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Monday, November 5, 2018

#Trump story - The President's Brain I hope it won't come true!

I had a few goes at two of the recent Iron Writer Challenges, I can show you them once the Challenges are over, but here's one I did from the first list of elements for the Challenge in 2018 (the first list was later withdrawn, I think, as none of the elements match those on the website.)
So, from a non-existent Iron Writer Challenge, here's a story...about Trump!

Challenge #4
Elements - setting = hostile territory / emotion = fear of mirrors / condition = defensive / object = a flower / image = a child's blue eye

The President’s Brain

He pushed open the stairway door and ran through a room panting, a room empty of people but full of screens showing his face. His heart was beating out from his chest, he was so unfit: perhaps golf really wasn’t a sport after all. A pause to catch his breath gave him the time to read the caption sitting in bold colors on the screens. “Gotcha!” He hid his eyes from the screens, mirrors of his worst fear!

The same door he’d come through burst open and a mass of cameramen and reporters spilled out, running in his direction. He was in hostile territory, trapped in a building owned by one of the thousands of fake news broadcasters! Oh why did he think he could stroll in and tell them to bow to his supreme power? “Because I’m the bestest!” he said out loud. Without a thought – nothing new there – he ran on, past the banks of screens sneering out to him, all mirrors of himself, and out through the next door, down a corridor and into the first door that would open. It was some kind of small conference room, an oval table with chairs around, but nothing more. Nowhere to hide. He tried under the table, then realised it was made of glass. He grabbed the strings to control the blinds but couldn’t figure out how to move them. He looked around. There was nowhere left to hide. A large pot with a six-foot sunflower stood over in the corner. He ran over and hid behind it, the flower’s head covering most of his.

Outside the noise was deafening as people stomped up and down, looking in rooms and finding nothing. The conference door opened and he started to sweat… but the door closed. After a few moments, the noise diminished as the mob moved away, searching elsewhere. What had just happened? Had he got away with it? Slowly, he looked out from behind the sunflower. An image of a child’s blue eye covered his vision making him jump out of the plant pot. His five-hundred dollar shoes were ruined! With a sour grimace, he looked up to see a young woman holding a tablet showing the face of a young child.

“Do you know this boy?” she asked.

“Look at my shoes! Someone will pay for this! Where’s my detail? Do you have a phone?”

The woman walked away and sat down at the table. She took out her phone. “Yeah, I have a phone. Who should I call? CNN?”

“No!” He waved his small hands and grabbed the back of the chair opposite her. “You know, I have many friends, the bestest of friends, they’re great. They can do anything, they can get you anything you want…”

“Not Russian by any chance?” the woman said with a smirk. She held up the tablet once again. “Now, back to my question. Do you know this boy?”

“You… you look a bit fat, maybe you should go to the gym or something, maybe get that hair done, that nose… you remind me a little of my daughter…” he smiled and raised his eyebrows in his ol’ seductive way.

“Sit down!” He sat down. This woman was strong, he liked her. Who could he get $130,000 from? “This boy is my son. ICE took him away from me.”

“Well, err, MS-13 brought him into the country illegally, what do you expect?”


“Oh, so you work for MS-13?” He sat up and crossed his fingers together. “We won’t let just anybody into this country, you need to cross the border legally, and anyone working for MS-13 will immediately be detained.”

The young woman sat back and put her feet on the table, crossing her legs and showing him the barrel of a gun.

“Ah, a terrorist!” He smiled and tried to remember where he’d last seen his security detail. Ground floor, before he’d decided to make a run for it after all his lies, counter-lies, corruption, cheats and cons came to a halt in the guise of a subpoena handed over by the man himself.

“No, just a mother of one wanting to get back her son.” She took out a pad of paper and pen and slid it over to him. “Write down where he is and I’ll let you live.”

“What? Guffaw! How in the hell am I meant to know where one scrawny little kid is? I’m the Pre…”

“You signed the order. It’s your responsibility.”

“What? Responsibil… come on! What are you talking about? You don’t actually think what I say means anything, do you? Who are you?”

“As I said, just a mother of a child you decided to put into one of your detention camps because we were crossing back into the country after visiting relatives.”

“Look, I’m just playing politics. Attack a minority that a lot of people hate, blame everything on them, say it’s patriotic to hate them and say that anything else is a lie and fake! Then with the help of some friends, you get elected! It’s as simple as that.”

“Well, that simplicity has got you into this position. In one of the what you call “fake news” buildings, alone with a mother of a child your personal racist police took from her, a mother who is also holding a gun to your head.”

He nodded sideways. “There is that, yes. But I’m sure we can make a deal, a positive deal, one which we can agree on, and if we can’t, then I’m sure it’s still a positive deal, the best deal for all, the greatest deal…” The sound of the gun was quickly followed by a sensation of hot liquid running down his forehead and nose, dripping onto the table. “You… you shot me?” He tapped his forehead and felt the hot blood oozing from a large hole.


“Too bad you missed my brain!” He laughed as his security detail ran into the room and disarmed the woman, sending her to the floor with the bestest of bodyslams.

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