Hope, redux.
hope goes begging for fear the sugared edge of the frosting tastes, faintly, of bile. I'm half in, mostly out, of an online writers' support group for people with cancer. I'm not sure what I expected. What happens is that the moderator, the impossibly sweet and supportive Caroline, posts prompts we are meant to respond to in prose and throw up on the board for commentary. Today the theme was hope, and she posted some hope quotes. Like "Hope is the thing with feathers-/That perches in the soul-" by Emily Dickinson. I think I might have to drop out of the writers' group, because I think dark thoughts and this group, with its penchant for homilies and similes, usually greets my writing entries with silence. I'm too sullen for this group. That bit up there about hope and bile is what I thought of when I read the hope prompt today. You see why they ignore me, dark horse? I'm reading a book entitled Advice for Future Corpses, and the author thinks hop