Splattered

Afterword

I have just come from one of the classrooms in the old junior high school where we’re shooting our next book, Desdemona. Tag was with me, as were a number of his ex classmates from those days of his in which yours truly didn’t exist. Someone had given him a mock schedule to follow for a mock school day. We all thought that was funny. Except, well, whoever wrote it must have been a boy, because the handwriting was so poor Tag could only read about half. Then he gave up and handed it to me. I couldn’t read it either. What I could read, however, looked very strange. The name of one of the classes—honest to goodness—was Beautiful. Now what exactly would be taught in a class like that? Who would be the teacher?

Tag wondered too, but rather than employ reason and rationalization to the problem,