The Real reason I Wrote “The Real Reason I Joined the Creative Writers’ Guild: A Fiction”: A Sequel


Kyle Burkett


Wednesday at 5:00 I was back in the English faculty lounge. I looked around at the other members of the Guild. Of the four or five people there, all were newcomers like me. I could tell by the stony silence and the “I only did it to save the bunny” look most of them had. Someone’s watch beeped on the hour. No one from the Guild hierarchy had arrived, and I stood up to leave before they did. “Sit back down,” I heard Dr. Railsback say. I looked around. He was nowhere to be seen. That must be why they call him the Oracle, I thought. “Exactly,” I heard him say. I retook my seat.

James and Brittany swept in a few minutes later, along with a thin girl I hadn’t seen before. I may have seen her, but just not noticed. She has that kind of look. Brittany was carrying a large trash bag, very full of I couldn’t tell what. The thin girl said, “Wow look at all the new victims we have. Sorry. I meant members. Just a whip of the tongue. I mean slip.”

“So, let’s get this meeting off the ground,” James said. “My name is James Hogan, and I’m the Successor to last year’s Grand Exalted Poobah, Tony Christopher. He transferred to the University of Denver this summer. This is Brittany Harrison, our Vice President of Foreign Affairs, and” then he introduced the other girl, whose name I didn’t catch, as sergeant at arms. “Those of you who are new to the Guild will need to pass through a brief novitiate, catechism, hazing, et cetera. Here, help me move this furniture.”

Some of the guys who didn’t have broken arms helped him move the couch and chairs away from the bookcase. James pulled out Waiting for Godot and the bookcase swung forward. Brittany handed out brown hooded robes from her bag and told us to put them on. Newly robed, we followed James through the bookcase and down a narrow stone staircase. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any light, so I stumbled every few steps. Of course, my robe was too big, and I tripped over that too. Budget cuts are affecting everyone, I guess. The air was stale and tasted of dried meat. It would have been easier had it been a spiral staircase, but this one had landings at odd intervals, so I kept almost falling and then running against the floor. Weird. It seemed to take forever, but it probably wasn’t very long before we reached the bottom.

Eventually I did see a light at the end of the staircase. The stairs opened on a low room lit by torches on the walls. There were several small tables against the side walls, and a large clock directly ahead of us. James looked at the clock and said, “Filibuster.” The clock’s hands slowed to a stop. I checked my watch. It had stopped, too. I swear, those Republicans have superpowers.

Anyway, Brittany said, “You have joined the Creative Writers’ Guild. Thus, you will be expected to write. Now go.” She sent us to the tables, where we found parchment and quills. Very neat, if it weren’t for the poor lighting and fear of hitting my head. We barely had time to get to a table before Brittany yelled, “WRITE DAMN YOU!” at the top of her lungs. I ran over to a table in the corner and picked up a quill. But what to write? My mind was blank as the parchment in front of me. Luckily, I wasn’t the only one. A short guy at a table closer to the stairs was also frozen. “Are you going to write, or do you want to go to the Writers’ Block?” Brittany asked him.

“Uh, what’s the Writers’ Block?” Shorty asked. Images of Brittany holding a rabbit’s neck floated through my mind.

“Ha ha, you’ll see.” Brittany led him into a small room, followed by the sergeant at arms, whose medium body was dwarfed by her extra large robe. There was a male scream followed by the sound of an axe hitting wood. Then the scream stopped. Oh Frick. I had to write something, but all I could think of was Shorty being axed and the bunnies with their heads twisted off.

I decided to write about the bunnies.

One less freshman poked his nose back into the faculty lounge like a mole emerging from his hole at the end of that Guild meeting. I’m not worried about him, though. There probably aren’t any Creative Writers’ Guilds where Shorty is now. I’ll find out for myself soon, I’m sure.


back to the darkness