“The Newsroom”

There was a time when the old newsroom would be a busy, interactive fast paced electric  bubble of information and current events with its featured articles and headlines of the day. The once buzzing newsroom is now silent, with its now vintage decor a reminder of those days gone by, stored  forever in a capsule of time within his memories. The wooden floors creak, the doors squeak, the ceiling fans click rhythmically and some of the  ashtrays are still  in place on the desks, the smell of cigar is still present at least in his mind. The scent of old leather chairs and newspaper ink, shoe polish and aftershave too, all coming to vivid memories as he gazes over the newsroom. Up here on the eighth floor was once so filled with sounds of clicking heels, telephones ringing and typewriters pecking away. All sharing one important task, which was to get the news, the stories and the photos into print and out to the people everyday. The city once depended upon the news team with each new day’s edition. Everyone read the paper, it was the hub of all the latest information, gossip and predictions of current times. Sometimes the courier would come up to hand deliver an envelope to one of the reporters, inside there would be a folded note with some headline information meant only for that reporter  as he would see to it that the scoop made the print. With a city this size,  there was always plenty to fill the newspaper, like detectives they were always anxiously searching for the latest break. Some even got recognition for their write-ups and were photographed with the editor. They were respected not only by each other, but also by the business moguls, politicians and law enforcement. A reporter could make or break an upcoming candidate or entertainer with their words, some would even come up to sit with them as a way to add more of a personal touch, which always made for the best story or article. Those interviews were done in a private office along the wall if they had one and the metal venetian  blinds would be pulled down for more privacy. Other reporters who hadn’t been at it long enough, would scramble in the stairway or mens room to keep their story under wraps if they had too. The main part of the newsroom was open with the desks all in rows a couple feet apart, with all of the general information being common knowledge it was shared among them, all helping each other. They were comrades, with a common thread of enthusiasm and support, each wanted to see the other make it big. Some did and even went on to write a book about their adventures, or the people they had interviewed, while others moved up within the newsroom to become heads of certain departments. All of the printed paper files of those days are now stored in rows of metal file cabinets down in the basement. The building is empty now and as the wind gently blows against the window, the for sale sign flutters against the glass. Making his way downstairs and outside to the sidewalk, even the red brick architecture with its vintage flip out style windows and metal venetian blinds, stands tall and proud with history in the now silenced city. Even the streets were at one time, bustling with traffic, honking horns and sirens. The smell of hot-dog stands and motor fuel filled the air as people scurried about. 

It was the final strain launched from the other side of the world that had mutated so fast along its way, that made it impossible to create a vaccine. People fled to get away from one another, while others would face certain death. It finally happened too, that the day would come when a biological culture would be created in an attempt to conquer  the world, even if it meant destroying the world. The belief of those who launched the deadly strain was not shared by the rest of the world. A suicide mission to destroy civilization, even if it meant destroying their own was still a victory. Finally now, the last strike had been made and most likely there would be no more,  at least for the next few hundred years or so.

One last shot of the for sale sign waving against the window pane as his camera clicks, stepping into the awaiting car he motions for the driver to go around the block one last time.

End ~


#strain #mutation #biological #dailywrites #shortstories #kentxsandersxwriter

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s