"Remorse" - A short work of fiction.

I wrote this for NPR's Three Minute Fiction Contest last fall. For those of you unfamiliar with the format, there is an assigned topic and the story has to be under 600 words in length and suitable to be read on air. This round's assignment was to write a story about a U.S. President, real or imagined. Obviously, I chose to invent a fictional president. My story was probably a little too far out there for the judges, but I wanted to make it available for others to read. The story begins below the line. It's called "Remorse."
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“Well, at least I don’t have to worry about what the history books will say.” The last President of the United States stood in the center of the Oval Office, speaking aloud but to an empty room. He’d given up on any sense of decorum, dressed in his bathrobe and slippers, mumbling the utterances of a broken man.

He shuffled over to the window and stared out at the ashen sky. When was the last time he saw the sun? Long enough ago that the South Lawn had withered and died, taking with it the vegetable garden that had become such a proud tradition. He doubted whether he himself would live to see another sunrise or feel the warmth of the sun’s rays upon his face. Somehow that seemed unnecessarily cruel, but what did he honestly expect from a murdered world?

The President’s gaze shifted downwards towards the detritus of the abandoned tent city that had initially forced him and his family to flee the White House. He let out an audible sigh, a moan really. Fearing for their safety, he had insisted that Jenny and the boys remain at Camp David. Now they were buried there.

A picket sign here, a partially burned flag there, the President scanned the wreckage with disinterest. Then his eyes landed on the form of a man, and for a moment a wave of excitement overcame the President. He waved frantically and, forgetting the tightly sealed and sound proof windows, cried out. “You there! Oh, for the love of God, you’re alive! Stay right there and we will get you!”

The President spun towards his desk and grabbed for the binoculars his oldest son had given him last Father’s Day. Zooming in, his elation melted into disillusionment. An effigy, of himself no less, stood planted in the ground like a scarecrow, the word “Antichrist” smeared across its chest.

“Maybe so,” he whispered.

There came a pounding at the door, and a bear of a man flew into the room, his gun drawn and at the ready.

“Mr. President! Are you all right? I heard yelling. Has there been a breach?”

“I’m fine George, just fine. It’s nothing.”

George slowly lowered his weapon as if not quite believing the Commander-in-Chief's words. He wasn’t trained as a Secret Service Agent, and had merely fallen into the assignment by the qualifying facts that he was both military and still breathing.

Abandoning all modesty as well, the President sat, legs apart, on the Resolute desk, forcing George to shift his focus elsewhere.

“I didn’t mean for it to end like this.”

“With all due respect Mr. President, it’s a little late for remorse.”

The President couldn’t help but laugh at the agent’s bluntness. He certainly didn’t miss the sycophants and brown-nosers.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” He paused, his brow furrowing. “Do you hate me George? I mean, do you think that I’m an evil person?”

“I… I don’t know, Mr. President.”

The President dropped his head in disappointment with the ambiguous response.

“I’m sorry Mr. President.”

“It’s all right George. I appreciate your honesty.”

After a minute of uncomfortable silence, the agent sought reprieve.

“Is there anything else Mr. President? I need to return to my guard duties.”

“No, that’s all George. That’s all.”

He turned to leave.

“And George?”

“Yes Mr. President?”

“Leave the gun.”

Without any hesitation, the agent placed his gun on the President’s desk and walked out of the room. He carefully closed the door behind him and waited for the sound of a dead nation's penance.

Shadows and light.

When I was a little kid, maybe four or five years old, my Grandpa would read to me from a book called “Happiness is a Warm Puppy.” It was short and simple, really more of a picture book than anything. Written and illustrated by Charles Schulz, it featured Snoopy and the rest of the “Peanuts” characters. Most of the words escape me, but I remember its message clearly: Often, the simple things can make the most difference in life.

My Grandpa has been gone for many years now, and I don’t know what happened to that book, but I was recently reminded of its lesson. Whether it's being tackled by two loving dogs, or hearing words of support from your friends, I don’t have to look all that hard to find things that make me happy. I need to remember that emotional states aren’t mutually exclusive; I can be in state of despondency and still enjoy moments of contentment. Or to look at it another way, when there are shadows, there must also be light. The light is always present, but I have to turn to face it.

Those of you who know me may be asking, “Where is Marc, and what have you done with him?” I too find it strange that I am writing these words, but I think that I have found a way to deal with my emotional ups and downs. If I can write what I feel, then I can just as easily feel what I write.

Perhaps Milton said it best:

“The mind is its own place, and in it self. Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.”