The Window
Perhaps an over-zealous hunt for inspiration, mixed with a particularly spicy dinner cooked by the Wife brought it on but my search for deep and reflective content for this assignment inspired the following dream:
Technorati Tags: fiction, politics, president, disaster, war on terror
The deep blue velvet drapes hung expensively either side of the sash windows allowing me a slight but very effective nook in which to stand without bringing any unnecessary attention to myself as I surveyed the drama unfolding before me. The room was large, but not huge and the frantic commotion of people entering; leaving and chattering in groups within the room made my desire to remain the quiet observer all the more appealing.
Whilst the room was indeed lit with all kinds of subtle lighting, attractive sconces and brass desk lamps, the shimmering amber glow that lit the room with an almost consuming hue came from outside; through the window. Easily mistaken for snow, large flakes of smouldering grey ash settling on the ground and windowsill gave evidence to an unfolding disaster seemingly ignored by those within. A heavy blood red glow, edged occasionally by spats of raging flames, silhouetted the buildings outside and far beyond the confines of the comfortable and largely insulated room I strangely found myself hiding within.
The people, dressed in starched white shirts, loosened ties, and drenched in the sweat of stress and panick, carried an alsortment of important looking papers to a darkly dressed and deadly calm man who continued to build an impressive stack of unmarked storage boxes. The drone of paper shredders provided a monotonous background noise that all but hid the elevated and almost desperate discussions coming from a small group of individuals in the center of the room. Their faces betraying their emotions; displayed a rabid mix of bewilderment, anger and anxiousness. Only one of these individuals; angry and enflamed; gestured outside his group as the others gingerly followed his line of sight. His finger gesturing sharply and repetitively towards the all-too-impressive oak desk to my left.
What, or whom was he referring to? With all flavors of chaos unfolding before me, of people coming and going, shouting and sobbing, it was almost too easy to miss the man sitting on the floor, cross-legged in front of the desk. Wearing a well-tailored but now terribly creased dark suit the man sat prone except for a very slight rocking motion to and fro as if in some gentle meditation. The man fidgeted only with the cufflinked sleeves of his well-starched shirt elegantly extended beyond the sleeves of his fine suit. Straining to hear what could easily be ignored amongst the bizarre background noises, the man quietly sang,
‘If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands … if you’re happy and you know it clap your hands! … if you’re happy and you know it and you surely want to show it … if you’re happy and you know it clap your hands.’
The man looked up and as if on cue two darkly suited men strode into the room – ignoring the commotion and the sudden attention of the people grouped within. They stopped momentarily and scanned the room purposefully as if seeking a target. As the anxious group from the middle of the room gestured towards the lone individual sat below the desk one of the two men slowly bent down and politely but firmly spoke.
‘Mr. President, the Vice President insists upon your presence immediately.’
Posted on December 10th, 2006 under Oval Office, President, War • 
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