The Waning Hours by Elizabeth Obadina

 The fifteen minute exercise...

As part of our monthly get together, we are given fifteen minutes to write on any given topic. This January it was to write a continuation of the following opening paragraph:

In the waning hours of a presidency, the 45^th President of the United States of America* huddled in the Oval Office with his last remaining friend and pondered his final decisions. At that moment he felt as though he'd botched every decision in the previous four years, and he was not overly confident that he could, somehow, so late in the game, get things right.

There was a knock on the door and his face lit up. ‘This’ll would put some fire in your belly if you could talk,’ he told the bust of Winston Churchill balanced on the Resolute Desk opposite him. ‘Come!’ he barked. The door swung open and a marine entered carrying two paper bags on a silver tray. The golden double arches printed on each bag revealed the provenance of the forty fifth president’s favourite food. ‘One for me,’ he instructed the man, ‘and one for him,’ he added pointing at the stern face of Britain’s wartime leader. ‘Enjoy!’

A frown passed over his face as the door shut softly behind the departing marine. The forty fifth president had forgotten something. Had Churchill been animate he might have suggested that the forty fifth president was missing the ...

Corona Virus Task Force Meeting, or had yet to sign off relief measures to Americans made redundant by the crisis, or urgently needed to read the latest climate report on extreme weather forecasts for the USA. But the forty fifth president shook his head – he’d got all those things right long ago. He switched on Fox News out of habit to help him remember what his next decision should be.

“Tonight’s data from John Hopkins suggests that the country will be facing nearly half a million deaths by the end of the week,” the news reader intoned sombrely.

“Nah, Not that,” said the forty fifth president, grunting, “Fake news.” As an afterthought before hitting the off button on his remote as he remembered that Fox News wasn’t his friend anymore. “Enemy of the People,” he muttered.

“What was it?” he pondered. He plunged his hand into the bag on the silver tray in front of him, grasped the polystyrene box, opened it, grabbed the double Mac with extra cheese, chilli and bacon and gobbled half in one gulp. “Eat up!” he gestured to his friend, Churchill. He passed the half-eaten burger to his left hand and paused, the burger was half way to his mouth, his right hand was reaching out but passing through empty air.

“That’s it!” he exclaimed, remembering the next decision he had to make. He thumped down hard on the red button he’d had installed on the Resolute Desk. That venerable piece of furniture had been witness to many events of national and international importance, but this wasn’t one of them.

Seemingly even before the forty fifth president had finished squeezing the red button flush to the desk the door to the Oval Office swung open. The same Marine quick marched in. the situation was urgent.

“Apologies Sir,” he said and placed a can of diet Coke on a silver platter besides the president.

The forty fifth president snatched the can, ripped off the ring pull and took a swig. The marine backed out through the door hoping the forty fifth president wouldn’t hit the red button again. Sometimes forgetting to deliver the coke resulted in an explosive tirade from the forty fifth incumbent of the office of the American presidency – but not today – today the forty fifth president was content, confident that so late in the day all was well once again in his world.

* 'Donald' in the original task.