The Long Telegram
Flash Fiction
He was in a small office on a small chair typing at a small typewriter desk with a smelly white Oxford cloth shirt hanging to his torso. Books were scattered on the shelves and on other chairs.
He slurped another swig of coffee from a ceramic cup.
He put it down and re-re-re-read the prose that he was to send down the telegraphic wire. It was neither dry enough nor with that pizzazz that would jolt the reader to action. On the plus side, he thought, it pleaded for contrition in every phrase. He added another apology just to make sure.
He rewrote the urgency: “USSR still lives in antagonistic ‘capitalist encirclement’” That was better. He sweated in absolution. Mistakes were made.
He fiddled: “Internal conflicts of capitalism inevitably generate wars.”
He looked, his head resting on a bent hand, and studied. Was it too much like a lecture? The sweat dry on his brow.
He rewrote another sentence: “It must be borne in mind that capitalist world is not all bad.”
He read it again and his smile turned up. He frowned a bit and tried again to capture the careful balance that he sought: “Success of Soviet system, as form of internal power, is not yet finally proven.” And a few more changes. His neck creaked.
He stood up and stretched. Then he typed into the wire. The Long Telegram was sent. He eased back.
But he did not sign it.