A writers group who are a story within a story
The Woolly Mammoth Writers Group
08-Sept-2015 Vol 444, Issue 3E
The Woolly Mammoth Writers Group meets every odd Friday at the First Presbyterian Church of Stonehenge Parish, Louisiana.
The prompt for next week is the picture Mrs. Reverend Chalk painted of that beautiful little clearing where those exotic mushrooms grow behind the church. If you all recall, that is the same place where the bodies of Lilus Abellard and Kenny Barbet were found two years ago, naked as larks. The coroner concluded that they must have been poisoned by banging into the mushrooms while in the throes of passion rather than murdered by their respective spouses.
Each member must come up with a story or poem of 500 words more or less. Not under 350, but not more than 700. It pains me to act like such a control freak, but we don’t want to be there all night listening to Ginny talk about “The Fallacies of Fungi,” that poem she wrote for her podiatrist, Dr. Drake, back in 1973; she just re-writes it for every prompt and contest we have.
Mayor Tennie will attend with his wife Charlotte, and they will both expect to read and carry-on the rest of their time about the upcoming election. Again, we have made enough enemies from here to Shreveport to fill a silo, but if we can behave ourselves and be civil we can get through it, and maybe end up with our own office at City Hall.
There will be no mentions of penises even though we know that mushroom caps do look a lot like the head of the penis James Walter. We do not want to hear a penis or phallic story or poem on Friday night. You are to keep your hands above the table while you are in attendance. These stories will be read within the hearing of The Almighty and we must not push our luck. Reverend Chalk has already threatened to kick us out due to our bickering, and because of Priscilla.
We have about run out of places to have our meetings. The Woolly Mammoth Library has vowed never to have us back and threatened us with restraining orders. At the very least they could offer to buy our books for the local writers section! Here it is four months later and the homicide detectives still have the back part of the City Library closed off just because they have not solved the case of our missing writers group President, Priscilla Boudreaux.
There are several clues that have led the investigation out to the Black Tar Swamp, where our town’s namesake was found. There is still no body, but they say there was too much blood for any person to have made it anywhere alive. We all know that unless there is a body they cannot prove there was a murder. I should know, in my FBI murder mystery series that is explained in detail.
With all due respect, I think that it is time we move on and get to electing a new President of the WM Writers Group. We know who has worked the hardest for this group and who has been here through thick and thin. So far there is only Josh Cruso running against me, but he has been laid up sick in bed of late.
See you next Friday. I am off to pick berries and other medicines for my cabinets, and then write, write, write my latest FBI Agent Todd Mystery.
Secretary and President Pro Temp