Involuntary Games
Recently retired English professor Mac Faulk returns to Headley University
to teach one more creative writing class. Among the student stories,
he comes across an anonymous dark tale describing a heinous crime.
He thinks little of it--until the story starts to come true.
to teach one more creative writing class. Among the student stories,
he comes across an anonymous dark tale describing a heinous crime.
He thinks little of it--until the story starts to come true.
Chapter One
Now that I was retired and therefore officially old, I pretty much figured on coasting smoothly down the rest of the road of life. Shows you what I know.
After more than two decades teaching college English, I wanted to find out once and for all if I had a novel in me. That’s the main reason I’d retired at sixty-two from Headley University, a small liberal arts college near San Francisco. In the last few months I’d made several attempts to get started. But every time I hunched over my desk determined to write, I spent an hour or so getting nowhere. So I usually turned my efforts to something less challenging—like emptying the dishwasher, taking a nap, or heading off with Tolstoy, my golden-retriever roommate, to Finnegan’s Wake Up Call, our local coffee shop.
Tolstoy and I had a set routine. He waited outside and greeted every human like a long lost friend—hey, any one of them could be carrying something scarfable—while I shuffled along in the queue, like a member of a chain gang, waiting to order my triple-shot cappuccino.
Today, though, I wasn’t going anywhere. No more procrastination. Damn it, nothing short of an earthquake had a chance in hell of distracting me this time. I was staying right there at my computer until I at least--
R-r-ring.
I let the phone ring, determined to shut out the world and make some real progress.
R-r-ring.
Go ahead. Give it your best shot. I’m completely tuning you out.
R-r-ring!
Damn, does a phone actually get louder the more you ignore it?
R-R-RING!
All right, all right. Jesus. I yanked the cordless phone out of its docking station.
It was Evan Wright, Head of Headley’s English Department, and he had a problem.
“Here’s my situation, Mac,” Wright explained. “I’ve got eight eager students showing up on Tuesday expecting to be taught how to write short stories. But what I don’t have is anyone to teach them.”
“Isn’t that Kay Whitfield’s Community Outreach class?”
Headley offered CO classes so locals of any age could take a few college courses at a reduced cost. That usually meant older students. We all knew these CO classes were a thinly disguised PR move, and none of the faculty exactly clamored to take them on. But I’d never had a problem dealing with more world-wise students.
“It’s not Kay’s anymore, Mac. She left me a message at home on Saturday, telling me her husband has been transferred to Mississippi and she decided to go with him now, instead of waiting ‘til the end of the school year.”
“That doesn’t sound like Kay. She’s always struck me as very responsible.”
“Me, too. But you can see my problem,” Evan went on. “I shifted some assignments around to cover her regular classes, but I need someone to step up and take her short story class for Spring Term.”
“Because none of the regular faculty wants to take on another CO class.” I strolled over to the window. Some guy in a nondescript white sedan was driving past going about ten miles an hour. When he noticed me looking at him, he sped away down the street. If he was some kind of peeping tom, he sure as hell picked the wrong condo.
“You know how it is, Mac. Anyway, I can try to hire a replacement for next year, but right now I have to find a warm body who can teach creative writing.”
“So you’re not even going to try to massage my ego.”
“Look, you’ve taught plenty of writing courses at Headley, for Christ’s sake. The class is set, the syllabus is written, and … the thing is, you’re my only real option on such short notice.”
“Well, I—”
“Great! Thanks, Mac. I owe you one.”
I hung up, not sure if this made me a good guy or merely a pushover.
Now that I was retired and therefore officially old, I pretty much figured on coasting smoothly down the rest of the road of life. Shows you what I know.
After more than two decades teaching college English, I wanted to find out once and for all if I had a novel in me. That’s the main reason I’d retired at sixty-two from Headley University, a small liberal arts college near San Francisco. In the last few months I’d made several attempts to get started. But every time I hunched over my desk determined to write, I spent an hour or so getting nowhere. So I usually turned my efforts to something less challenging—like emptying the dishwasher, taking a nap, or heading off with Tolstoy, my golden-retriever roommate, to Finnegan’s Wake Up Call, our local coffee shop.
Tolstoy and I had a set routine. He waited outside and greeted every human like a long lost friend—hey, any one of them could be carrying something scarfable—while I shuffled along in the queue, like a member of a chain gang, waiting to order my triple-shot cappuccino.
Today, though, I wasn’t going anywhere. No more procrastination. Damn it, nothing short of an earthquake had a chance in hell of distracting me this time. I was staying right there at my computer until I at least--
R-r-ring.
I let the phone ring, determined to shut out the world and make some real progress.
R-r-ring.
Go ahead. Give it your best shot. I’m completely tuning you out.
R-r-ring!
Damn, does a phone actually get louder the more you ignore it?
R-R-RING!
All right, all right. Jesus. I yanked the cordless phone out of its docking station.
It was Evan Wright, Head of Headley’s English Department, and he had a problem.
“Here’s my situation, Mac,” Wright explained. “I’ve got eight eager students showing up on Tuesday expecting to be taught how to write short stories. But what I don’t have is anyone to teach them.”
“Isn’t that Kay Whitfield’s Community Outreach class?”
Headley offered CO classes so locals of any age could take a few college courses at a reduced cost. That usually meant older students. We all knew these CO classes were a thinly disguised PR move, and none of the faculty exactly clamored to take them on. But I’d never had a problem dealing with more world-wise students.
“It’s not Kay’s anymore, Mac. She left me a message at home on Saturday, telling me her husband has been transferred to Mississippi and she decided to go with him now, instead of waiting ‘til the end of the school year.”
“That doesn’t sound like Kay. She’s always struck me as very responsible.”
“Me, too. But you can see my problem,” Evan went on. “I shifted some assignments around to cover her regular classes, but I need someone to step up and take her short story class for Spring Term.”
“Because none of the regular faculty wants to take on another CO class.” I strolled over to the window. Some guy in a nondescript white sedan was driving past going about ten miles an hour. When he noticed me looking at him, he sped away down the street. If he was some kind of peeping tom, he sure as hell picked the wrong condo.
“You know how it is, Mac. Anyway, I can try to hire a replacement for next year, but right now I have to find a warm body who can teach creative writing.”
“So you’re not even going to try to massage my ego.”
“Look, you’ve taught plenty of writing courses at Headley, for Christ’s sake. The class is set, the syllabus is written, and … the thing is, you’re my only real option on such short notice.”
“Well, I—”
“Great! Thanks, Mac. I owe you one.”
I hung up, not sure if this made me a good guy or merely a pushover.
###
Yes, I’d taught college for many years—the last 15 here at Headley—but I still suffered from first-day jitters. I parked myself at a table in the newly remodeled faculty lounge—a thing of beauty, featuring several comfortable chairs, a couch, a high-tech refrigerator, a microwave with so many options I’d never even tried to figure it out, and a state-of-the-art coffee maker. Still the coffee was mediocre at best. Gotta love that modern technology. I took another sip of lukewarm coffee, and browsed my class list one last time.
“I see the ugly rumor is true after all.”
I didn’t need the enthusiastic slap on the back to recognize Giuseppe Patedo, Headley’s baseball coach, and my best friend on the faculty. He and I had been playing softball together for more than 20 years.
I shifted around to face him. “Hey, Coach.” Everyone called him Coach, even his ex-wives.
Coach slid into the seat next to me. “I heard they called you back. How was the retirement?”
“Short. Really short.”
“So how’s the novel coming?”
“It’s … well, I haven’t really had a chance to … you know how it is.”
“Yeah. Well it’s damn good to see you here, Mac.” Coach grinned. “This place is full of boring academics.”
“Go figure.”
“Let’s see what you’re up against.” Coach snatched my class list from the table and scanned it. “Don’t know any of ‘em, except the Gonzalez kid. He played backup catcher for me a few years ago. Fucked up his shoulder at the end of the season. I heard he got himself mixed up with a bunch of street punks. Too bad, he seemed like a good kid.” Coach tossed the list back to me.
“So when are you going to get your butt out to a Slugs’ game, Coach?” We need you.” The “Slugs” was the nickname of our over-50 softball team.
“Won’t be long. The college season is mercifully over this week. We got no chance at the conference playoffs.”
“We have no chance.” I corrected him.
“I know, that’s what I just said, Mac.”
“Right.” I checked the wall clock. “Well, I don’t want to be late the first day.” I stood up, stuffed the class list into my briefcase, and headed out.
“I see the ugly rumor is true after all.”
I didn’t need the enthusiastic slap on the back to recognize Giuseppe Patedo, Headley’s baseball coach, and my best friend on the faculty. He and I had been playing softball together for more than 20 years.
I shifted around to face him. “Hey, Coach.” Everyone called him Coach, even his ex-wives.
Coach slid into the seat next to me. “I heard they called you back. How was the retirement?”
“Short. Really short.”
“So how’s the novel coming?”
“It’s … well, I haven’t really had a chance to … you know how it is.”
“Yeah. Well it’s damn good to see you here, Mac.” Coach grinned. “This place is full of boring academics.”
“Go figure.”
“Let’s see what you’re up against.” Coach snatched my class list from the table and scanned it. “Don’t know any of ‘em, except the Gonzalez kid. He played backup catcher for me a few years ago. Fucked up his shoulder at the end of the season. I heard he got himself mixed up with a bunch of street punks. Too bad, he seemed like a good kid.” Coach tossed the list back to me.
“So when are you going to get your butt out to a Slugs’ game, Coach?” We need you.” The “Slugs” was the nickname of our over-50 softball team.
“Won’t be long. The college season is mercifully over this week. We got no chance at the conference playoffs.”
“We have no chance.” I corrected him.
“I know, that’s what I just said, Mac.”
“Right.” I checked the wall clock. “Well, I don’t want to be late the first day.” I stood up, stuffed the class list into my briefcase, and headed out.
###
I walked out of the second floor stairwell into the familiar cacophony of students on their way to class. I noticed a guy leaning against the wall directly across from my classroom, wearing dark sunglasses and a gray sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head. In another context, say the lobby of a bank, an outfit like that would instantly arouse suspicion, but these days the look had become a campus cliché. I figured this guy for one of my students who hoped to avoid going into the classroom too early the first day. But when I nodded a friendly greeting, he hurried off down the hall and disappeared around the corner. I chuckled to myself. Talk about shy.
I hesitated at the door to the classroom, straightened my shirt collar and sucked in a breath. All right, show time. When I stepped into the classroom, six confused faces stared back at me.
“You’re in the right place,” I assured them with my best comforting smile. “This is English 252, Introduction to Short Story Writing. I’m standing here before you because Professor Whitfield’s husband has been transferred to Mississippi, and she has chosen to join him.” I offered a crooked smile. “I offer my condolences to them both.”
That got some chuckles from my charges. Thank God. Things went a lot more smoothly when my students understood that my particular brand of satirical humor was harmless. It’s a trait I picked up from my father. It also comes from hanging out with athletes. In the locker room, sarcastic kidding and negative jabs are meant as a friendly digs. When you receive them from your teammates, you know you’ve been accepted.
Sometimes it takes people who don’t know me a little while to understand that my wry comments are meant to be funny, not cruel. I always try to convey that with an expression that shows I have no malicious intent—a smile rather than a smirk, for instance. My problem is that when I notice the ironies and foibles of life, I react with sarcastic thoughts. Sometimes I say them out loud. My kids used to refer to me as “sour-castic.”
“As a result, you’re stuck with me.” I went on. “My name is Dawson McIntyre Faulk. My friends call me ‘Mac.’” I paused, then added with a grin, “You can call me ‘Professor Faulk.’” I’d been through the too-cool era of the’70s and ‘80s, when so many of my colleagues had wanted to be on a first-name basis with their students. I’d seen how well that worked. They’d gained a sense of equality but lost too much respect.
The door flew open and in glided a shapely 20-something blonde, in a tight red scoop-neck sweater, a black leather mini skirt, and calf-length black stiletto-heeled boots. She took a deep breath. Clearly she knew how to work a room. I silently lamented the fact that I’d reached the age where a body like that in an outfit like that didn’t create the instant arousal it used to.
“I’m soooo sorry I’m late.” She affected a passable Marilyn Monroe sigh. “I had a little trouble getting away from the office this morning. I had to park clear over on the other end of campus. I’m really, really sorry.”
“No problem,” I told her, thinking that I didn’t recall anyone named “Barbie” on my class list. She seemed to float and shimmy at the same time to a seat in the middle of the front row. When she managed to arrange all of her equipment into her seat, I picked up where I’d left off. I’d seen this act plenty of times before.
“Okay, let’s find out who you’ll be commiserating with this term.” I pulled out the class roll sheet. “I’m only going to take roll the first few meetings to confirm our roster is correct. After that I won’t bother. This first time, though, let us know you’re here, and tell us your motivation for taking a creative writing class.” I checked first name on the list.
“Roger Cole?” I glanced around the room as the class members looked at each other. “It seems Mr. Cole didn’t make it.” Not a great start.
I looked back at my class list. “How about Madeleine Collier?”
An attractive woman, probably in her 50s, raised her hand. “That’s me, Professor. My friends call me ‘Maddy,’ she said with a wry smile, “but you can call me Ms. Collier.”
The class laughed. I couldn’t help chuckling to myself. She had some spunk. Nice.
“I don’t really know why I decided to take the class,” she continued. “I guess I’m just curious to see if I actually have anything worthwhile to say.”
“Oh, I’m confident you do,” I assured her. I moved down the list. “Dawn Gladden?”
“Here.” A tall, thin, dishwater-blonde raised her hand not quite to her shoulder. She looked like she’d rather be anywhere but in a classroom full of people. “I’m here because … umm, because a friend thought it would be good for me to find a safe way to express myself.”
“Well I think you’ll discover you’ve found a safe haven with us,” I told her. “Mar-teen Gohn-sahlez?” I used my best Spanish pronunciation.
“Thass me, dude,” spouted a Hispanic kid slouched in a chair alone in the back row. “Call me ‘Marty’ though. I guess I’m takin’ the class ‘cause sometimes I see like these imaginary people in my head, you know? I thought it be cool to find out what they tryin’ a tell me.” I imagined the kid felt about as out of place as he looked—shaved head, spider web tattoo creeping out of his t-shirt collar, more body art clutching ominously to each arm, shirt and pants a couple sizes too big—little wonder no one sat near him. I nodded to Marty and checked the roll sheet. “Charles Mane?”
“Here, sir,” barked a large, clean-cut black man in tan Dockers and a blue dress shirt. “Charles Mane, U.S. Marines, retired. I go by ‘Charley.” I did two tours each in Afghanistan and Iraq. I figure maybe I can cash in on my experience like some other vets have.”
I offered him an understanding smile. Why not? Assuming the guy could write. “Allison Thames?”
“You got it, Professor Faulk. Just like the river in London,” breathed the cleavage in the front row. “And I go by Allie. I’ve always dreamed of becoming a writer, and I want to see if I’m good enough to be a real author.”
“Maybe we can help you take a few steps toward that dream.” I glanced at the next name on the list. “Ada Wong?”
“Right.” Responded one of the two older Chinese-American women, who looked so much alike I half expected them to respond in two-part harmony. “Sorry.” She scrunched up her nose. “It’s kind of an ongoing joke. You know, ‘right and wong?’” She glanced around to see if everyone got it. “Anyways, now that the kids are grown, I have a chance to try some things on my own. I’m taking this class to see if I have what it takes to become a rich and famous Romance novelist.”
“Right, Ms. Wong,” I said, playing along. I hoped I’d successfully masked my dismay over the prospect of slogging through page after page of bodice-ripping drivel.
“And that brings us to ‘Ida Wong.’”
“Hi everyone. First of all, yes, we’re twins. Everyone asks. I’m hoping to hone my writing skills so that I can become an even richer and more famous Romance writer than my little sister.”
“She’s only ten minutes older,” Ada announced with a feigned pout. They had their routine down pat.
I set the roll sheet aside. As I handed out the syllabus, I hit the highlights: classes every Tuesday and Thursday; assignments due on Monday each week and either left at my office or emailed to me; no classes the fourth and eighth week of the term to accommodate one-on-one meetings to discuss their work in detail. While they perused the syllabus and the first assignment, I scanned my fresh crop of students.
Even with nothing to go on but first impressions, I always found it interesting to guess what some of them had in store for me. I had a feeling, for instance, that the Wong sisters might have a lot more enthusiasm than talent. But I honestly hoped they’d prove me wrong.
I didn’t know what to expect from Charley Mane. Extensive action in two war zones didn’t mean he could write about it in a compelling way. I’d find out soon enough.
The Gonzalez kid seemed completely out of place, and not just because of his street-tough demeanor. But Coach labeled Marty a good kid, and that was enough for me.
Speaking of someone who seemed out of place, Dawn Gladden couldn’t have looked less comfortable at her own hanging. I got the distinct impression that this “friend” who had suggested she take a writing class hoped it might help Dawn work out some deep-seated emotional or psychological issues. With any luck, it would.
I had a hunch Madeleine Collier might turn out to be a pretty good writer. She had a kind of no-nonsense sophistication that I liked. Maybe it was just that she seemed nearer to my own age … or that she gave back as good as she got.
Sure, there were always surprises, some pleasant, some not so much. But I just might discover a diamond or two in this rough.
“Okay, I’m not going to keep you the whole period on the first day. When we meet on Thursday, I’ll go over some basics of technique and format. Your first assignment is due this coming Monday. But relax, it’s just a way to get a sample of your writing, to see what we have to work with.”
As the class began to file out, I bestowed my favorite, albeit mispronounced, parting shot for the first day of my writing classes: “Metaphors be with you.”
It earned a few chuckles, but mostly it fell on deaf ears. Tough crowd.
I hesitated at the door to the classroom, straightened my shirt collar and sucked in a breath. All right, show time. When I stepped into the classroom, six confused faces stared back at me.
“You’re in the right place,” I assured them with my best comforting smile. “This is English 252, Introduction to Short Story Writing. I’m standing here before you because Professor Whitfield’s husband has been transferred to Mississippi, and she has chosen to join him.” I offered a crooked smile. “I offer my condolences to them both.”
That got some chuckles from my charges. Thank God. Things went a lot more smoothly when my students understood that my particular brand of satirical humor was harmless. It’s a trait I picked up from my father. It also comes from hanging out with athletes. In the locker room, sarcastic kidding and negative jabs are meant as a friendly digs. When you receive them from your teammates, you know you’ve been accepted.
Sometimes it takes people who don’t know me a little while to understand that my wry comments are meant to be funny, not cruel. I always try to convey that with an expression that shows I have no malicious intent—a smile rather than a smirk, for instance. My problem is that when I notice the ironies and foibles of life, I react with sarcastic thoughts. Sometimes I say them out loud. My kids used to refer to me as “sour-castic.”
“As a result, you’re stuck with me.” I went on. “My name is Dawson McIntyre Faulk. My friends call me ‘Mac.’” I paused, then added with a grin, “You can call me ‘Professor Faulk.’” I’d been through the too-cool era of the’70s and ‘80s, when so many of my colleagues had wanted to be on a first-name basis with their students. I’d seen how well that worked. They’d gained a sense of equality but lost too much respect.
The door flew open and in glided a shapely 20-something blonde, in a tight red scoop-neck sweater, a black leather mini skirt, and calf-length black stiletto-heeled boots. She took a deep breath. Clearly she knew how to work a room. I silently lamented the fact that I’d reached the age where a body like that in an outfit like that didn’t create the instant arousal it used to.
“I’m soooo sorry I’m late.” She affected a passable Marilyn Monroe sigh. “I had a little trouble getting away from the office this morning. I had to park clear over on the other end of campus. I’m really, really sorry.”
“No problem,” I told her, thinking that I didn’t recall anyone named “Barbie” on my class list. She seemed to float and shimmy at the same time to a seat in the middle of the front row. When she managed to arrange all of her equipment into her seat, I picked up where I’d left off. I’d seen this act plenty of times before.
“Okay, let’s find out who you’ll be commiserating with this term.” I pulled out the class roll sheet. “I’m only going to take roll the first few meetings to confirm our roster is correct. After that I won’t bother. This first time, though, let us know you’re here, and tell us your motivation for taking a creative writing class.” I checked first name on the list.
“Roger Cole?” I glanced around the room as the class members looked at each other. “It seems Mr. Cole didn’t make it.” Not a great start.
I looked back at my class list. “How about Madeleine Collier?”
An attractive woman, probably in her 50s, raised her hand. “That’s me, Professor. My friends call me ‘Maddy,’ she said with a wry smile, “but you can call me Ms. Collier.”
The class laughed. I couldn’t help chuckling to myself. She had some spunk. Nice.
“I don’t really know why I decided to take the class,” she continued. “I guess I’m just curious to see if I actually have anything worthwhile to say.”
“Oh, I’m confident you do,” I assured her. I moved down the list. “Dawn Gladden?”
“Here.” A tall, thin, dishwater-blonde raised her hand not quite to her shoulder. She looked like she’d rather be anywhere but in a classroom full of people. “I’m here because … umm, because a friend thought it would be good for me to find a safe way to express myself.”
“Well I think you’ll discover you’ve found a safe haven with us,” I told her. “Mar-teen Gohn-sahlez?” I used my best Spanish pronunciation.
“Thass me, dude,” spouted a Hispanic kid slouched in a chair alone in the back row. “Call me ‘Marty’ though. I guess I’m takin’ the class ‘cause sometimes I see like these imaginary people in my head, you know? I thought it be cool to find out what they tryin’ a tell me.” I imagined the kid felt about as out of place as he looked—shaved head, spider web tattoo creeping out of his t-shirt collar, more body art clutching ominously to each arm, shirt and pants a couple sizes too big—little wonder no one sat near him. I nodded to Marty and checked the roll sheet. “Charles Mane?”
“Here, sir,” barked a large, clean-cut black man in tan Dockers and a blue dress shirt. “Charles Mane, U.S. Marines, retired. I go by ‘Charley.” I did two tours each in Afghanistan and Iraq. I figure maybe I can cash in on my experience like some other vets have.”
I offered him an understanding smile. Why not? Assuming the guy could write. “Allison Thames?”
“You got it, Professor Faulk. Just like the river in London,” breathed the cleavage in the front row. “And I go by Allie. I’ve always dreamed of becoming a writer, and I want to see if I’m good enough to be a real author.”
“Maybe we can help you take a few steps toward that dream.” I glanced at the next name on the list. “Ada Wong?”
“Right.” Responded one of the two older Chinese-American women, who looked so much alike I half expected them to respond in two-part harmony. “Sorry.” She scrunched up her nose. “It’s kind of an ongoing joke. You know, ‘right and wong?’” She glanced around to see if everyone got it. “Anyways, now that the kids are grown, I have a chance to try some things on my own. I’m taking this class to see if I have what it takes to become a rich and famous Romance novelist.”
“Right, Ms. Wong,” I said, playing along. I hoped I’d successfully masked my dismay over the prospect of slogging through page after page of bodice-ripping drivel.
“And that brings us to ‘Ida Wong.’”
“Hi everyone. First of all, yes, we’re twins. Everyone asks. I’m hoping to hone my writing skills so that I can become an even richer and more famous Romance writer than my little sister.”
“She’s only ten minutes older,” Ada announced with a feigned pout. They had their routine down pat.
I set the roll sheet aside. As I handed out the syllabus, I hit the highlights: classes every Tuesday and Thursday; assignments due on Monday each week and either left at my office or emailed to me; no classes the fourth and eighth week of the term to accommodate one-on-one meetings to discuss their work in detail. While they perused the syllabus and the first assignment, I scanned my fresh crop of students.
Even with nothing to go on but first impressions, I always found it interesting to guess what some of them had in store for me. I had a feeling, for instance, that the Wong sisters might have a lot more enthusiasm than talent. But I honestly hoped they’d prove me wrong.
I didn’t know what to expect from Charley Mane. Extensive action in two war zones didn’t mean he could write about it in a compelling way. I’d find out soon enough.
The Gonzalez kid seemed completely out of place, and not just because of his street-tough demeanor. But Coach labeled Marty a good kid, and that was enough for me.
Speaking of someone who seemed out of place, Dawn Gladden couldn’t have looked less comfortable at her own hanging. I got the distinct impression that this “friend” who had suggested she take a writing class hoped it might help Dawn work out some deep-seated emotional or psychological issues. With any luck, it would.
I had a hunch Madeleine Collier might turn out to be a pretty good writer. She had a kind of no-nonsense sophistication that I liked. Maybe it was just that she seemed nearer to my own age … or that she gave back as good as she got.
Sure, there were always surprises, some pleasant, some not so much. But I just might discover a diamond or two in this rough.
“Okay, I’m not going to keep you the whole period on the first day. When we meet on Thursday, I’ll go over some basics of technique and format. Your first assignment is due this coming Monday. But relax, it’s just a way to get a sample of your writing, to see what we have to work with.”
As the class began to file out, I bestowed my favorite, albeit mispronounced, parting shot for the first day of my writing classes: “Metaphors be with you.”
It earned a few chuckles, but mostly it fell on deaf ears. Tough crowd.