Marine Corps Stories: Boon

Robots dusted and picked up tiny debris in Misha’s office. She allowed the low, droning sound to seep into her consciousness and focus on this new task. At her desk, she held a pencil and a yellow legal pad pressed up against the wood. There remained arrows, loops, strikeouts, and erasures on the page. But she wrote. Her mind turned into an engine driving her thoughts into frozen reality. The warmth of the ideas in her head chilled on the piece of paper. She read back each and every line. She crossed out lines that dangled and straightened up words that could use some clarity.

She reached for an e-cigarette. She pulled the vapors in and exhaled the clouds into the air. She sipped coffee slowly. This break remained brief as she continued on the road to ensuring that Iran would never be an aggressor to the United States again. This constitution that she would draft and allow her subordinates to fashion, meant that there could be lasting peace among the two nations. Misha picked up the pencil and made more lines dance on the page. She experienced no “squirms” during this entire activity. She would stop of course for that nicotine and caffeine, but never did she waver on her role as the top Marine in Washington. The pencil turned into a sword as she slashed out sentences and resurrected old lines that now fit into the record. She had blocked out at least four hours. She rescheduled appointments and meetings. Misha knew that this constitution had to be sound and rewarding to Americans...and maybe Iranians. But the focus was on the people of the United States. She jotted down notes from past generals who drew up similar plans that put into effect decades of understanding and serenity. Misha studied online documents that remained classified and for her eyes only. She used the portions that could be discussed in her writing.

She was still flying high off of the engagement to President Cask. But this did not interrupt her flow. Yes, the most powerful man in the semi-free world had said they should be one, but Misha had to focus on this given task. Her pencil slid across the yellow pages like a bumblebee pollinating a nearby pistil. It zoomed past the margins and left in its wake, strings of letters and words that would one day lead to the espousal of an effective and lasting revolution in Iran. On paper. Then, came the voice system that would record all of her words onto a processor. She cleared her throat and tapped the screen where it read “record.”

The words appeared like nails being hammered into wood. Each letter issued from Misha’s mouth appeared on the screen. She smiled at this. With this action, Misha was able to get up from her chair and still speak. The computer caught every syllable. She drew from her e-cigarette. She sipped more coffee. The cursor blinked like an eye, hungry for the next few phrases and sentences. Misha spoke aloud again with the vaporizer in one hand and the coffee in another. Her voice was like honey which poured out with sweetness but tinged with a bit of a rasp, a result of being a Drill Instructor before she became a mustang and switched to the officer ranks.

Line after line, the pages filled up with more words. Pointed, and without any errors, Misha still proofread her work. With a grin, she felt satisfied with her labor. For all of the times that she typed up reports and sent them to her superiors, she now had the chance to draw up something that would become a boon for America...on her own terms.