The saga of the missing sci-fi group Of course, Tuesday night arrived, both dark and stormy. Nonetheless I boldly set forth in my small, but valiant, Corolla with the broken door handle in search of the Cinci science fiction writing group.

Little did I know, what I thought would be a simple ten minute drive would turn into a Hurculean task.

I was running late when I left, but arrived in the area with several minutes to spare. Alas, the store was nowhere to be seen, though I had mapquested its address before leaving home. I drove up and down the street, peering into giant strip malls, trying to find which nook or cranny hid the Barnes and Noble, as I watched the minutes ticking by.

As long last, I stopped at a Panera cafe, not with the intent of procuring nourishment for the travails ahead, but to -- gasp -- ask directions.

My choice was ill-advised.

"Barnes and Noble?" asked the girl behind the counter, as though I were seeking some fanged beast, rather than a humble bookstore. "There's no Barnes and Noble around here."

Her compatriot directed me to a Borders, and I hastened to find it, hoping I had in my eagerness, jotted down the wrong bookseller.

I pulled into the parking lot, and rolled down my window so I might reach outside and open the door. Chills rains besmattered my arm and my side. Raising the window, I grabbed my papers and stepped out, into the night.

With galumphing gait, I entered the store. The clerk behind the counter was busy, and I thought to find another employee. Oddly, none were to be found, and in this peculiar sign, I might have taken an omen.

But oblivious was I, and so I queried the clerk, "Is there a writers group meeting here tonight?"

"Writer?" he questioned, as though he had no notion of the providence of the very items he was purveying.

"Science fiction writers," I answered, and he shook his head. A quick call to an unseen co-worker, and the verdict was confirmed.

No writers had been seen, or were likely to be seen, in this den of literacy.

Though I fear it might be a breach of common decency, I asked if this location had once housed a Barnes and Noble.

Nay, it had not.

Or did he know of a Barnes and Noble nearby?

Again, nay.

And so I sallied forth, into the deepening gloom.

But ne'er let it be said that Pamela Taylor lies down before the wheels of fate.

Through the dark, damp streets I drove, to the store I had lately visited. A Barnes and Noble, not close to my intended target, but not, either.

They too knew nothing of the sci-fi group.

Perhaps that group has moved to a different plane of existence, or a different location. Tis a mystery that may never be solved. But until it is, I shall seek them out, wherever they might be.
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See, that's why it's fun to be a sf/fantasy writer. You can make a really frustrating, mundane wild good chase sound like a dashing adventure. (well, sort of...)  ¶ 10:37 PM