By Gale Griffith


writers-groupShe knew she was in trouble. She had one week to prepare for the scrutiny that would incur. It would not be easy to face the pronouncement nor the resulting penalty of wrong doing. Would she be able to convince the jurors that her intention had been honorable, though in vain? She knew that all ears would be attuned to her account of progress.

The week would be long and challenging. She could almost feel it unfolding before her. The weekly ritual had happened so frequently that there was a certain part of her that was beginning to feel the problem was built in, becoming chronic.

Day one of the next seven would give rise to expectation and excitement.  She would mull in her mind the possibilities and force herself to feel encouraged about a positive outcome. The desire and effort to turn over a new leaf may, or may not, hold her in good stead. She could never be sure.

Day two could perhaps offer new reaffirming hope and she would consciously try to program and stimulate her thoughts toward a fresh approach and a determination to rise above self-doubt.

Day three would definitely require a total regrouping experience, and a self-convincing commitment to impress, in a positive way, those who would be listening on the appointed day.

Day four of the week at hand would produce a ball of anxiety in her belly that reminded her of when she was a child subjected to the approval of parent and teacher.

Day five would find her on the edge of frantic as the day of reckoning approached, and she had not yet been able to come to grips with the situation at hand.

Day six would usher in a specific panic and despair that would need to be kept in check if she wanted to present herself well at the appointed meeting.

Day seven, the day of dread, she would scold herself mercilessly, yet console herself gently, to counteract the psychological effect on her mind.  This appointment was, after all, not a matter of life and death!  She knew that, of course, but as she prepared her psyche to be in the hot seat, she would grit her teeth, she would force a smile and she would address the moment of truth.  She had no homework prepared for the Ajijic Writers’ Group.

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