Writer’s Club

snow-angel“And, I swear! That is the honest truth.”

I don’t have a story to tell.

“Farmer Gray never saw her again. But he dreams of her every night. And he is comforted by that little. For it is all he has left.”

I sit and listen to the others spin their tales. Wonderful tales told in thrilled voices.

“As the JuJu Fruit Giant lay dying at my feet, I knew that I would go home proud to be my father’s son.”

Melancholy tales that grip your heart and squeeze.

“Don’t speak to the bones anymore.” He kissed her. “Let’s go home.”

Magnificent tales of wonder.

“Tears ran down Aigdelesia’s grimy face. The battle had been lost. She thought of those who the battle had claimed. Those who would fight with her no more. “What is the use? Why should we soldier on?” Ignace was not there anymore to answer her. She looked up at the diamonds sparkling in the night sky and found her own answer there. It was always there.”

I don’t have a story to tell.

That’s what I say, but it isn’t true. I brought a story to read out loud when my time comes. But it’s simple and plain. There are no battles to be won. No passionate lovers. No strange mysticism.

They won’t be interested in my words.

They’ll say that my words are silly.

They don’t ring of truth.

They don’t have any depth.

I should take my story back home.

I should say that my dog ate my only copy.

I should say that it wound up in a pig sty and the pigs trampled it into slosh.

They won’t want to listen to my story.

They won’t like it.

They’ll hate it.

“Marcy. You’re next.”

I think about running out the door. I won’t apologize. I won’t say excuse me. I’ll just run all the way back home.

“Marcy? Your turn.”

But it’s too late for escape. My time is here.

My time is now.

I’m scared.

My story’s no good.

But I gather up my papers.

If my story were a meal, it would be inedible.

I shuffle and reshuffle them, hoping to find missing pages.

Every single page is there. All in their rightful order.

I can’t keep delaying the inevitable.

I might as well get this over with.

I stand and look out at them.

These intelligent, brilliant writers.

They lean forward, waiting for that first word.

Even though I’m shaking, I smile and say, “This is my story.”

I hope they like it.

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