Young Writers Society

POLITICS

Light came in through the apartment window. A fly crawled across the windowsill.

An elderly man, dressed in a suit and tie, stood cleaning his pistol. With a rag in his wrinkled hand, he polished the gun. The old man yawned, his eyes closing, his face sagging. Opening his eyes, he looked up.

Sitting at a table, Charles, red-haired and wearing glasses, sat staring at him. Sitting on the edge of his seat, he stared at the pistol. Raising a glass of wine to his lips, he took a drink. He raised his eyebrows, and sat back in his seat. "Well?"

The old man touched his ear. "Sorry, did you say something?"

Charles nodded. "I asked if other people were coming."

The old man shook his head, and continued to clean his pistol. "It's just you and me this time."

Leaning back, Charles placed his hands behind his head. "Shall we begin?"

The man looked up from his pistol. "What?"

Charles smiled wryly. "My time is valuable. You know that. In a week or so, this country will be at war. So I'm asking you, shall we begin?"

The man frowned. "A week? I see."

Charles leaned forward. "Weren't you at the last meeting?"

The man walked over with his pistol. He pulled up a chair, and sat across from Charles. "Of course I was at the last meeting."

Charles took a another sip of wine. "Then tell me your plans. Let's begin."

The old man fumbled through his pockets. Metal bullets glinted in his hand. "Oh, well, you see, I have news that the Americans don't support you."

His eyebrows bending, Charles gazed forward. "I knew that. Now tell me your plans."

The old man leaned back, relaxing. Sitting casually, the man partially crossed his legs, raising his leg and resting his foot on his knee. Leaning back even more, the man continued to load the pistol.

Charles pulled out his cell phone. He motioned at the old man. "You know, only Americans cross their legs like that."

The old man finished loading the gun. He looked up. "Like what?"

After dialing a number, Charles raised the phone to his ear. "Hey, you know where I am. Yes. Come here. Now."

The old man poured more wine into Charles' glass. "Who are you talking to?"

Charles looked at the window. "No, this time it's urgent. There's going to be an accident. I need you to help me clean it up."

The old man gripped the pistol. "What kind of accident?"

Charles hung up the phone. He looked at the old man and chuckled. "Well it was nice knowing you." He stood up. "I'm leaving."

Light came in through the apartment window. A fly crawled across the windowsill. The bug took off, and flew around in the apartment.