So I wanted to post some more fiction since that is, after all, supposed to be the whole point of the blog – to get me to write more fiction. I wrote this today – it started as an attempt at “Flash Fiction” (i.e., very short pieces of less than 1000 words), but as with so many writing things I found that the story took over once I started trying to tell it, and it ended up longer than planned. So Flash Fiction it is not, but here it is nonetheless – I will warn you, the story creeps me out a little… But I still hope you enjoy it! And Lynn – you said this idea could go one of two ways (and I quote: “Creepy. This has the potential to be very, very good or boilerplate Stephen King.”), so I am, of course, eagerly waiting to know which way you think it turned out… J

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Story Hour

They always met on Thursdays in the basement of the YMCA. The same seven people always showed up. The Story Hour Writing Group consisted of five increasingly desperate, congenitally unemployed “writers” crying into their laptops and whining about how no one appreciated how HARD it was to practice their craft and how only people with CONNECTIONS ever got published, one “published” author whose sole claim to fame was co-authoring a self-help book on dealing with the aftermath of her beloved iguana’s battle with lymphoma, and Crazy Marge who sat and mumbled to herself about how He could tell a story better than anyone else. Everyone in the group knew Crazy Marge’s story – how she had been married to an internationally-acclaimed author, the love of her life, and how he had died in a mysterious and inexplicable accident late one night after he had finished a literary reading at the local library.
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