Consider the Burnt Marshmallow Skin

By A.M.B. Gilbert

A.M.B. Gilbert can be found in the forests and convenience stores of the Pacific Northwest, gathering accoutrements and starting fires.

He was a bold man that first shoved his delicately manicured, marshmallow laden sapling into the fire and once there, let it stay until that mallow emerged a flaming orb.

With one breath, he extinguished the flame. With two fingers, he removed the blackened membrane. With his tongue, he accepted the carcinogenic sheath into his body, spreading the ashes around his mouth, feeling the wrongness of it all before swallowing.

With his second breath, he cooled the molten innards. And with everything he had, he felt perfection enter his body.

The true destiny of every marshmallow is one of golden brown. Of slow, methodical roasting. Of patience. Of one tender bite. It’s truth, but a truth of a time long gone.

Today we need pain to know what pleasure is. We need the black and the white and nothing in between.

Maybe it’s too bad. Maybe we’ve lost our patience.

But it’s only when that goey core follows the gritty crunch that we can truly fall in love.

So save the trouble for figuring out how that rainfly goes on your tent, and force that marshmallow into the blue part of the flame.

Let’s be bad, for goodness’ and summer’s sake.