Tag: Final Project

The Great Wall of Trump

For six seconds, the entire world was silent. Not a single person dared to breathe.

In Washington, D.C., the announcer stared at the results, aghast. It was true. “Trump,” he repeated. “Donald – Donald J. Trump is the forty-fifth President of the United States of America.”

Thousands of millions of people stared at their television screens, feeling numb. In Ohio, somebody started crying. Continue reading “The Great Wall of Trump”

Dude, Where’s My Batmobile?

On the midnight streets of Gotham City, at the corner of Badger Boulevard and Olsen Street, just outside of Gotham City Hall, were two men. One stood ramrod straight, glancing up and down the street as if he was looking for something. The other man, piled on the ground and bound at the wrists and ankles, was cackling, his too-wide mouth showing too many teeth.

“Oh!” the bound man laughed. “Oh, this is rich! Absolutely, utterly, filthy rich!” He kept cackling, slamming his head on the ground in his mirth. “So rich it makes Bruce Wayne look like a pauper! Batman, the Caped Crusader, the Dark Knight of Gotham, can’t remember where he parked!” Continue reading “Dude, Where’s My Batmobile?”

The Unwilling God; Or, The Big Hole

And the Maker said to His First Creation: I grant You dominion over Paradise. As it has always been, may You keep it so.

And the First Creation said: I thank You, Maker, and shall do as You ask.

And the Maker said to His Second Creation: I grant You dominion over Damnation. As it has always been, may You keep it so.

And the Second Creation said: I thank You, Maker, and shall do as You ask.

And the Maker said to His Third Creation: I grant You dominion over the World. As it has always been, may You keep it so.

And the Third Creation said: This is a terrible idea. You know that, right? …Right? Continue reading “The Unwilling God; Or, The Big Hole”

The Fallen Blackbirds

General Gaul Macrabius looked over the battlefield, arranged in miniature on the table before him. From here, it looked so much neater than the real thing. The soldiers were represented by carved wooden tokens, the larger tokens indicating larger groups. The enemy Boudosian soldiers, made out of dark chestnut, were constantly being moved as scouting reports filed in. It wasn’t a neat process. The information they had was hours out of date by the time it arrived, and it wouldn’t be updated until another scout could be sent.

“…and if they keep moving at the same pace, they should be here by noon tomorrow,” the scout finished. The Boudosian tokens were slowly creeping towards the collection of alder tokens that represented the last few thousand Craiviran troops still alive under Macrabius’s command. The Boudosians numbered almost three times that number, and they were led by a capable and prescient commander, who had used tactics and force of arms to corner Macrabius’s army against a mountain range. Continue reading “The Fallen Blackbirds”

The Contract

There was something subtly off about the man sitting across from me, diligently writing on the parchment using a feather pen. He had already been in the room when I was manhandled through the door by the burly, most-likely-not-human guard, sitting there like a statue in black robes embroidered with gold filigree. He said nothing as he wrote, and every time I opened my mouth to say something, the guard growled at me, and I shut up.

The man just felt wrong, in the same way that you can smell the cold. It felt like I was looking at a jigsaw puzzle with a few pieces missing. In the ten minutes since the eight-foot-tall man with horns had dragged me into the small, cold room, he hadn’t said a word. He just sat there, writing. Continue reading “The Contract”

A Life Of Crime

As Lewis Gallivan woke that Sunday morning, the sunlight glaring in his eyes, he made a mental note to buy thicker curtains as soon as Capone gave him his meager paycheck.

Still tired from a late night at work, Lewis rolled over, turning his back on the window with the thin curtains that were currently the thing Lewis hated the most. To foil his dastardly foe’s attack on his eyes, he covered his head with his pillow. Subconsciously, he knew that he should get up and out of bed, but that little voice was being smothered by the needs of the rest of Lewis’s body. Namely, the need for more sleep.

The brain, however, had one sympathetic ally in Lewis’ body, one that held immense control and influence. This ally made itself known, giving Lewis the option between getting out of bed or having to wash the sheets.

Lewis, still in that fragile state of being between awake and asleep, gave in to the demands of his bladder and lurched out of bed, stumbling towards the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, he stepped out of the bathroom a changed man. He had showered, shaved, and combed his sparse red hair (he feared that he was already starting to bald, even at the age of thirty). Fully awakened, he set about on his morning routine. He dressed himself in a brown three-piece suit, filed his fingernails, disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled his sidearm, and shined his shoes.

He set the old rag aside and held one of the leather wingtip shoes up against the light, angling it to make sure the shine was just right. In his inspection, he noticed a dime-sized spot of unwelcome color on the sole. Lewis picked up the rag again and scrubbed the dried blood away.

Satisfied, he slipped the shoe on, feeling slightly aggravated that it didn’t fit as well as it once had. Continue reading “A Life Of Crime”