(no subject)
there had been some sort of incident with the scissors the ultimate outcome of which was emotional and social exile for the guilty party. The pariah wanted to stay, but not even the wood paneling was free from invective. So, in a storm of tears, she fled the admiral's decrepit mansion and did what any of you would have done in similar circumstances: she ran to the faculty club. Creeping through an open picture window she crawled under the grand piano, where among prattling physicists and lecherous archaeologists she caught her breath. The waitstaff had been imported directly from Gone with the Wind and circulated with trays of glasses and ice. The carpet was rich and soft. As she looked at the opposite wall she realized the floor length, brocade curtains were not actually yellow, but on fire. The academics sipped their gin and tonics while the flames licked the ceiling. The pariah stayed beneath the piano.