Me again. If you haven’t noticed, I’m on a mission to write more fiction. I’m hoping the more I write, the easier it will get and someday, SOMEDAY, I’ll actually get that book written.
I used to participate in Three-Word Wednesday many moons ago. Here I am, participating again.
The three words to use in a story this week are:
Thanks for reading.
“Well that figures. Censorship is alive and well in America.” Sam nearly spat out his disgust.
Dale rubbed his eyes. He could feel another migraine tickling the back of his eyelids. He needed to get rid of this kid and close himself off for five minutes. “I can’t print this and you know it. Where are your facts? This is pure fluff.” He opened his eyes and looked at the newly-graduated student in front of him. “Your opinion is not news, Sam.”
Sam snatched up his report and audibly growled at his boss. “You need to run this piece, Dale. It’s juicy. It will fire people up.”
“You haven’t listed one source. You haven’t given me one concrete fact. Everything you wrote is hearsay. We’re supposed to be journalists, Sam. Journalists are supposed to remain impartial. They’re supposed to report what happened, not what we want to happen, not what other people perceived as happened, but what actually happened.”
“So I’m not supposed to have an opinion? I’m human. I’m going to naturally be biased when it comes to issues I care deeply about.”
“Did you not learn anything in Journalism school?” Dale asked. “Your job is to report the story. Sure. Use a little creative nonfiction to keep people interested, but stick to what happened. You can’t make this stuff up. It’s unethical.”
“My teacher said journalists make stuff up all the time.”
Dale blinked in surprise. He could feel his blood pressure rising. This was exactly why journalists were getting such a bad rap nowadays – because the people teaching the next generation didn’t possess a moral bone in their bodies.
“I’m going to assume that that is taken out of context,” he said slowly. “Also? This is not going to work out. I need real reporters out there covering stories, not activists using my paper as their personal podium. Get out.” He could feel his stress level rising to the critical stage. He was getting too old for this crap.
“You can’t get rid of me. My uncle owns this paper,” Sam said with a smirk.
Dale slowly opened his eyes and glared at the boy. “Your uncle also thinks you’re a pompous ass.”
He watched the boy’s shocked expression with satisfaction. He probably shouldn’t have said that, but seeing the boy’s open-mouthed trout-like face was worth the price of unemployment.
The kid stormed out of his office and slammed the door behind him. The glass wobbled with reaction.
Dale glanced at the clock – it was only 9:00 in the morning. It was going to be a long day.