a charcoal grey tie striped with bright yellow diagonals.  There had not been a car or truck or motorcycle or any sort of vehicle whatsoever down the road in hours.  He wasn't all that surprised; it was, after all, a tiny country with only a relative few vehicles anyhow.  Add to that the late hour, and he knew he had to find a spot to spend the night.  "Poor planning, poor execution," he said out loud to no one but himself, just to hear the sound of something in the darkness.  He veered away from the roadside into a cleared area where a beaten-down shack leaned.  It was useless to try to gather anything for a fire.  It was already warm, and there wasn't anything around to burn.  He chuckled when he thought of the three boxes of matches in his backpack. "What for?" he said aloud.  "What for?"  He took out a box, slid it open, and grabbed a match.  He struck it expertly on the side of the box and a flame jumped to life.  Holding the match, he watched it glow yellow and burn down to his fingers, fascinated.  He took out another and did the same thing, then another and another, watching them all burn bright in the deep dark night.