Doe Branch, NC

I ran away last week. To the mountains. Past Asheville. Near Marshall. To Doe Branch. Others ran too. We met there. We hid out. We talked. We walked. We wrote stories. A few wrote poems like wind caressing water.I wrote a story about a girl. She broke the law. She got caught. They locked her up. She ran away.

This writer broke the law too. She did not get caught.

She ran away anyway, taking shelter in a small church with an open door.

We others met her at the church. We went inside. We did not pray.

This writer is a poet. Her name is Andrea. She writes as good as any dead white guy. And better than most living ones, myself included. She likes poetry and big leaves. She also likes small cabins. This one was hers. She wrote poems in there. I knocked on her door. She told me to get lost.I got lost often. Mostly with these two writers. He liked to run. She broke the law, but she did not get caught. The tall guy is Michael. He saw a ghost. I took a picture. It looked like this:

No. Wait. That is Florence. She’s a poet too. And a great memoirist.

The ghost looked like this: The ghost turned out to be a fake. But it scared everyone so much that we stayed inside and wrote and wrote and ate a lot… Paranormal Reactivity, I guess… I gained 10 pounds. That is all I have to say about last week… for now.