Death of the Gong: A New Creative Writers’ Guild Story

Kyle Burkett


So we were down in the dungeon one Wednesday afternoon when James produced this cookie tin and a plastic knife. He introduced these as our new gong, which would precede the reading of any original works. Somehow I kept myself from laughing in his face. I’m not sure how. He also produced a small green gourd, to be held by anyone who wished to speak at a meeting, much like a bizarre speaking stick. I noticed that even Brittany and Kristi were giving him odd looks.

The gong and the gourd worked out fine for that first meeting, but they soon went the way of Piggy’s conch shell in The Lord of the Flies. The very next meeting Jeremy started reading the next chapter of his book The Divine Right of Drunks: The Wacky Misadventures of Weasel Prick and Mr. J without waiting for James to strike the cookie tin with the plastic knife.

“You must wait for the gong!” James was livid. Jeremy was unruffled. He tossed James what looked like an asthma inhaler.

“Take a hit off of that,” he instructed. James inhaled whatever was in it. His eyes rolled back in his head and he slid to the floor. After a few minutes he started chuckling for no apparent reason and continued to do so for the rest of the meeting. Jeremy tossed the gourd in the air during his reading.

The next week Shorty also forgot to wait for the gong. “To the Writers’ Block!” James demanded.

“I think that’s overreacting a bit, don’t you?” asked Brittany.

“The elevator then!”

“James, put down the cookie tin.”

“No! You don’t have the gourd. You can’t speak. For this insubordination you will lose your officer status for a time. I select Kyle as the provisional vice president.” I slouched in my seat, trying to disappear. This was a most unwelcome turn of events. “Kyle, get over here.”

I walked to the front of the dungeon, fearing that my role here would be more that of Fedallah than Starbuck. “Kyle, execute judgment on Brittany and Shorty.”

I looked back at James blankly. “I’m sorry, I’m a pacifist. I don’t believe in physical violence.”

James looked wildly around the room. “Matt, take their heads off!” Matt looked at him calmly and said nothing. “Jeremy! Kristi! Todd! Somebody do something!” The members of the Creative Writers’ Guild stared silently at the Successor. Seeing no help was coming from these quarters, James knelt on the ground and lifted his arms to the ceiling. “Oh Might Oracle, vindicate me in my devotion to your most holy gong! Punish those who flout your wise decrees by ignoring the power and majesty of this gong!”

A bright light shone around James. It was much too bright for any dungeon. The plastic knife and cookie tin levitated in the air in front of him. The knife placed itself in his hand, and James smiled widely. Then the cookie tin whacked him on the side of the head and James went over, hard. He sat back up and held the cookie tin under his chin like a violin and scraped the knife across the edge of it. He sang the obnoxious songs from the bell tower at the top of his lungs. We had to evacuate the dungeon. It’s been three weeks now, and he’s still down there, singing the Marine Hymn and Battle Hymn of the Republic. You can hear him on the elevator. It’s become an even less popular form of transportation than before. Meanwhile, we’ve taken to having our meetings in Dr. Railsback’s office. We still dim the lights for the dungeon effect, but lamps just aren’t the same as torches, you know?


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