A scrawny ninth grader stands outside Mr. Hammond’s drama class. It’s a large, open space. No windows. 

A charcoal carpet covers the floor and 21 chairs are placed in a wide circle.  

The boy removes his shoes and enters the room, pulls a chair out and sits down. He scooches the seat forward, closing the gap.

His peers trickle in. Some in bunches, some alone. 

The bell rings. 

One chair is empty—Mr. Hammond is late. 

Minutes drag by. 

“We can leave if he doesn’t show up in five minutes,” the boy jokes. His classmates chuckle and agree.

A few more minutes pass. 

“Time’s u…”

Mr. Hammond bursts through the door holding five large sheets of construction paper. Three sets of wooden spoons are balanced on top.

He heel-toes his shoes off and veers to the vacant seat, using his foot to slide it away from the circle. 

The room is quiet. Energy pulses.

“Morning, class,” he steps inside the ring of students. “Sorry I’m late.” 

He begins handing out the sheets of paper and sets of spoons without explanation. 

“Stamp your feet,” he instructs one student. “Good, good.” 

“Pat your hands on your thighs,” he tells another. “Perfect.” 

He returns to his chair and sits down, empty-handed. “I trust you can all snap your fingers.” 

It’s not a question. 

“I’m going to start snapping, and when I do, the person to my left will follow suit. The person to their left will do the same and so on.”

“Next, I’ll pat my thighs quickly. The person to my left will do the same, etcetera.” 

“Finally, I’ll start stomping my feet.” 

Mr. Hammond eyes three girls holding the wooden spoons. One sits across from him, the other two sit opposite each other. 

“When we’re all stamping about, that’s your cue to clack those spoons.”

“Which is when you five,” he continues, shifting his gaze from student to student, “start wobbling the construction paper back and forth.” 

“Then we’ll do the pattern in reverse. Got it.” 

It’s not a question.

Mr. Hammond leans back and flips the nearby light switch. 

Blackness.

A high-pitched squeal pierces the room. “Don’t be a pussy, Mark,” a low voice quips.

Laughter erupts. 

“That’s enough, children!”

Silence. Anticipation. Then, the sound of snapping fingers.

The thunderstorm of a lifetime follows.

Rain turns from light drops to loud plops to hail pounding on the ground. Wind lashes through the room, walls vibrate. The sky splits open and thunder distorts the airwaves.

Chaos.

Until, one by one, each element fades. Thunder loses its voice. Hail returns to rain. A gentle pitter patter. And then stillness. 

The lights flicker on. 

“Your homework is to write 495 words about theatre of the mind.”

~

The boy didn’t do the homework. But the man figures it’s better late than never.

Because the storm sounded real. Felt real. 

It displayed the power of creativity, the strength of imagination.

And it taught him how to write for the mind’s eye.