This story is totally fictional, and it is totally not edited. I do try to proofread to avoid grammar/spelling mistakes, but this is all definitely first draft, raw ideas.
Clayton filled his coffee mug for the second time in less than a half hour. His night had not been restful. In fact, he was pretty sure he hadn’t slept. Election results did not go as predicted. Not since Truman defeated Dewey had the media gotten it this wrong. Something wasn’t right. They would get to the bottom of it and report it.
“Dad,” Eric came in the kitchen dressed and ready for the day at six am. “Can you believe it?”
Clayton sighed and shook his head. He took a sip of his coffee and sighed again, “Not at all. What’s on your agenda today?”
“Class this morning, lunch with Andra, internship this afternoon, and then home in time to cook dinner. You?” He grabbed a travel mug and filled it with the last of the coffee from the pot.
“Gym, shower, noon newscast, late lunch, harass you at your internship, four o’clock newscast, home to eat your dinner, then back for the 10 o’clock. And you don’t have to cook dinner.”
“How many times do I have to tell you. You are a horrible cook, and mom wouldn’t want me to suffer.” Eric smiled as he playfully punched his dad in the shoulder and walked to the garage. “See you this afternoon. Don’t let your disappointment show too much on camera.”
Clayton scoffed, “What disappointment?” He faked a smile and turned on his anchor voice, “Last night the power-hungry, lying Martin Peters demolished his opponent by a landslide that has baffled even this seasoned reporter. But in all seriousness,” he turned off the reporter tone, “How in the actual hell did this happen?”
Eric stood with his hand on the top of the doorframe, “I’ve got no logical answer. Every exit poll was indicating Stein. I’m sure the conspiracy stories are starting online. One of them could be true, but how would you ever know? Voter fraud, ballot tampering, space aliens, all viable options. Have fun at the gym.” He gave a small wave and headed out the door.
Nothing seemed logical at the moment. He wasn’t sure how he would report the news today, without bias. What he wouldn’t give to have Christine here as a sounding board, his voice of reason, of hope, as his encourager, his best friend. Sometimes the pain of losing her hit him out of nowhere. Today, he felt it coming on. He allowed himself to grieve, most days, but he didn’t have time today. He downed the last of his coffee, grabbed his house key, and ran the few miles to the gym.
Within moments, an armored truck approached the fallen soldier. Two uniformed guards jumped out and another two appeared through the roof, guns drawn. The two guards grabbed the soldier and tossed him into the back of the vehicle, grabbed an unidentifiable can and sprayed the area where the soldier had bled. In less than three minutes, the truck was gone. Any trace of the fallen soldier erased. A new guard taking his place. The single sheet of paper, missed by the guards, had plastered itself on the door of the capitol.