found drama

We are late in showing up for some kind of kids’ summer camp at the end of the world.  The apocalypse has come and gone and at this junior Club Med, the only evidence of it is the thin supply of canned peaches.  We arrive (fully adult) to take refuge among the juvenile survivors, perhaps hoping that we can fit in among the counselors.  They have fashioned an arcology-like structure in which to wait out the worst of the world-ending event’s after effects.  Dozens, perhaps hundred of square miles of community they have all put under one roof.  Our arrival does not go unnoticed and at first their attitude is very Lord of the Flies, all frowns and sharp sticks.  A peace offering later, they offer us a reprieve and they offer us a place to stay.  They show us to a blank white cube within their super-structure.  This (they explain) will be our home.  After we have finished constructing the rooms within the cube.  After we have proven our healthy with a racquet ball tournament.  (This terrified us, as we are both terrible racquet ball players and cannot successfully swing a racquet to save our lives.)  A shortage of equipment seems as if it will be the twist of fate that saves us.  However, one of the kids takes the blue ball in his hands and expands it into a larger, slightly softer, far redder ball and hurls it at us.  Dodgeball, it is then.

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