Flyer of Chairs

I raced back inside, following Scott as he flipped over desks and rifled through drawers looking for something, anything, to throw.

“What are you doing, Scott?” I said, working my way over to block his door.

“I’m going to shut them up,” he said, gruffly. “They won’t stop singing, and I can’t think.”

“Let’s go talk to them. Find out when they’ll be done. It can’t be much longer, right?”

He worked his way over to the common space, lifting up and dropping successively larger items.

“Listen, I’ll go ask, just wait here. Don’t throw anything!” I raced down the flight of stairs, flew out the doors leading to the terrace that separated our studio building from the street, directly across from the lawn of the Kappa Kappa Delta sorority, where the pledges continued hooting and preening.

As I cleared the colonnade I heard a sharp, barking laugh erupt from above. I looked up in time to see an old, wooden desk, the kind we wedged ouselves into in grade school, soaring into the night sky.

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