Writers Group

I am exploring a new artistic medium (for me) called writing.  In fact, that is exactly why I started blogging.  I figured that my attempt to create a coherent essay each week would be a good way to enhance my writing skills in a way that a personal journal cannot accommodate.  A personal journal is written for a single person - the self but a blog actually has an audience.

One can imagine that the audience is a variety of friends from Facebook, Google+, Twitter or other media savvy adults.  But the truth is that you have little indication of just who your audience may be.  I recently discovered that I have a following of young high school students and that discovery both delighted and frightened me.  It made me realize that I may actually have some influence (hopefully good) upon some youth that surely will make a difference in the future of this country.  That actually caused a bit of trepidation with publishing my last post.  I actually went back and re-read every post to make sure that I can be proud of everything that I said.  I am.  Thus, in a brief paragraph, that is the difference between a journal and a blog.

So now, I want to lighten up and share a wonderful experience that I had with my writers group meeting and recommend that anyone who likes to write, blog or journal get involved with a prose &/or poetry writing group.  We meet regularly and take turns sharing a brief story or poem and get feedback from peers.  It is a wonderful and positive learning forum! I learned some incredible facts about WWII military cover-ups and how families cope with those types of tragedies; I shed tears listening to a poem about one of my artistic idols; and I made everyone laugh with  my own short story called "Bingo Hell."

As much as I would love to share details of the other stories and poetry, I cannot.  However, I am going to share my little Bingo Hell story.  Sorry there are not many photos this time but this was an exercise in visual writing.  So here is my funny little story in its first publication...

"Bingo Hell

I hate Bingo.  I hate it more than anything in the world.  It haunts my childhood memories like a recurrent nightmare. I would seriously consider self-mutilation just to avoid going anywhere near a Bingo hall. It stresses me out so badly that I have an uncontrollable urge to find a liquor store and a shady Zanex dealer in a nearby dark alley when I even think about entering a Bingo hall.

There are a lot of folks that think my aversion is an irrational phobia.  Well, to my knowledge, there is no clinical affliction labeled Bingophobia.  I do suffer from a mild form of arachnophobia but I don’t really remember associating Bingo with scary octapedal creatures.  Now that I think about it though, some of the denizens of the Bingo hall did seem to have oddly incomprehensible body extensions.  They would shuffle about with large sticks or push metal trays on wheels that they would occasionally sit upon. Some are hunched over bearing ugly backpacks emitting weird repetitive hospital sounds with clear tubes emerging from their face resembling insectoid antennae .

In fact, these Bingo hall denizens are very frightening indeed.  Bingo creatures dress in the most gaudy of oddness with uniquely flamboyant accessories.  The hall is filled with a writhing sea of polyester pant suits in colors that span the spectrum of powdery pastel to neon.  Often they wear red and purple hats with big pink flowers.  They carry large orange bags with embroidered sage green leaves.  These bags are filled with totems, offerings, charms and other strange items that are required to appease their personal Bingo gods and to ensure their Bingo success story.  Some would emerge from the writhing mass to find a spot to settle and arrange their totems and charms around them in obsessive detail. 

Before long the writhing mass has paid their tithe and received their sacrament of dozens of Bingo cards.  They move to find their place and settle in for the long vigil. Each one takes a few moments to analyze their cards and arrange them in meticulous order of best to worst from top left to bottom right.  Then they would light up and nearly disappear in a cloud of smoke and ash, while muttering softly and stuffing their face with a variety of pre-processed foods carefully stored in mini plastic bags and arranged around the edges of their altar.  While awaiting their Bingo blessing to begin, the soft muttering rises to a cacophony of cackles and shrieks as they relive past Bingo glory amongst themselves.

Suddenly there is feedback in the microphone and the silence is instantly deafening as all eyes focus upon the “One” that has the power to endow them with Bingo salvation. The number calling mantra begins.  Each devotee has brightly colored ink tubes to mark their devotional progress.  With every number called they violently slam their ink tube on the unsuspecting cards causing the entire table to shudder.  Then, one of the frailest of the denizens erupts in a one word explosion of sound: “BINGO!” Thrusting her card toward the heavens, the joyful creature quivers from the exertion.  Meanwhile, the building itself seems to shudder with the collective moans of the congregation as they all eye the lucky recipient of the Bingo blessing with overt disdain."

...I am so glad that there is not any force in the universe that can make me deal with this ever again...