Week Four: It's the Final Countdown

Cue the cheesy, but still ridiculously dramatic '80's song (it's here, if you're curious) because it's week four, and the end of month deadline is looming. I'd be more worried if this was a point where I was horribly behind (there have been a few points like that), but as of today, I'm on track at a bit over 48 thousand words, so as long as nothing calamitous stops me from writing tomorrow (knock on wood), I'll be fine.
By now, I'm coasting. I'm only half way into my plot, but I'm still on track with where I wanted my plot to go, none of my characters have decided to enact any mid-month rebellions, and I haven't had any real-life crises to slow me down.
So here's a section of my most recent writing. This section is a story being told to my main character, Sarah, by the human Vice President who became President, though President is mostly a ceremonial position with a dying constituency of 100 humans, after the President of the androids coordinated the successful assassination of  the former President. Remember it's a rough draft.

"So, what do you want to talk about? Regularly, since I'm President, I'd probably have to be pretty censored with you two, but heck, we'll all probably be dead by the time that you're done with that book," he said, shrugging, and looking over to Julius, "Well, you won't be dead, I guess."

President Clark's face dropped a bit after a second of silence.

"Sorry. That might've been a bit rude. Sorry, not much good at this. I wasn't really supposed to be the one doing things like this. Being President that is. I doubt I'd have much of a public mandate after Reynolds died. People just check that Robert Clark box because they don't care enough to choose anyone else. Not that anyone else runs," he said, leaning back in his chair. He didn't look particularly comfortable in the chair. Or in his office at all. He'd bumped his knee on the edge of the desk, and he didn't seem to know what to do with his hands now that he was sitting.

"So, what exactly do you want to talk about? I hear from John, or from Natasha more honestly that you went to visit him and he told you about his father's death. I mean, I could tell you a more specific, more adult version, but I don't think you'd get much from it," he said, grinning half of his pearly white smile. Even if he didn't act the role of the President, or he didn't like it, he sure looked the part.

"No, we don't really need two of the same story. And that story isn't really yours. Tell us one of your stories," I said, tucking my pen behind my ear.

"I don't really have many interesting stories. I know that's a strange thing for a President to say, but I became President after the meteor. So no wars, barely any domestic policy because how hard is it to make domestic policy in a country of one hundred and twenty one people? I don't have to organize public services, because the androids do all of the public services, I don't have to organize city building, because we've already got a city, and robots fix anything that breaks, I don't have to worry about agriculture or labor really or budget or anything because the androids take care of that all. My role is really just a liaison to the androids and a steady public figure in the lives of my constituents," President Clark said, clasping his hands over his desk, "The last real work I had to do was in the aftermath of Reynolds' assassination. I know it's sort of a related story to the one that you already have, but I could always tell you about what I had to do after President and Mrs. Reynolds were killed, though it's not exactly a happy story."

"If that's what inspires you to speak, that is different enough that it'd be a perfectly fine story," I said, pulling my pen from behind my ear to tap it on the side of my chair.

"Well it all started-- it-- um... Miss-- Miss, stop tapping," he said,  one hand slowly creeping up until it was clasped over his forehead.

"Oh, sorry."

"It's not a big deal. Just a pet peeve of mine," he said, shaking his head as though he was clearing it.

"Ah, but what was I about to say? Oh yeah, yeah. The aftermath of President Reynolds death."

The Reluctant Commander in Chief

It was strange. Reynolds was killed on a sunny day, and his funeral was on a day just as sunny. I felt like it should have been raining, pouring really, as I stood in front of his grave, holding his son's hand. But it wasn't. Birds were chirping, the skies were clear and I was President. I was President. No matter how many times I thought it, or tried to wrap my head around it, I couldn't. I had barely wanted to be Vice President. I would've been happy as the Senator from Michigan; I was never supposed to be President. Especially not this way. I looked across the coffin they were lowering into the ground and saw the other replacement. The man the androids had put in place to lead them after their former leader, the one who had been mostly responsible for the coffin that was most of the way into the ground now, was standing across the way. He looked like he could be their President. He looked appropriately sad, but composed and mature. I felt neither composed nor mature. He looked presidential, heck he was probably designed for it, I wasn't.

So I held that little boy's hand tighter as he shivered, even though it wasn't cold. John and I stood there hand in hand for what seemed like years after everyone but Reynolds’- I mean my-- secret service left.

"So you get to be the President now, right?" John asked, sitting under my desk and looking up at me. He was eating ice cream, and I probably should have stopped him, since it was dripping down onto his hand, and probably headed towards the nice carpet, but I didn't have the strength. I was sitting uncomfortably cross legged in my large leather chair, eating my own ice cream. I was supposed to have a meeting today, but John had started crying on the ride back home, and I didn't have the heart, so we'd gotten ice cream from the kitchen and now we were acting like we belonged in Reynolds' office. 

"Yep. I'm going to be President now," I said, looking around the huge office that I used to admire, but never covet, and feeling like I was invading Reynolds' space. I hadn't even sat in the chair before. I kept looking at the empty space where a picture of Reynolds and his wife used to be. I figured I should replace it, but I didn't have a wife, so who could I put there? I'd left the picture of John on my desk. He wasn't my son, but he mattered enough to keep a spot on my desk.

"Um... Uncle Bob? Spilled a lil' bit," John said. I looked down, to see him leaning down to lick a large glob of ice cream off of the carpet.

"Ah, ah, ah!" I called out, picking him up before he could.

"Well just get a cleaning robot to clean that up for you. Why don't we head down to the kitchen and see if they've got any cake to wash down our ice cream?" I asked, balancing him on one hip. He grinned a smile with a few teeth missing and wrapped his ice cream covered arms around my neck. And I mean arms, the boy was covered to the elbows in it.

So I've got a little under two thousand words to go. Maybe I'll move from the ever adorable Written? Kitten! that I wrote about in my last post, and for my last day use Write or Die, a somewhat more ominous writing site. Instead of inspiring you with a cute kitten picture every one hundred words, it instead will flash the screen red, make loud sounds or on the harshest settings, begin to delete your work if you stop writing. So if Written? Kitten! is the carrot, Write or Die is the stick.