1.25.2009
The Following Story
The following story is my current entry into the 2009 NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. It is currently under review. I had a week to write a short story for my heat - heat 22 - and submit it. If This story is selected to move on, the next round is an unknown genre and topic that has to be written in 24 hours. My category was Political Satire and the subject was Surveillance.
A Secret Service
Synopsis:
The President of the United States is calmed by his wife after having the overwhelming feeling that he is being watched by an unknown organization.
Blankets rustle violently in a dark bedroom. Of the two bodies in the bed, one is dormant, yet awake. The other has begun to quickly toss and turn, at times uttering inaudible phrases. The cool air in the lightless room begins to warm as an unspoken tension settles upon the married couple. The man has begun to sweat; tiny beads run down his cold body and disperse amongst the sheets beneath him. Unconscious, the man is consumed by fear and paranoia. The kind that if it were bottled up and sold would do unspeakable damage to anyone who dared consume it. When the shaking starts, the patient wife has had enough.
The click of the bedside lamp is lost in the throes of trepidation as a buttery light casts its sickly limbs across the bed. Unfazed by the sudden illumination, the anxiety holds fast in the man. The wife quickly raises her loving hand and slaps her husband across the face in a motion so automatic, one questions if she is really human at all.
“Who’s there? Who the fuck are you?” The man leaps from his bed into the welcoming shadows, shouting into the void. “They’re after me Lady! They know my every move…”
“For the last time, there is nobody watching you Mr. President,” she coolly replies, reclining back down and propping herself up with one arm. Lady puts her head in her hand and prepares herself for his ramblings.
“If only you could see their eyes,” pleads Mr. President, turning towards his wife. “Those suspicious, shifty eyes following my every move. Scrutinizing, sinister…”
“Scheming… So I’ve heard,” Lady routinely finishes his sentence. Loudly patting his spot on the bed like a master calling over her dog she says, “Why don’t you come lie back down and tell me about this dream.”
Mr. President begins pacing back and forth, from the edge of the dim light cast from the old lamp to the darkest of the twilight beyond. Ignoring her invitation, he can be heard clumsily examining things on the dresser and shelves in the large room as he sporadically moves from here to there.
Lady, surprised by her husband’s actions, repositions herself in the bed, letting the tender sheet caress her skin as it slides off of her naked body. A tiny gold locket hangs from her neck, dangling worry-free between her exposed breasts. Allowing it to serve as a distraction, she lingers pretending not to notice. When she gets no response from her husband, who is still crashing about in the dark, she quietly floats out of bed, grabs her pellucid, pastel pink robe from a hook on the wall and vanishes out of the glow of the lamp herself.
Without warning a blinding white luminescence smothers the lingering dark of the room, revealing all of the hidden treasures to prying eyes. As the room ignites in light, Lady sees her husband surge from his position at the dresser, diving forward. Arms outstretched, head tucked to his chest and hardly making a sound, Mr. President’s shoulder connects with the ground and he swiftly rolls into the closet; a man, a ruler of his country, in all his glory rolling around on the carpet, nothing but moving flesh and underwear.
Lady stands with her back to the bathroom, fingering the light switch and leaning against the wall as she surveys the room in ruin. In front of her and to the left is the dresser, clothes exploding out of it as if a bomb had rocked its very core. Debris in the form of white t-shirts and colored boxers and the shrapnel of pink, tan, white, and black bras and panties litter the carpet.
This is more serious than I thought, thinks Lady, as she wraps herself in her covering, shrouding her plump body from the empty room. To her right is a cluttered table, mail and trinkets all askew and out of place as they had been ripped from the shelves adjacent. Most shocking to Lady is one of the two chairs lying fallen at the foot of the mess, like a fallen soldier or a lost friend.
“What are you doing in the closet?” She tries to remain calm despite questioning his sanity.
“Don’t tell them where I am!” His muffled response sounds distorted and imperceptible through the slats in the wooden closet door. He pauses a heartbeat, then opens the door and casually walks over to his wife. Mr. President pulls his wife close to him, moving in as if to kiss her parched lips. “We are being watched,” he whispers into her ear. “It isn’t safe to discuss the matter here.”
“Well we are sure as hell not discussing this matter later,” she says, pulling away from the hot breath on her ear. “What has gotten into you? You’re all paranoid.”
“I am the President of these United States and I think I should be allowed to bear some concern about my security, my livelihood, and that of my family as well.” He walks back over to the dresser, puffing himself up with the air of aristocracy. He picks up the wireless telephone on the dresser and nonchalantly turns it over, the subtlety of his examination more imagined than enacted.
“I’m being followed.” He puts down the receiver and picks up the clumsy base charging station of the unit.
“How? Who…what do you mean you’re being followed?” Lady stands suddenly frozen with concern.
“They don’t think they’ve seen me but I have been keeping a discrete eye on them,” he says matter-of-factly as he disconnects the phone station and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Two men in dark suits, white shirts and dark ties, with little speakers stuck in their right ears, follow me at a distance. You would think that they would be better at being elusive, you know, cat and mouse games.”
Lady snorts in a mixture of hilarity and relief and pushes away from the wall, flowing over to her husband and plopping down next to him on the bed. She looks into his gentle but serious face. His eyes are twinkling in the light, emitting the passion he holds so deep in his chest. The bags beneath those windows warn of a paranoia, a fear so encumbering that even slumber holds no refuge.
“Those are your very own bodyguards my dear.” Her voice is soothingly soft, caressing his worry. “Remember Alfonso and Julien? They have been around since the campaign…”
“Then they have been turned! Don’t you see, we have been infiltrated and now we can’t be sure who is with us and who is against.” The inevitability of the situation causes Mr. President to hang his head with hopelessness.
“Honey, it is their job to follow you, to make sure nothing happens to you. Essentially, you are paying them to watch you.” She pleads him to stop this foolishness.
“Even so Lady, we are under surveillance. We both are being examined by an unknown group of confederates. This is an outlandish attack on Patriotism!” The fine balance between rationality and instability is teetering on a blind scale.
“Fine.” She hangs her head in defeat. Mr. President perks up at the opportunity to prove his lucidity. “You’re right, you are being watched...”
“Thank you…” His inflated pride punctured by her very next words.
“…by the entire world. The entire world has their eyes on you. Your countrymen expect change, the world demands better, even your enemies are watching to see what you will do. So yes you crazy son-of-a-bitch, you are under surveillance.” The sound of her patronizing outburst harshly resonates around the room. Silence follows.
Mr. President hesitates in his position, looking at the flagrant destruction in the room with a feeling of utter defeat. Maybe Lady is right. Maybe this is all in his head. He begins to move, a minute attempt to reclaim some morsel of dignity.
“The newspapers and anchors and correspondents and congressmen and women and the people on the west coast and the folks in Alaska and Canada and Mexico are all watching you. They Google you, they YouTube you, but more importantly, the majority of them love you. Or are at least excited to see what you can accomplish,” Lady pleads to his remaining faculties.
“Ok, ok. Perhaps I have let this obsession with security wander a little to far from the realm of my control.” The façade of presidential regality reclaims some physical composure in the man. “Now that you mention it, those men in the suits did seem strikingly familiar,” he lies.
“Now that sounds more like the strong ruler of a proud country; like the man that I married.” He lovingly leans into Lady, comforted and protected by the power of her sheltering embrace.
“You should have seen the looks on their faces when I started running from them.” The recollection forces a chuckle from the married couple.
“I bet they are a confused pair,” says Lady as her face contorts into a Faberge farce.
“I suppose I should tidy the room up real quick. This is no way for the Presidential Family to conduct themselves in their personal residence.” There is a new lightness to the phrases and gestures of the tired man. He slides across the room as though a weight has been lifted and begins to pick up the scattered remains of their wardrobe and the insignificant decorum of their bedroom.
Lady saunters backwards and into the bathroom, silently shutting the door behind her and turning on the faucet. The flowing drink is a waterfall of voluminous noise, drowning out any sound she might summon. She collapses down onto the cool porcelain of the toilet, poise leaving her as she realizes how close she just came to being exposed. Lady’s strong fingers are shaking from the adrenaline as she reaches into her soft robe. She pulls out the golden locket, clasping it tightly in her sweaty, shaking hands as she holds it against her forehead. Her deep breathing becomes a soothing mantra. Eyes held tightly closed, she lets the trinket slip out of her hands, the shiny case dangling dangerously close to her pursed lips.
“That was close,” she whispers into a tiny slot in the back of the glistening metal. “But I think I bought us more time.”
Lady drops her hands to her side, the necklace plummeting down into her bosom. She hoists herself up and checks on her husband: he’s fast asleep. The frail glow of the room dissipates into darkness once more.
The President of the United States is calmed by his wife after having the overwhelming feeling that he is being watched by an unknown organization.
Blankets rustle violently in a dark bedroom. Of the two bodies in the bed, one is dormant, yet awake. The other has begun to quickly toss and turn, at times uttering inaudible phrases. The cool air in the lightless room begins to warm as an unspoken tension settles upon the married couple. The man has begun to sweat; tiny beads run down his cold body and disperse amongst the sheets beneath him. Unconscious, the man is consumed by fear and paranoia. The kind that if it were bottled up and sold would do unspeakable damage to anyone who dared consume it. When the shaking starts, the patient wife has had enough.
The click of the bedside lamp is lost in the throes of trepidation as a buttery light casts its sickly limbs across the bed. Unfazed by the sudden illumination, the anxiety holds fast in the man. The wife quickly raises her loving hand and slaps her husband across the face in a motion so automatic, one questions if she is really human at all.
“Who’s there? Who the fuck are you?” The man leaps from his bed into the welcoming shadows, shouting into the void. “They’re after me Lady! They know my every move…”
“For the last time, there is nobody watching you Mr. President,” she coolly replies, reclining back down and propping herself up with one arm. Lady puts her head in her hand and prepares herself for his ramblings.
“If only you could see their eyes,” pleads Mr. President, turning towards his wife. “Those suspicious, shifty eyes following my every move. Scrutinizing, sinister…”
“Scheming… So I’ve heard,” Lady routinely finishes his sentence. Loudly patting his spot on the bed like a master calling over her dog she says, “Why don’t you come lie back down and tell me about this dream.”
Mr. President begins pacing back and forth, from the edge of the dim light cast from the old lamp to the darkest of the twilight beyond. Ignoring her invitation, he can be heard clumsily examining things on the dresser and shelves in the large room as he sporadically moves from here to there.
Lady, surprised by her husband’s actions, repositions herself in the bed, letting the tender sheet caress her skin as it slides off of her naked body. A tiny gold locket hangs from her neck, dangling worry-free between her exposed breasts. Allowing it to serve as a distraction, she lingers pretending not to notice. When she gets no response from her husband, who is still crashing about in the dark, she quietly floats out of bed, grabs her pellucid, pastel pink robe from a hook on the wall and vanishes out of the glow of the lamp herself.
Without warning a blinding white luminescence smothers the lingering dark of the room, revealing all of the hidden treasures to prying eyes. As the room ignites in light, Lady sees her husband surge from his position at the dresser, diving forward. Arms outstretched, head tucked to his chest and hardly making a sound, Mr. President’s shoulder connects with the ground and he swiftly rolls into the closet; a man, a ruler of his country, in all his glory rolling around on the carpet, nothing but moving flesh and underwear.
Lady stands with her back to the bathroom, fingering the light switch and leaning against the wall as she surveys the room in ruin. In front of her and to the left is the dresser, clothes exploding out of it as if a bomb had rocked its very core. Debris in the form of white t-shirts and colored boxers and the shrapnel of pink, tan, white, and black bras and panties litter the carpet.
This is more serious than I thought, thinks Lady, as she wraps herself in her covering, shrouding her plump body from the empty room. To her right is a cluttered table, mail and trinkets all askew and out of place as they had been ripped from the shelves adjacent. Most shocking to Lady is one of the two chairs lying fallen at the foot of the mess, like a fallen soldier or a lost friend.
“What are you doing in the closet?” She tries to remain calm despite questioning his sanity.
“Don’t tell them where I am!” His muffled response sounds distorted and imperceptible through the slats in the wooden closet door. He pauses a heartbeat, then opens the door and casually walks over to his wife. Mr. President pulls his wife close to him, moving in as if to kiss her parched lips. “We are being watched,” he whispers into her ear. “It isn’t safe to discuss the matter here.”
“Well we are sure as hell not discussing this matter later,” she says, pulling away from the hot breath on her ear. “What has gotten into you? You’re all paranoid.”
“I am the President of these United States and I think I should be allowed to bear some concern about my security, my livelihood, and that of my family as well.” He walks back over to the dresser, puffing himself up with the air of aristocracy. He picks up the wireless telephone on the dresser and nonchalantly turns it over, the subtlety of his examination more imagined than enacted.
“I’m being followed.” He puts down the receiver and picks up the clumsy base charging station of the unit.
“How? Who…what do you mean you’re being followed?” Lady stands suddenly frozen with concern.
“They don’t think they’ve seen me but I have been keeping a discrete eye on them,” he says matter-of-factly as he disconnects the phone station and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Two men in dark suits, white shirts and dark ties, with little speakers stuck in their right ears, follow me at a distance. You would think that they would be better at being elusive, you know, cat and mouse games.”
Lady snorts in a mixture of hilarity and relief and pushes away from the wall, flowing over to her husband and plopping down next to him on the bed. She looks into his gentle but serious face. His eyes are twinkling in the light, emitting the passion he holds so deep in his chest. The bags beneath those windows warn of a paranoia, a fear so encumbering that even slumber holds no refuge.
“Those are your very own bodyguards my dear.” Her voice is soothingly soft, caressing his worry. “Remember Alfonso and Julien? They have been around since the campaign…”
“Then they have been turned! Don’t you see, we have been infiltrated and now we can’t be sure who is with us and who is against.” The inevitability of the situation causes Mr. President to hang his head with hopelessness.
“Honey, it is their job to follow you, to make sure nothing happens to you. Essentially, you are paying them to watch you.” She pleads him to stop this foolishness.
“Even so Lady, we are under surveillance. We both are being examined by an unknown group of confederates. This is an outlandish attack on Patriotism!” The fine balance between rationality and instability is teetering on a blind scale.
“Fine.” She hangs her head in defeat. Mr. President perks up at the opportunity to prove his lucidity. “You’re right, you are being watched...”
“Thank you…” His inflated pride punctured by her very next words.
“…by the entire world. The entire world has their eyes on you. Your countrymen expect change, the world demands better, even your enemies are watching to see what you will do. So yes you crazy son-of-a-bitch, you are under surveillance.” The sound of her patronizing outburst harshly resonates around the room. Silence follows.
Mr. President hesitates in his position, looking at the flagrant destruction in the room with a feeling of utter defeat. Maybe Lady is right. Maybe this is all in his head. He begins to move, a minute attempt to reclaim some morsel of dignity.
“The newspapers and anchors and correspondents and congressmen and women and the people on the west coast and the folks in Alaska and Canada and Mexico are all watching you. They Google you, they YouTube you, but more importantly, the majority of them love you. Or are at least excited to see what you can accomplish,” Lady pleads to his remaining faculties.
“Ok, ok. Perhaps I have let this obsession with security wander a little to far from the realm of my control.” The façade of presidential regality reclaims some physical composure in the man. “Now that you mention it, those men in the suits did seem strikingly familiar,” he lies.
“Now that sounds more like the strong ruler of a proud country; like the man that I married.” He lovingly leans into Lady, comforted and protected by the power of her sheltering embrace.
“You should have seen the looks on their faces when I started running from them.” The recollection forces a chuckle from the married couple.
“I bet they are a confused pair,” says Lady as her face contorts into a Faberge farce.
“I suppose I should tidy the room up real quick. This is no way for the Presidential Family to conduct themselves in their personal residence.” There is a new lightness to the phrases and gestures of the tired man. He slides across the room as though a weight has been lifted and begins to pick up the scattered remains of their wardrobe and the insignificant decorum of their bedroom.
Lady saunters backwards and into the bathroom, silently shutting the door behind her and turning on the faucet. The flowing drink is a waterfall of voluminous noise, drowning out any sound she might summon. She collapses down onto the cool porcelain of the toilet, poise leaving her as she realizes how close she just came to being exposed. Lady’s strong fingers are shaking from the adrenaline as she reaches into her soft robe. She pulls out the golden locket, clasping it tightly in her sweaty, shaking hands as she holds it against her forehead. Her deep breathing becomes a soothing mantra. Eyes held tightly closed, she lets the trinket slip out of her hands, the shiny case dangling dangerously close to her pursed lips.
“That was close,” she whispers into a tiny slot in the back of the glistening metal. “But I think I bought us more time.”
Lady drops her hands to her side, the necklace plummeting down into her bosom. She hoists herself up and checks on her husband: he’s fast asleep. The frail glow of the room dissipates into darkness once more.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
