The students all wrote about car accidents. One by one, two at a time,
sometimes whole vehicles at once -- packed as if with circus clowns -- the
students killed off their parents, siblings, friends and lovers. Some,
they decapitated. Some bled out. Some were made to suffer for years on
lumpy suburban hospital beds in comas as even their most dutiful chums
said "fuck it" and swapped strained afternoon visits for boyfriends or
Wii tennis or new water bongs packed with hydroponically grown pot.
Otherwise disparate, the students narratives invariably contained cars
crashing into banks or shopping malls, splashing into lakes or flying
from sheer, dun-colored cliffs a la Thelma and Louise. Stolen Chevys
burned through the night in bad parts of town like wounded flares. Low
slung convertibles raced toward long planned dream weddings that would
never end in ugly custody battles or serial infidelities or
acrimonious divorce and were then unceremoniously T-boned by geriatric
hog farmers with sclerotic livers and no time for love.
Putting pen to paper, the students gained the power of life and death,
and not unlike most creators, their first instinct in creating drama
was to destroy. A need for easy calamity compelled them to snap the
necks of the universes they fashioned -- like Yahweh charring Gomorrah to
cinders in a fit of eschatological pique -- as if there could be no
certainty of their power to create until they saw unequivocally their
ability to leave things in ruins, twisted metal smoldering on the side
of the road.