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were doing before the screaming started. One might find this odd and unrealistic. Middle school teachers know otherwise
Mr. King, adept in three different throwing grips, grabbed the frisbee, thumb under the lip of the disc and hurled it across the sun-baked grassy field. It sliced just below Johnny's forehead, leaving a nasty gash along his left cheek. Marcus, another arrogant little brat, received the deflected force of the ricocheting disc right into his shiny forehead. The boy staggered backward three steps before his eyes rolled back, the frisbee lodged in the boy's skull just over his eyebrows. Johnny looked silly rolling his eyes as if to see the source of the searing white-hot pain that exploded into his head.

Mr. King strolled over to retrieve the frisbee again. This time a sick thwuck! sounded when the teacher removed the bloody disc from the dead boy's skull.
A deafening bell rang all across the outer fields and asphalt to signify the end of lunch.
Mr. Ben King chuckled softly. Time for class, he thought. The remaining three Ultimate players were already climbing the chain link fence that surrounded the perimeter of Park View, never looking back. Marcus, who was gashed, fell halfway to the fence and bled out, twitching just as Tommy had done.
Students returned to their classrooms. Clouds formed and blocked out the sun's heat. Mr. King smiled and rinsed the blood off his frisbee in the drinking fountain and headed off to class.

Learn more about this author, James Tigerlobo White.
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