The (Meta) Drama of the Game

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

“Why are you kicking me out? What did I do?”

Jack wouldn't quite meet my eye, staring just past my shoulder. He looked so pathetic standing there, shoulders slumped, hands stuffed in his pocket. I almost felt bad for him. Almost.

I didn't respond though a million answers flooded my mind. Because you played games on your phone after I asked you not to at least a dozen times. Because you barely participated, even in plots crafted specifically for you. Because every “funny” comment caused an embarrassed silence at the table. Because there were times when you creeped out the host's wife. Because you've made me sorry that I invited you in the first place.

Thankfully, I had a previous reason to fall back on. Even though I was mad at him, I had no wish to burden him with my bilious reasons. At this point ultimatums to change wouldn't do anybody good.

“Jack,” I say gently, “it's Roland's turn. Remember, I split you two up because you weren't getting along. You got to play in the last game.”

I hope it's enough.


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Comments (1 so far!)

ElshaHawk LoA

ElshaHawk LoA

Jack probably doesn't understand that he creeps people out and has poor social gaming skills. He is probably self-centered. The next game needs to be no phones, taken at the door. If Jack doesn't like that, well, he wasn't there to play, but to appear to belong with a group.

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