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A tale of lurid journalism
By S. A. Barton
Copyright 2012 S. A. Barton
Find other stories by S.A. Barton on his Smashwords profile.
“Look, kid,” Ron said, “this is crap.” He pulls the flash out of the tablet on the desk and flicks it into the trashcan, ruffling the snack cake wrappers and coffeestained paper cups. I have a dozen vids on the flash and he only sampled three: the first, the last, and the seventh. He didn’t even watch those straight through, but skipped around them in 10-second bites. Without thinking I bolt to my feet, looming over the desk at him, shoulders forward, arms half-cocked like a boxer. I’m tall, a touch over two meters—but greyhound skinny. Ron is so old that he covered the first US-Afghanistan war and uses a wheelchair, but he still laughs at my anger. Blushing and a bit ashamed of my outburst, I sit back down.
“Ron,” I say, trying to keep the whine out of my voice, “I worked a long time on those interviews. I worked hard. The visuals are good, the stories are good, the research is good. If you don’t like my angle, tell me. I’ll fix it. I want this job.”