"The man could not stop

  "Saying faggot?" 

  "Said it like it was coming out a machine gun." 

  "More often than he quoted the Bible." 

  Other people in our generation but hardly old enough to vote let alone drink lit cigarettes. 

  An already-real-writer drove up to the campsite rambo-quiet.  Perfunctly donned his backpack, tucked his keys into a fannie pack inside his shorts.  "YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE WHAT ALL WE'VE SEEN SO FAR," a people pleasing but somewhat domestically abused young woman stealthed to him and practically yelled.  The writer didn't flinch.  "Toldya." 

  Most of us were not yet committed to Service and Corporations and spouses and children.  The fact that we'd only seen so much of the world-in-action lent itself naturally to discovering.  Almost right away our minds started comparing multicultural to wars, and, we fought vertigo to debate...when do we write? 

  On our own, at first, in our minds anyway, there was a free-for-all on how something should be written. 

  "So.  What did you think about assignment?" 

  The fire crackled and taunted can't just live in the forest.  "To be honest, I felt lucky to not be living in that State.  And among the many things I can't tell anyone I feel like I should tell you that we hid our Black person under clothing to get back into this one non-violently." 

  "I'm not yours," the Black girl grumbled from a sleeping bag surrounded by chairs facing outwards.  "I didn't mean it to come out that way." 

  "Then you shoulda said it different."