Don't Drink Bees

"You should've died years ago."

"Excuse me?" I said automatically and immediately wished that I hadn't. I should have asked him to talk with me after class. The students were silent as I continued down the rows, passing out that night's writing assignment. They were expecting a show. Jeffrey never disappointed. A skinny, tanned sophomore with unruly red hair, Jeffrey was the worst type of student: he was gifted.

"I mean, your era is over. Dead and gone." He waved the photocopied page before him. The other students examined their assignment closely for clues. "It is obvious that you are a modernist attempting to limp by in a postmodern world." There were no nods of agreement. No one had any idea what Jeffrey meant by his statement. They only knew that he was successfully backing me into a corner. Their facial expressions were cautious, but it was obvious to me that they wanted to grin in that ferocious manner students have when they are planning a coup. Their fear of me was the only thing that kept them at bay.

"Jeffrey, we will discuss your views after class," I said in my chilliest voice, maintaining that fear. I surveyed the room with my mean look as I finished passing out the assignment. "As for the rest of you, read the assignment before you and let me know if you have any questions." Heads bowed over photocopies. There were no questions. There were never any questions, because I knew how to compose a perfect writing assignment. The students respected my assignments just as much as they respected my authority - except for Jeffrey.

I would have to make an example of Jeffrey in front of the class. It was the only way I would be able to finish out the school year in peace.

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