By Noella Thu
Welcome to The Shield’s annual satire section. Writers use satire to improve a problem in society. Sometimes readers misunderstand the satire as they do not recognize the hyperbole, irony, rhetorical questions, sarcasm, and understatements. A great satirist will also address counter-arguments (the non-satirical solution) with great mockery and sarcasm. Readers may mistake the satirical solution for the actual solution that the writer proposes. The ideas in these satire stories do not necessarily represent the opinions of The Shield or Westmont. If one is confused about satire, please contact a friendly neighborhood English teacher.
In a world rife with geniuses and prodigies, the impossible is accomplished every day. The world is big; it is only natural for the envelope to be constantly pushed to its limits – that is, if one were to believe the headlines. If you peel back the congealed layers of lies and fabrication hidden within the flowery prose, you might see the truth that lies behind the yellowed pages.
For millennia, the reanimation of human beings was regarded as an utterly impossible feat, similar to the wild imaginings of Karel Čapek or Mary Shelley. In fact, the creation of life as depicted in Shelley’s work was touted as the face of all things unachievable. Ask her now through the thin dividing pane of plastic, as she raises her manuscript to the concrete sky of her enclosure.
Mary Shelley had long been championed as the mother of science fiction — and of the future itself — so it seemed only natural that she be the first reanimated by the Great Experiment labelled the “newest world-shattering breakthrough.” You were surprised, then, to see the crude nature of the room she was stationed in. Your section of the room was walled off from the author’s by a sheet of clear vinyl plastic, past where there was an unsettling recreation of a natural world that in reality had long been lost to urban sprawl. A zoo exhibit, you thought. Ignoring your unease, you gripped your whiteboard and stepped toward the microphone.
“Hello, Mrs. Shelley. I was sent here as a representative of Dolus News, to conduct an interview. I’m sure our readers are already familiar with your work, but why don’t you introduce yourself anyway.”
She offered you a grin. “Hello! It is very nice to meet you. I am Mary Shelley, the author of the book Frankenstein,” – she held out her copy for you to see – “I originally lived from 1797 to 1851, but was brought back to life by Rossum’s Productions this year. I am honored to be part of this interview.”
You nodded, scribbling notes. “Thank you! It is an honor-” Her voice cuts you off.
“Hello! It is very nice to meet you.” As you bring your eyes up to look at your subject in confusion, she grins again, her arm spasming before laying stiffly at her side. The audio restarts, rendering the author a ventriloquist. “Hello-!” The doors to the dimly lit room slam open, yielding to a group of guards who instantly surround you. Their bodies block your vision from the mess of wires that explode from Shelley’s body as she falls to the painted ground, but you are witness to it all the same.
Your boss visits you at your cell a few days later.
“We can’t publish this,” she tells you, handing you a copy of the article you had written in a haze the night before. “It just won’t sell – there needs to be more of a story! You should know by now that people don’t read the news to stay informed. To them, we’re just another streaming service they use to facilitate grabbing handfuls of popcorn and shaking their heads at the sorry state of the world. Like I said, your article needs more story.” She tosses you another stack of papers. “Here. I took the liberty of making some edits. This will be the version published in the papers this Sunday.”
You skim through the article, reading line after line of your supposed interview with the reincarnated Mary Shelley – all completely fabricated.
“We can’t publish this!” You argue, but it hardly matters. They had money to make, and the people didn’t buy the truth.