They all wore strange woolly sweaters, the ugliest ones I've yet to see.
4 women were gathered. They formed a circle too tight for a possible 5th guest to squeeze in. They were mindlessly bickering on and on and on and on...


"What is that dish, anyway? I don't see the point of it."
"Really."
"I agree with you on every little term possibly imaginable."
"It's so senseless."
"And worthless."
"And difficult."

One had black, bushy hair. But it wasn't messy as it sounds.
One had thin, blonde hair. But it was messier than it sounds.
I don't remember the other two.
They were talking about cooking a special dish, it seemed. It'd upset the four of them so much, to the point where they all couldn't spare the tiniest shred of reconsideration.

The scene was a classroom in an elementary school. The women looked like they were in charge of the PTA, now that they started flashing badges with their names stamped on. I couldn't read any of their names, because they kept throwing their hands frantically about.
The whole situation was messy anyway.

Then a 5th figure emerged from the blackboard, somehow.
At first she was just a small graffiti, drawn carelessly by a child. Then she just collected her lines and curves and stepped out, fully formed. But none of the ladies found that quite amazing. The 5th figure looked full of authority as she made the most pompous entrance ever.
The 4 women instantly hushed and turned around, their faces full of enormous concern.
"We were talking about the annual dish, the special one." the one with black, bushy hair said. She tossed her head round like she was talking to her lover or something. "And," she continued, "We all agreed that it takes too much time, too much space, and too much of our precious handiwork (her accent was simply ridiculous). So we suggest we stop making it each year."
With that the black, bushy haired woman glared and silently hissed (yes)at the 5th figure, as if it were going to start snapping at her. The 5th figure was actually the teacher. Her name tag reads MS.WOODSBURY-TEACHER.

I have no idea who Ms. Woodsbury is.

The black, bushy haired woman tossed her head again. She is quite rude. She and her girlfriends look like teenagers in the face of Ms. Woodsbury--not merely implying that she is old, but focusing more on the aura that she suggestfully emits.
We know Ms. Woodsbury is not meant to be messed around; the head-tossing woman surely does not realize that.
"I mean," she exclaims, "It's so non-efficient.(Ms. Woodsbury flinches here, very slightly, as she thinks inefficient) We only buy carrots once an year for that particular dish, and it's such a waste. We all agree right?" and her girlfriends support her with silly nods.
They really are a bunch of teenagers.

Ms. Woodsbury is suddenly all business.

"That dish is not meant to be overlooked at."
The black, bushy haired woman tosses her head. "But---"
Ms. Woodsbury gives her a look so sharp that she thinks twice about inturrupting. But we know she can't keep quiet for long...she has to say something!
"As I said," Ms. Woodsbury continues,"That dish has great meaning to us all. The school, the community, the principal. What would the principal eat if he loses that dish? (We imply that the principal here is on a year-long hunger strike, something so common that we dare not inturrupt) "That dish," Ms. Woodsbury presses--as the black, bushy haired woman is apparently looking so frantic we fear she is going to burst--"Is a tradition."

With that very word, the 4 women shrieked and vanished.
Just like those witches from Macbeth.