“My friends. This is a new world.”
I grumbled at the television. New world. That’s what they said last time. I listened as he rambled on and on, listing false promise after false promise, his views and opinions radical and unorthodox. A dictator in an elegant suit and tie, clean shaven and beaming. From what he was saying and from his youthful, energetic mannerisms, you’d almost mistake him for a good man.
“We are united in our desires and hopes for our country. Together we will nurture this new world, and we will live as we have never lived before.”
Bullshit. I flung a hanky at the television. It slid to the floor and landed in a miserable heap. I wanted to feel confidence, to appreciate and understand the motives of the electorate who had sworn him in. But instead, all I could see was red. Red in my anger, in my fear; the blood-red cotton of his tie and the invisible stains on his hands. It would be easier to take him at face value. But I have never been very good at doing that.
“My friends,” the man repeated. “This is a brave new world.”
Wonderful, I thought. Forever bound to be this jerk’s friend.
Every day during February I’m going to write a piece of creative writing inspired by a prompt. The prompts have been taken from here, although I may shuffle some of the days around if I fancy.