Sunday March 27th, 2011

The exercise:

Let's write about: the president.

Of whatever.

More yard work, more pruning, some brief moments of sunshine. Not a bad Sunday.


"I'd like to call this meeting to order," the man announced, banging his spoon on the dinner table.

"You can't do this," the woman sitting across the table told him, crossing her arms across her chest.

"You will be silent or you will be sent to the holding cells!"

"You mean the cardboard boxes in the basement that the washer and dryer came in?"

"Do not address your president in such a manner! It will not end well for you, I promise!"

"Dad," the boy to his right said with a shake of his head, "just because you declare yourself the President of This House doesn't make it true."

"Yes, it does!"

"I'm going to bed."


Greg said...

Two days of relative good behaviour and then Blogger eats my post again. I've no idea why either, it's happening from different machines at different times, with different length posts.

I loved the holding cells today, they really made me smile. I also like that your president is more middle-eastern dictator than White-House incumbent!

The President
Charles Ascugimento, Head of Building Security, reviewed the assembled security force in front of him in the plaza. They had evacuated the building with commendable speed, and over half of them had noticed when he'd changed the state of emergency by a half-tone, going from gamboge to burned-daffodil. He actually felt optimistic about the President's visit tomorrow.
"Attention scum!" he said, his voice magnified around the plaza by the PA system. "As you will all soon be aware, the President of Security will arriving tomorrow. He will be bringing fifty lawyers-at-arms, and there will be a general inspection!"
He let the worried murmurs swell and ebb while he pondered whether to tell them about the consequences of failing the inspection. He decided on balance that they'd be happier not knowing that the President was also bringing his own firing squad.

David said...

“They’re dead? Both of them?”

“Si, El Presidente.”

“Where are the bodies?”


“I need to see the bodies.”

“I’ll have to make a call.”

“Then make it. And bring the bodies here.”

“To the residence?”

“Yes, everyone must see they are dead.”

President Garcia stood at his desk, looking out the window. The sun shined brightly. The sea was calm. In the distance he could make out the words etched into the cliff wall. The message had appeared overnight: “THE BEARD LIVES”. He needed to know it was a lie.

Aaron said...

This is actually about Obama because I think he should be the chief whistle blower for the american people condemning the corrupt and bringing light to their shadowy plots. I suppose he is yet another puppet...

The President
The President has the power.
To raise our conscience high
Who’s fault is it to falter?
Who’s dares sing the battle cry?
The President could condemn them
With the same voice convince us
About the world and all its lies
But his speech is falling silent
His presidency dwindles dead
A shame he did not lead us
Instead of being lead
A martyrs death is certain
Not because they wish to die
The president is just a person
Afraid to sing the battle cry.

Marc said...

Greg - ah, good to hear from Charles again. You always find new ways for me to feel sorry for his staff.

David - an intriguing follow-up to your last Beard post. I'm glad the story isn't over yet :)

Aaron - that was very nicely done. You packed a lot of emotion into it and maintained a wonderful rhythm at the same time.