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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2164690-The-Futures-Bright-the-Futures-Orange
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Political · #2164690
President Donald Trump is on his way to a meeting in Geneva when something strange happens

Donald Trump lounged in his shirt sleeves on the bed aboard Air Force One, watching a wonderful documentary about his unexpected rise to power. For once, there were no conspiracy theorists or bitter liberals complaining about an unfair electoral system. At last, intelligent Americans were beginning to accept he was the right man to lead them to glory. He adjusted his yellow toupee and smiled.

He loved flying aboard Air Force One, even if he had to attend some stupid function at the other end. He glanced at the itinerary detailed on his iPad. He was due to meet the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees in Geneva in five hours. What a waste of time. The man would only whine about the current strict policies controlling refugees entering the US, and Donald would tell him to go dance across the freeway. The world must learn that the US was not responsible for dealing with other nations’ problems.

His stomach rumbled. He buzzed the attendant, who appeared by his bedside in seconds.

“Can you go get me some of those Ding Dongs, doll?”

“Right away, Mr. President.”

She fled in a flurry of skirts, leaving a vapor trail of floral perfume. After he’d sacked the first three, the others got the message that he wanted what he wanted an hour ago.

Suddenly, the plane shuddered, and the TV screen blacked out. His stomach lurched as the plane dipped and dropped without warning. He quivered as the whole structure shook for several seconds. Then the plane leveled out, and the TV flickered back to life.

“This is the pilot speaking,” said a voice on the intercom. “Apologies for the unexpected turbulence. There is no need for concern.”

Donald shook his head and sat on the side of the bed. It was moments like this that reminded him of his mortality.

A face now filling the TV screen caught his eyes. He’d seen a girl like that once long ago. Not in real life, but on the cover of the National Geographic. A green-eyed Afghan girl. This wasn’t the documentary he’d been watching. He fumbled for the remote, but it had disappeared somewhere during the turbulence.

With her angular chin tilted proudly upward, the girl began a speech. She spoke beautiful English, with a better accent than his wife he noted. Her bright eyes bore into Donald’s vision.

“My name is Aysha Khan. My mother was a doctor and my father a translator employed by the US Army. The Taliban murdered them both using the same bomb that stole my legs.” The camera panned down to show that her dress ended somewhat abruptly, tied approximately where her knees should be when sitting like this. “Now the Taliban have sworn to finish the job and ensure I don’t survive to spread ‘Western corruption’.”

Donald tore away from her magnetic gaze. She wasn’t American; whatever happened to her wasn’t his responsibility. But he couldn’t tune out her voice.

“The famine now spreading across Afghanistan may beat the Taliban to their goal of ending my life. A legless, orphan girl will not be a priority once food grows short in Kabul.”

Donald covered his ears and shook his head. That mess was the responsibility of the Afghan government. He didn’t care what happened to anybody there.

The attendant appeared with his Ding Dongs.

He pointed a shaky finger at the screen. “C-can you switch that damn thing off?”

The attendant glanced around the cabin and somehow located the remote. He breathed a sigh of relief as those green eyes disappeared.

“Can I get you anything else, sir?” she asked.

He glanced up into her green eyes and shuddered. “No. No, no, no. Just get out.”

She scampered out of the cabin.

He picked up the Ding Dong and tore off the wrapper like an automaton. The cake crumbled in his mouth like dry ashes.


Donald marched into the glass and concrete foyer of the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, trailing a mob of advisers and security staff. The receptionist glanced up from behind her desk, black hair cascading across her shoulders, smooth tanned skin tight across her cheeks, and her bright green eyes scanning him with obvious intelligence and knowledge. He avoided her penetrating gaze.

“The High Commissioner will see you immediately, Mr. President.”

“Good. Let’s get this farce over with as soon as possible.”

An assistant from the High Commissioner’s office appeared to escort his party, a blonde girl with perky features and striking green eyes. He turned his face away and didn’t speak once as she led his group to the meeting.

Inside the conference room, Donald was relieved to see the man in a suit he’d come to see had brown eyes. Who’d have thought he would care about such a stupid thing? The gentleman welcomed him and his associates and bid them all sit. But Donald couldn’t focus on what he was saying. An image of green eyes staring out from a dark face dominated his thoughts.

Finally, something the High Commissioner said penetrated the fog obscuring Donald’s mind.

“What do you hope to achieve from today’s meeting, Mr. President?”

Those green eyes in his head never blinked.

Donald swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, “What is your agency doing about the famine in Afghanistan?”

The High Commissioner blinked. “Y-you’re concerned about Afghanistan, Mr. President?”

Donald thumped his fist down on the table. “I want to make sure that every damn thing possible is done to get food to those people. Most especially the vulnerable…the elderly, the infirm…orphans.”

The High Commissioner scratched his gray thatch. “And the United States is willing to help with this ambitious program?”

Donald shook a finger at the High Commissioner. “I swear now before Almighty God that not one more child on Earth shall starve while I am President of the United States and in a position to do something about it.”

The High Commissioner’s eyes widened. “God bless America.”

© Copyright 2018 Batty Bobby Baker (robertbaker at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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