daisysusan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
daisysusan) wrote2007-01-19 05:30 pm
daisysusan) wrote2007-01-19 05:30 pm
Entry tags:
An Unfortunately Untitled Story
Disclaimer: If I owned the West Wing, Josh would have proclaimed his undying love for Donna at a military hospital in Germany. And I would actually have money. So no, I don't own 'em and I'm not getting paid.
Note: Those who've already read this have found it applicable to season 7. Apply it to whatever season you like, from the point of view of whoever you like. And if you want to guess what I had in mind when I wrote it, guess away. Maybe I'll even give cyber-cookies to the winner. ;)
Other note: This is in second person. Don't say I didn't warn you.
There are two states of being on a campaign: One is chaos, the other calm. Chaos is common, and takes up the better portion of the time. Calm is rare, happening only after the last head has dropped down on top of papers at three in the morning on an airplane.
There’s a third state, though. This is one that no one ever warns you about. It’s the state that makes you want to bite your nails, makes you want to jump up and down screaming “Someone, say something!”
It’s a state of suspense and stillness. It’s a state of almost-silence. There are TVs murmuring in the background, the soft flickering of blues and reds from the screens over the people standing in the room, eyes glued to those same screens. There are soft thumps coming from outside the room: Someone is pacing. Down the hall, there are people hollering, screaming, begging for numbers. Not that you can hear them or anything. You just know they’re there.
The screens flash again, this time showing pictures of the candidates. There are numbers being tallied under each picture. You’re not sure that you could make sense of them if you tried. Now the screen is red; now it’s blue. The colors have become meaningless under the silent tension.
The voices are just a little too low to be understood. They’ve mingled too much to be anything more than a soft drone against the silence of the room’s occupants. CNN mixes with ABC mixes with NBC. Every channel has a different take on the numbers so far, a different “political expert” claiming to be able to predict the outcome of the election.
Suddenly, all the voices are saying the same thing. “—has been called for—” “—ready to call—.” The image of a state flashes on the screens almost simultaneously. You’ve forgotten which one it is, not that it matters, as you know it’s the last state left uncalled. Your mouth is dry, your hands shaking.
More people have crowed into the room, though it’s still the same degree of silent.
“—called for Democratic Presidential Candidate—”
The room erupts into a cacophony of cheering. The noise is unbearable, out-of-control. Somewhere, a cell phone is ringing. Whose it is, you neither know nor care.
You tune out the ringing.
The screen flashes again, this time showing numbers the meanings of which are still lost on you.
Before, you would have given anything to say something.
Now, in this room of a thousand conversations, you are speechless.
Other note: This is in second person. Don't say I didn't warn you.
There are two states of being on a campaign: One is chaos, the other calm. Chaos is common, and takes up the better portion of the time. Calm is rare, happening only after the last head has dropped down on top of papers at three in the morning on an airplane.
There’s a third state, though. This is one that no one ever warns you about. It’s the state that makes you want to bite your nails, makes you want to jump up and down screaming “Someone, say something!”
It’s a state of suspense and stillness. It’s a state of almost-silence. There are TVs murmuring in the background, the soft flickering of blues and reds from the screens over the people standing in the room, eyes glued to those same screens. There are soft thumps coming from outside the room: Someone is pacing. Down the hall, there are people hollering, screaming, begging for numbers. Not that you can hear them or anything. You just know they’re there.
The screens flash again, this time showing pictures of the candidates. There are numbers being tallied under each picture. You’re not sure that you could make sense of them if you tried. Now the screen is red; now it’s blue. The colors have become meaningless under the silent tension.
The voices are just a little too low to be understood. They’ve mingled too much to be anything more than a soft drone against the silence of the room’s occupants. CNN mixes with ABC mixes with NBC. Every channel has a different take on the numbers so far, a different “political expert” claiming to be able to predict the outcome of the election.
Suddenly, all the voices are saying the same thing. “—has been called for—” “—ready to call—.” The image of a state flashes on the screens almost simultaneously. You’ve forgotten which one it is, not that it matters, as you know it’s the last state left uncalled. Your mouth is dry, your hands shaking.
More people have crowed into the room, though it’s still the same degree of silent.
“—called for Democratic Presidential Candidate—”
The room erupts into a cacophony of cheering. The noise is unbearable, out-of-control. Somewhere, a cell phone is ringing. Whose it is, you neither know nor care.
You tune out the ringing.
The screen flashes again, this time showing numbers the meanings of which are still lost on you.
Before, you would have given anything to say something.
Now, in this room of a thousand conversations, you are speechless.