Fall 2011 - The University of Scranton
Fall 2011 - The University of Scranton
Fall 2011 - The University of Scranton
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curtly to Hipster A, who produced a thick rope woven from suspenders<br />
purchased from the Salvation Army. Jack and Dodger, the Artful Robot,<br />
quickly set about tying the Esprit staff to chairs as Hipster A fed them rope.<br />
Sweet Elk eyed editorial brains hungrily, wondering what they would taste<br />
like.<br />
“Why are you here?” asked the Editor-in-Chief.<br />
“Haven’t you been reading? <strong>The</strong>y want us to put them in Esprit.”<br />
said the second editor.<br />
“I thought you said it ‘Es-pritt,’” Jack drawled. “Unless it’s Eyetalian.”<br />
“It doesn’t matter how you say it,” Dodger, the Artful Robot, said<br />
icily. “What matters is we’re here. And we have the staff at our mercy.”<br />
“But you’re just characters in a story! What are you going to do?”<br />
asked the fourth editor.<br />
“Do you really want to know?” Jack muttered.<br />
“Might I remind you, Editor, that you’re a character in a story<br />
now as well,” the Artful Robot bleeped. Sweet Elk licked his chops in<br />
anticipation. Brains.<br />
“Well,” said the Editor-in-Chief, “your manuscript is lacking good<br />
characters, the plot’s clichéd—it’s a complete farce. That whole attempt at<br />
a meta section was just unclear. Do your worst, robot.”<br />
“As you wish,” Dodger, the Artful Robot said.<br />
“What, Princess Bride quotes now too?” asked the fourth editor.<br />
“That’s my line!” Hipster A shouted. “Sweet Elk, eat his brain first.”<br />
Sweet Elk bellowed, unhinged his jaw and swallowed the head <strong>of</strong> the fourth<br />
editor whole, chomping at the neck.<br />
“Now, do we have your word, Editor? You’ll publish the<br />
submissions that my comrades and I came from?” Dodger, the Artful<br />
Robot, asked. He began to warm up the laser generators in his fingertips.<br />
“Don’t do it!” said a voice from the shadows <strong>of</strong> the <strong>of</strong>fice. “I never<br />
meant for this story to go so far!” <strong>The</strong> assembled group <strong>of</strong> editors and<br />
characters turned toward the back wall <strong>of</strong> the <strong>of</strong>fice, which they hadn’t<br />
looked at until this moment in time. A young woman stepped forward. In<br />
her hand, she held a notebook computer.<br />
“Wait, you wrote this? You’re not supposed to reveal authorship at<br />
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