For this Literary Free Write, Gavin Shehan presents Donald Trump as the character Meursault from The Stranger by Albert Camus
Trump, somehow lost after wandering out of his winter home in the south of Texas, was exceedingly uncomfortable. His now wrinkled and sweat-stained suit made him appear as some sort of zombie in your prototypical television show- his toupee was matted, his spray-tan created visible splotches in his skin tone, ranging from dark orange-brown to the pale and oddly pure white of his bare skin, his strange drunkard stumble…
Like any uncomfortable toddler would, Trump complained the whole time he walked along, mumbling “damned, foreign, incomprehensible wife of mine” or “Mexico should install an AC unit for their climate” or “why haven’t I seen the wall- oh yeah, I need to build it.” Ironically, he did actually cross into Mexico after a time.
After a while in the foreign land, he stumbled across a creek, and on its banks rested a native- sombrero, pancho, and all. Standing over the sleeping man, Trump’s mind wandered. His thoughts drifted from his presidential campaign, to the great successes of his life, to the resentment he held for his father for lending him only the $1 million loan, and finally back to the Mexican.
“Look at him sleep there,” he brooded angrily. “Not a care in the world. Probably not a single dollar to his filthy name. All the while I’m here due to my wealth and sleep deprivation. It’s not fair. I should have just bought the land next to the border and built the wall myself. Look at him. All he has is the coolness of this creek to himself … I must have it!”
Nearing unconsciousness, Donald drew his .38 special and pumped a single round into the innocent man’s head.
Hamlet Receives Final College Rejection Letter
Despite the recent victory of his father’s army over that of Norway, Hamlet had become quite melancholy. As any seventeen year old of the time did, he applied to colleges in attempts to spread his wings and mature. He spent hours, decades (not literally), crafting what he believed to be the best measure of his life, intellect, and personality. The process was grueling - many of Hamlet’s teeth were pulled in the process.
Despite his efforts, despite the joyous state of his surroundings, despite his gay and innocent times of his childhood, he was rendered worthless. The letter, which still rested solitary on his desk, gloated at him despite being inanimate. As Hamlet sat at his desk, still stupefied at the realization of his disappointing future to come, all the joys of his youth slowly and painfully turned into sadness and resentment. He had been rejected from the last college left that he had applied to.
The large hours of the night turned small, then to the large of the day. Hamlet both mourned his former joyful, blissful self and began to plan his future. College, and with it his desire to research and aspirations of being a scholar, was clearly out of the realm of possibilities. What was he to do? Flee to Norway and settle on being a mere jester? Stay home and be content with tending the farm animals?