And Then There Was a Campfire

And a Monster

Ten little Paul were sitting around the campfire that night.

One was a man of the fields. One was a fan of mildew. One was a man of the city, lost in the fields.

The ten little Paul weren’t your regular Pauls. They ate red marshmallows, played electric guitars, and shrieked their songs.

One, a real man, fielded the lost marshmallows. One was a man fielded by his brother, Rocky. One was a man so small he could disappear in the fields on the left.

The ten little Paul danced around, jumped over, and played with the campfire. The heat was a good friend to them. They all had a fire burning inside at all times. Their furnace a compass had brought them around the campfire that night.

One was named fils. One fled from the mansion. One was half fields and half man.

At midnight, out of the campfire, appeared the Monster. The Monster wanted to join the fun, eat the marshmallows, shriek the songs, and look at the stars, falling asleep with all the little Paul around, keeping them warm. But the Author had a prompt to answer.

The Monster howled their frustration.

The ten little Paul were looking at them, waiting for the gunfight to begin. They had been warned long before the campfire started. By the Author. Each little Paul drew a Vickers machine gun from their backpacks and aimed at the Monster in the center.

Together they counted to ten. It was beautiful canon singing.

One Two Two Three Three Three Four Four Four Four Five Five Five Five Five Six Six Six Six Six Six Seven Seven Seven Seven Seven Seven Seven Eight Eight Eight Eight Eight Eight Eight Eight Nine Nine Nine Nine Nine Nine Nine Nine Nine Ten whispered the Monster.

The ten little Paul loved their Monster.

On cue, the ten little Paul raised their arms, aimed, and shouted thousands of ammunitions towards the sky, hoping one of them would hit the Author and kill him alright.

But they missed. Honestly, they didn’t stand a chance, as I’m the one deciding how the law of physics work around the campfire. And here’s how they go: any bullet shot to the sky in hopes of killing the Author follows a boomerang trajectory.

Thousands of bullets came right back at the ten little Paul and their favorite Monster. There was nothing they could do but stare. I had glued them to the ground by then. Some will say that having the bullets come back in slow motion was particularly wicked. Some will say that adding barbwire wasn’t fair. Such are the laws of physics — what can I say?

The ten little Paul didn’t care. They smiled till the end, their twenty middle fingers raised to the sky, welcoming their fate like real men from the fields. They would have shrieked their favorite insults, but I had glued their mouth shut. I also had covered their eyes with the darkest sunglasses I found. I couldn’t stand their gazes.

The Monster, for lack of fingers or hands, mooned me.

I almost forgot.

One was celebrating his birthday.

Articles by Paul I would clap for even if he weren’t my editor:

One last CTA.