HoW now over

We met on line at Six Sentences, got to know each other through writing and comments and wanted to extend the many friendships.   Last weekend we met in North Carolina.    Imagine fifteen of us, in one house, sat in a circle, taking it in turns to read out our stories on a theme of 'freedom' written especially for the occasion, imagine the pleasure in hearing the voice of the person whose words had previously only sounded inside our own heads.   Later that afternoon, as had happened the previous day, we used the Thinking Ten format to write, using randomly-generated prompts to kick start a ten minute tale.   No-one could be in any doubt whatsoever that they were in the company of most excellent writers as each in turn demonstrated originality and a truly impressive turn of phrase.

Now the question is "When shall we all meet again?"

What the hell does he think?

Black on white, I reclined on a bed not mine, having broken my bourbon virginity.

Near the end of a word-filled weekend, he was examining his prior expectations. "I thought you'd be wilder," he said.

I don't know what sort of wild he expected. I wondered however about the truth of his claim to be a writer.

Did he not know that writers tell tales of twisted truths?