Entered a writing challenge!

Hello peoples of various stripes. Just thought I’d let you know I’ve entered a writing challenge on theprose.com

Read A Nice Aerial View here.  It’s probably one of my favorite stories that I’ve written. Let me know what you think! (any critical comments also welcome!)

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Adam West Fiction “One Final Labyrinth”

The beloved bat looked forlornly at the wall made up of crushed gallons of milk. His sidekick was looking at the wall too, squinting at the harsh sunlight.

“When do you think it will end, Batman?”

“The madness, you mean?”

“No, I meant the sunlight,” his sidekick said. The beloved bat looked at his sidekick, who was gangly-looking and wearing bright red lipstick.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider changing colors? You might look less garish.”

The Prince of Green looked at the bat. “Red wards off the run. And besides, it complements my hair.”

“I can’t argue with royalty,” the bat said. “You are the Prince of Green, after all. Say, why don’t you summon an airship or a retinue of veterans to rescue us from this purgatory.”

But the Prince didn’t answer. Indeed, the Prince wasn’t present at all.

“Where did you go, my dear Prince? I’d of thought you would’ve stuck around to the end.”

The only response the bat received was the hard-to-perceive sound of those decaying gallons. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t decay in enough time to spare his patience. So he walked the lonely paths lined with rejected vessels hoping the Prince of Green would appear.

“We’ve always had a tense relationship, dear Prince. That’s no reason to abandon a well-functioning duo.”

Before the bat could finish his speech, he fell through a question mark-shaped hole in the ground. All of a sudden, he was soothed. Here he was in his natural environment, nestled in a labyrinth beneath a labyrinth. Those pesky gallons still formed barriers against anything else, but Adam was coming to peace with them. They were part of this world, slowly rotting away.

“Whatever happens to this world, I’ll persevere,” Adam said to himself. “Unwanted gallons be damned!”

Adam approached what looked like an altar.

“Go due west,” the altar said, a voice coming from below. “You’ll find your answers there.”

Adam decided to follow the altar’s advice. He headed due west, through ever-narrowing corridors dotted with question marks. Clay hand prints dotted the dots, making Adam suspicious. Something nefarious was going on. He started to doubt the sage words of an always reliable altar. But as soon as he did so, he entered a cavernous room. The gallons had gone, replaced with rocky walls and more clay hand prints.

A being was sitting in a posh chair covered in red. “The Prince of Green! I’d recognize that shade of red anywhere!”

It was indeed the Prince of Green, but his left arm ended in a clay-ish stump. The Prince offered a malicious glare.

“Sorry for the deception, bat, but it was necessary.”

Adam became a little flustered. After all, his sense of justice had been rattled.

“Deception is a tool of the morally polluted!”

The Prince of Green motioned with his clay-ish stump, and shadows started to come out of the woodwork, revealing their true selves.

The Joker appeared, seeming calm and cool-headed. The Penguin, short but devious, took off his top hat, bending a bald head. A riddler wearing pjs stepped out of the dark, yawned and looking benignly at the bat.

“You’re surrounded, my friend,” said the Prince of Green, who tripled in size as the mind behind the shape let go. It was clayface in all his dramatic glory. Vines crept up behind his massive shoulders, and a throne of ivy was rose above his head, sitting inside it was  of course the red-haired poison ivy.

“The Goad-dess of plants herself!”

“At your command!” she said.

Adam was confused, and getting a little angry. Why were they being so nice to him?

“It’s time to let go, Adam,” clayface said, his mask of sadness deepening in the candlelight.

Adam smiled, the reality of things finally dawned on him. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But there’s just one last thing.” He looked expectantly into the shadows.

Robin appeared, giving a bow. So this was it. The end of an era. As Robin and the bat walked into the doorway of light, Adam thought that nothing could be this simple. There had to be a catch. But his old enemies were smiling and waving. The Joker, the archbishop of Evil, his greatest nemesis, was waving too. Adam did the same, punching Robin lightly on the shoulder as they passed from one level of existence to another.

Maybe Adam would give David Bowie a call. It was only fitting.

 

A Wasteland President, Part 11

Trump was seriously worried about the state of the world. It was sea of stumps dominating a few tall buildings. But even the “alpha” structures were diminished. In the world he knew, the tallest buildings knocked the sun out of the way to make room for their steel shoulders, made right here in the U.S.A.

“You doin alright back there, Donald?” Barack asked

“I’m doing just fine. Reflection on the situation,” Trump replied, sitting back and letting the lushness of the car seat envelope him. He wondered what class of Mercedes this was, and why he hadn’t been aware of it before now.

“Hey, you got a seat warmer up here?” Trump asked.

“Donald, it’s a balmy 80 degrees out,” Barack said, giving him a look.

“Little chilly is all. Just Little chilly.”

“D-”

“I don’t get as much circulation on the lower half of my body.”

“Alright, Donald. I’m pressing the button now,” Michelle informed, her eyes lighting up the rear-view mirror.

Barack stirred, as if some sin had been committed. “I’m trying to teach the man resilience!” But Michelle just shook her head.

“Hey, where we goin, some place a little warmer?”

“Donald, listen, we’ll let you know when we get there.”

“I don’t like surprises. Especially ones that have the potential to end badly.”

“Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the warmer lower half of your body,” Michelle said. Barack folded his arms.

“Seriously. I don’t like surprises. I like routine.”

Trump looked out the window petulantly for a minute, before he was distracted by golden gates up ahead. They were definitely imposing and official looking. How many galas had been held at the thing?

“Let’s go see Mitch, Donald. We have some catching up to do.”

“Who’s Mitch?”

The Obamas walked ahead, taking the rain gracefully. Trump dragged behind, wondering who Mitch was and what he had to do with all of this.

A Wasteland President, Part 10

A Wasteland President, Part 10

Trump sat back and enjoyed the ride, as he was ordered to do. He didn’t mind being scolded or ordered around, as long as the advice was intelligent and helped him construct a better future.

He couldn’t help but notice how “lean” the buildings looked. They were smaller and shorter than the grand offerings he remembered. There weren’t any trees, either. All he could see were stumps. He grunted.

“You okay back there, Donald?” Michelle asked.

“I-”

“Look, there’s at least one bottle near your feet. Do what you gotta do.”

“Nah. I’m fine. Just thinking, is all.”

“Okay,” Obama said. “Just be careful.”

“You’re so mean to him.”

“It’s just a little ribbing among former Presidents. He can take it,” Barack said, looking back at Trump and nodding coldly.

Donald knew he wasn’t telling the truth. He nodded back and looked out the window. He beat Obama once. He could beat him again. In fact, he was being driven down this arguably beautiful landscape by them. That was a small victory already.

“You know, I’m living life and not having to do a damn thing. Feels alright,” Trump said and smirked. They probably wouldn’t get what he was talking about, and that made it all the sweeter. Michelle looked back at him, mystified. He felt bad, like he had eaten too much ice cream, or gorged himself on too many television channels. Anyway. Trump went back to looking out the window.

The world was so very lean-looking. Like even the buildings had been starved. And the stumps. He couldn’t get over the stumps. Did the apocalypse end the world or just tip it over the edge?

A Wasteland President, Part 9

A Wasteland President, Part 11

A Wasteland President, Part 1

“Today did an excellent job. But what about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is cancelled, sir.”
“Cancelled? What do you mean cancelled?”
“It’s just gone, sir.”
“Well, what do you we do now? There’s nothing down here. No enemies, no friends. Nothin’. Just us.”
“Just us, sir.”
“…Just us. Hmm. Do you think anyone is alive up there? Anyone worth talking to?”
“Anyone left up there will be heavily irradiated. It’d be very depressing to watch, sir. They might even ask you for money.”
“I can watch money burn. Why would I give it do them?”
“Precisely, sir. And more to the point, you couldn’t even explain to them that money is pointless in this new world.”
“That sounded poetic. You know what? You’re hired.”
“I know, sir. You’ve fired me a bunch of times already. Then hired me again. I quit. Things don’t look like they will improve.”

[secret service agent, the last of his kind, removes himself from this post-nuclear world]

“What do I do now? Well, that’s a good question. I hire the question. It will do an excellent job.”

A Wasteland President, Part 2

A Wasteland President, Part 9

Trump was getting choked so hard he couldn’t see straight. Nothing made sense except the pulsating green fist assailing his air passages. Trump flailed and spat, but to no avail. The only thing that saved him was the sound of one of the cow-faced cats scurrying in a corner near the entrance.

“Huh?” the thing said, looking completely terrified. It dropped Donald on his bum, fleeing into the shadows with preternatural speed.

“Damn. That thing sure was ugly. At least it’s gone now.”

So, the Bannon orcs were terrified of this new breed of cat. Interesting.

Donald approached the counter, and a disheveled man stood up from behind it.

“Yea. Can I take your order?” he asked. He rubbed his eyes hoping to rub the fatigue away.

Donald returned to the motel around sunrise with an armful of chicken tacos. “Bet Barack will like these. Michelle too…me too.”

As he opened the door and set the tacos down noisily, both the Obamas stirred. Donald hated to admit it, but he was starting to feel some affection for them.

“Wake up! I have tacos!”

There wasn’t a respond for approximately thirty seconds.

“Dammit, Donald! It’s 5 in the morning!”

“Yea, I know. You’re gonna need your protein!”

The trio quickly ate and piled into the car. Barack filled the tank with gas from a dirt-encrusted canister, and hopped into the passenger seat.

Michelle turned the key in the ignition, and pealed out of the parking lot.

“Where we headin’?”

“To the FBI headquarters in DC. Remember?” Michelle said. “Maybe we should write it down for you or something.” There was no snark in her voice. Just a thought.

“Oh.”

“Just sit back, Donald. Enjoy the ride. We’re gonna make some stops along the way. You might want to pay attention.”

There was definitely snark in Barack’s voice. He’d file that info away for later.

A Wasteland President, Part 8

A Wasteland President, Part 10

 

 

 

More “A Wasteland President” after a short break

I have this post-apocalyptic setting almost all figured out. Trump (the main character) doesn’t get off that easily via my own laziness and poor motivational skills. He’s gonna have to deal with this post-apocalypse one way or another.

Last we saw him, he was being pulled through a Shocko Bell drive-thru window (because in fiction, you always have to end on a cliffhanger). So stay tuned. Anything could happen.