This short story is one I did after watching something particularly melancholy on Netflix one night. It doesn't contain any action, and it's a rather short piece, but I feel that it holds merit nonetheless. Here is "The President."
The sweaty rain fell upon the earth in hordes upon hordes, like a volley of liquid spears thrown down at the armies of the world. The whipping wind stirred it into spirals as it fell, creating a tearing vicious storm in the hands of the darkness. The bleeding sky tore open in a brilliant flash of forked light. A crack tumbled forward, carried on the wings of the wind, as if a veil had been torn.
In the light the President thought he could see faces, ghostly shapes in the darkness beyond the weeping window. Their eyes, pale and weak, shone with a determined light that was at the same time brave and dwindling.
He could always see them on rainy nights. He remembered these faces well. He remembered the motorcade, the darkness, the slashing storm that bit into the cheeks of hearty men much braver than he. They had protected him. He had not protected them.
He remembered with grave detail the feel of the fountain pen in his hand, the peculiar way it slightly slipped every single time, every single time he inscribed the “u” into the grainy papers at 2:00 a.m. At 2:00 a.m. his signature had changed forever. Even today the pen, the same pen, slipped.
“There’s no such thing as solace,” muttered the President. “No such thing.” He turned his head down and stared at the carpet. All he could hear in the rumbling of the thunder was the firing of the guns. All he felt was the press of the seat into his shoulder as he was flung down away from the window. The lightning was a flashing muzzle. Seven men gave life and limb. Seven men to whom he was more indebted than to anyone, and whom he could never repay. Seven men, seven years ago exactly. Now it was his last night. He turned away from the window.