A writing prompt sparked this short story. I’d love to hear any thoughts or feedback you guys have. Enjoy!
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I took a deep breath. I stood in front of the door of the door of the house and wondered if I really wanted to do this. I was already a few minutes late.
But I needed help. I had been suffering from the words of critics and had been unable to really work for a few weeks now. I was beginning to question myself deeply and the choices I had made.
But did I really want to open myself up to a support group? A group of complete strangers? I couldn’t even talk to my family about this. Oh, I had tried, but they didn’t get it. They hadn’t been through this. They had tried to help, but they just didn’t understand. I needed help from people who had gone through this same thing.
I took another deep breath and without another thought, I knocked on the door.
I began to doubt again when the door was opened by a huge bearded man wearing black leather. His vest had a biker insignia stitched on the pocket. He frightened me a bit and I stood there, on the front step, with my mouth open. I’m sure all the color had drained from my face and that I looked terrified.
The biker sized me up. “You here for the support group?”
I found the courage to nod. “Yes,” I squeaked.
The biker surprised me with a small smile and held out his beefy hand, which completely enveloped mine when I shook it. “Welcome. Come on in.”
I first thing I noticed about the house was the smell of coffee and tea, which the biker pointed out to me and said I was welcome to drink. The aroma was comforting and it calmed me down a little.
I followed the biker into a living room. The walls were a cinnamon red and the carpet was mocha brown. There were two large sofas, a rocking chair, and a few folding chairs set around a coffee table. Sitting on the chairs and sofas were six people. They all had Styrofoam cups of coffee or tea and most of them smiled at me. I smiled shyly and whispered hello. These people… all of these men and women had been through what I was going through. They all knew how I felt. And maybe… maybe they could help me.
A black man with an afro stood up off one of the sofas. He was wearing a button down shirt and a tie with his blue jeans and I smelled cologne when he came toward me. He held out his hand to me.
“Welcome to Authors Anonymous. We’re here for you.”