Devonne Brown

Alpine forgot all about the presentation due in Ethics 101 in two hours. He had a conglomeration of photos on his computer. A mix of people, places, and things, nouns he could mash together like words to spew out in front of a PowerPoint that would make him sound like he’d been up all night preparing the thing. 

That was his hope.

His mother had always said he had the gift of horseshit. She had bragged on his ability to preach off the cuff in church, toast his friends or family, or make up a story of some kind or other to fit any occasion. He’d been half awake through most of the classes Dr. Shoenbaum had led, taken halfway decent notes, he could make up something. He was sure of it. 

Alpine launched himself into his last minute, if halfassed and overconfident approach to presentation creation for Ethics 101. He needed five minutes so he chose ten poignant pictures of people and animals from his camera roll. Alpine checked his notes to stay on topic, and began to weave his words through the pictures, and create connection slides. He even made a flow chart and a bar graph. Alpine was full of himself. His mother was right when she said he had the gift of horseshit. He was a born con artist.

The presentation was beautiful. It ranged from a bridge in the mountains, to happy children, to cats. It questioned man’s responsibilities to the earth as well as to his fellow man, it even broached the question of euthanasia. Like any good presentation, it left the audience with more questions than answers. Alpine had a quick, if chaotic mind. He pulled off his presentation with aplomb. Dr. Soenbaum was pleased.

Alpine learned two things from Ethics 101. One, that either people didn’t expect as much from him as he thought they did or that their standards were lower than he expected.  His halfassed approach to life seemed to work just fine. And two, his mother’s declaration that his gift of horseshit would carry him far.