I pretend I’m the secretary of our local writers’ club and so far I have them fooled. I attended a meeting where one member mentioned that she found fiction writing challenging. I said it never challenged me, but I carry two inspiring little creatures on my shoulders. One is an angel and the other a devil. At least four other members said it was more like two devils. No, there’s an angel, too, but the devil is the better raconteur.
I thought about fiction writing as I drove home on the narrow back road through the Pocomoke Swamp. Tom Jones’ stentorian voice boomed from the CD player. Tall bare trees arched over the sylvan track. On either side of the road, still water reflected scurrying clouds and wind-whipped branches. Suddenly, a brilliant red Alfa Romeo passed, followed by two black Bentleys. One of the Bentleys pulled behind me; the other settled alongside. A loud crash and the rear window of the Alfa Romeo shattered. Bullet holes appeared across the trunk. I saw a man shooting from the passenger side of the Bentley beside me. I hoped they would pass, but they didn’t. I stomped on the gas, but they stayed even with me. With no place to turn, I could only keep driving. I heard a loud staccato roar above and saw a helicopter in my rear view mirror. It aimed and fired shots at the Bentleys. I looked ahead and saw a large farm truck loaded with chicken house manure. The driver, talking on a cell phone, drove obliviously towards us. I glanced to my right for a place to pull over and saw a herd of deer leaping from the woods into my path.
Fiction writing comes easy when you live an exciting life like mine.
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