found drama

A dark, underground structure.  There are huge circular, collapsible blades for cutting and crushing.  A doctor (mortician? the city’s medical examiner?) is associated with this space.  We’ve been investigating him.  He’s the killer?  They’re already dead when they come down here?  We expect a grisly scene; we already know that this is where bodies are disposed.  He (the medical examiner) appears, admits nothing at first, then (after some severe questioning) breaks into a tearful confession.

QUICK CUT: a high school classroom.  It’s emptied of its chairs but not its desks.  I’m on one of two teams playing some kind of modified handball or stickless lacrosse.  For whatever reason I’m good at this game.  Very good.  I’ve got moves; my dodges are great and I can roll right around and under people, my balls are thrown accurately into the hands of my team mates or else into the goal’s net.  I’m so good that I feel comfortable with a little gloating.  Not my usual fare but I’ll take it.  It feels right.

We wrap up the game (class period is over) and I move on to lunch.  Suddenly I’m not the popular athlete I was a few minutes ago and all I want to do is avoid other people.  But there are folks at every table.  I haven’t even gotten food yet.  I’m trying to figure out where to drop off my bag, mark my spot away from the rabble of other high school students.  I don’t feel like one of them.  That’s when a college professor that I’ve formerly studied under (formerly?) beckons me over.  It’s Dr. Andrea Hammer.  “Long time, no see.”  That kind of introduction.  “Do sit down, you’re safe away from them here.”  I set my bag down and go grab some food.  (Seems all that they have is various “plain” pastries.)  I return and we resume conversation when another professor that I remember joins us.  I get weird looks from my peers at the tables around us.

About Rob Friesel