A Journalists Story

(1) A story worth publishing

"You think this is worth publishing?"

George furrowed his eyebrows in confusion as he watched the man intently.

The jumble of papers were discarded on the old wooden desk with little to no care as the very man that held his career in his hands stood and approached the large window.

"Where is the emotion, the feeling- the heart of the story?" 

George opened his mouth to interject the one-sided conversation.

"Well, I write for the humanities column, the neighborhood down the street helping the orphanage was heartwarming was it not?"

The man with piercing green eyes sighed, "George, you write about the same thing every other week."

"No I don't, just last week I wrote about the break-in at the book store-"

"Davidson, nobody cares about that old worn-down bookstore."

George furrowed his eyebrows in frustration, "Over fifteen hundred dollars in cash was stolen, that poor old man has no money for the landlord- he could go homeless for crying out loud!"

His boss snapped his fingers and turned around abruptly, pointing a finger at George, "That's what I'm talking about Davidson! Behind the scenes, nobody would've known such a crime occurred."

George nodded slowly, not entirely sure what the message was meant to be.

"Why didn't you add that in the column?"

"Because I didn't want to make him feel more devastated than he already was,"

"George, we are journalists, we write what nobody else sees because we have a talent they don't."

George raised an eyebrow, "We don't pick sides."

Confusion crept in, why would they pick sides? Their job was to simply write about stories they uncovered- George's stories were far from serious, but that was to be expected from someone working under the humanities column.

"Well of course we don't pick sides, we report, we don't interact."

His boss shook his head, "How do you ever expect to have anyone take you seriously when you write about topics like these?"

"With all due respect-"

"Davidson, when you find a good story to cover, you hold onto it for dear life,"

Now he was just losing him again, George had been writing under the humanities column for 3 years now, it obviously wasn't going to change by now.

"I don't care how far the story takes you, you just do what we were meant to do."

George smiled lightly as he stared into his boss's green eyes, "Discover the truth..."

The man smiled and nodded, "You have potential, go and prove it."

He nodded, grabbing the papers on the old wooden desk and excusing himself from the room.

What was he supposed to write about? Nothing interesting ever happened in this town, let alone in someplace as boring and plain as London, England.

He huffed as he made his way down the long corridor, the large glass pained windows allowed him to see the bustling town outside.

The smell of ink and paper filled his senses, ultimately calming down his nerves as he walked down the corridor.

The long velvety carpet stopped his shoes from making a clicking noise. There were multiple doors, all of which had some form of chaotic atmosphere revolving around the entirety of the room.