Anyone caught publishing human-interest pieces and stories with an angle not represented by Google is from here on out declared treasonous. That includes human speculation, non-fact based opinion and quotes. I wonder what they have against emotion. Then again, I can relate because it has been years since I ever felt any. The last emotion I remember feeling was when my mother passed away eight years ago. Especially now that I’m notoriously having nightly escapades that leave me empty and alone each morning. Although I go through the motions and feel the numbness of wanting someone to no avail, I can’t remember the last time I actually was in love. All I can fathom is what I think is love, and how I validate what I’m doing based solely on that imagination.
“Welcome to the world of unemployment,” I hear a voice I hardly recognize flatly declare to my former coworkers, unaware that dejected tone is my own.
“Fuck,” Jerry our editor screams, knocking his writing pad to the floor and sending fleeting sparks in the air. “National News Hourly has got to be behind this. We’re the best goddamn publication and they know it. I mean, look at our readership numbers,” but his voice angrily trails off.
The digital subscription number chart on the wall, which temporarily replaces what used to be a window, plummets faster than the four-hour stock crash of 2009 – the worst any country has seen to-date. All this propaganda has certainly done its job, as billions of faithful readers now believe they no longer have a need for digestible news.
“I bet if we were to run a false story now, no one would ever know it existed,” he says competing with the feed, now flashing red and reading a hardly-believable zero. “Wait a minute I'm a fucking genius! Dean, toss me your writing pad.”
He furiously immerses himself in the hasty task of tapping something out at the keyboard. And just like that, he gestures like a proud father, with a gleam of mischief in his eyes.
“If you’ll all kindly turn your attention to The Chronicle’s newest release,” he continues on a mission. “People will need to know with a little human element, if their lives are in danger.”
As I scan my internal screen, I see in 32-point bold face – something we only save for rare life-changing events such as the onset of World War Six – Jerry’s latest exposé:
The man's even audacious enough to include his own byline. I think he might have transcended the fine line between sanity and whatever else lies beyond that, I'm too afraid of the concept to even verbalize it. However, you don’t need to alert me that the presidential monarch is barging through the building the very second my eyes scan the lines imprinted on my screen. He is accompanied by men in bulky, mechanical-looking suits. With each thundering step they take, I can’t help but sense a hint of excruciation emanating from their metallic eyes. Everyone’s eyes turn nervously towards Jerry’s direction, but he’s unfazed by any of the commotion, laughing hysterically.
“It’s a good thing we shut down your sorry excuse for a newsreel eight minutes ago,” one of the monarch’s henchmen states, implying the current non-existent readership.
“We abolished tabloids six years ago. According to legal code XA832Y, you have the right to remain silent. You also have the right to a judgment hearing carried out by a counsel of your peers, though I doubt it’ll do you any good. You’re also entitled to the right to feel,” he says, violently ripping out the internal connector chip from the back of Jerry’s neck and jamming a large, threatening metal rod in its place.
Just like that, his body crumples to the ground, accompanied by brief violent fits of screams and shakes. In one second it’s over, but I can’t get the blood-curdling sounds out of my mind; I know they will follow me for the rest of my years to come. Instinctively, I cover my mouth and try not to scream out in shock, diving behind the nearest desk. My newsfeed alerts me of another update, put out by the government’s official newserver, Google:
Just like that, the new wave of government-controlled print journalism has started. There is not one single adjective in the entire article. Nor is there any trace of sympathy for the company and its abrupt loss of life. His accomplishments aren’t even mentioned anywhere in the article, which was usually a standard practice for the ending of an obituary piece. Though the most haunting part about this entire development is the article’s warning about his alleged self-induced unplugging, essentially scaring the entire population out of ever wanting to remove their own chips -- not like the radical idea ever even occurred to them. I’m sure by now every citizen of the state is being simultaneously force-fed this inaccurate news. It’s almost as if the government’s telling them all how to think and what to believe. Because of the government's monopoly over the entire industry which just went into effect this morning, no dialogue can ever again exist between competing publications, something that used to prove different angles and points of view.
Yes, democratic monarchy really is a well-oiled machine.
“Welcome to the world of unemployment,” I hear a voice I hardly recognize flatly declare to my former coworkers, unaware that dejected tone is my own.
“Fuck,” Jerry our editor screams, knocking his writing pad to the floor and sending fleeting sparks in the air. “National News Hourly has got to be behind this. We’re the best goddamn publication and they know it. I mean, look at our readership numbers,” but his voice angrily trails off.
The digital subscription number chart on the wall, which temporarily replaces what used to be a window, plummets faster than the four-hour stock crash of 2009 – the worst any country has seen to-date. All this propaganda has certainly done its job, as billions of faithful readers now believe they no longer have a need for digestible news.
“I bet if we were to run a false story now, no one would ever know it existed,” he says competing with the feed, now flashing red and reading a hardly-believable zero. “Wait a minute I'm a fucking genius! Dean, toss me your writing pad.”
He furiously immerses himself in the hasty task of tapping something out at the keyboard. And just like that, he gestures like a proud father, with a gleam of mischief in his eyes.
“If you’ll all kindly turn your attention to The Chronicle’s newest release,” he continues on a mission. “People will need to know with a little human element, if their lives are in danger.”
As I scan my internal screen, I see in 32-point bold face – something we only save for rare life-changing events such as the onset of World War Six – Jerry’s latest exposé:
CONTAMINATED WATER: GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS LAY OFF MILLIONS, THREATEN CANADA’S WELL-BEING
The man's even audacious enough to include his own byline. I think he might have transcended the fine line between sanity and whatever else lies beyond that, I'm too afraid of the concept to even verbalize it. However, you don’t need to alert me that the presidential monarch is barging through the building the very second my eyes scan the lines imprinted on my screen. He is accompanied by men in bulky, mechanical-looking suits. With each thundering step they take, I can’t help but sense a hint of excruciation emanating from their metallic eyes. Everyone’s eyes turn nervously towards Jerry’s direction, but he’s unfazed by any of the commotion, laughing hysterically.
“It’s a good thing we shut down your sorry excuse for a newsreel eight minutes ago,” one of the monarch’s henchmen states, implying the current non-existent readership.
“We abolished tabloids six years ago. According to legal code XA832Y, you have the right to remain silent. You also have the right to a judgment hearing carried out by a counsel of your peers, though I doubt it’ll do you any good. You’re also entitled to the right to feel,” he says, violently ripping out the internal connector chip from the back of Jerry’s neck and jamming a large, threatening metal rod in its place.
Just like that, his body crumples to the ground, accompanied by brief violent fits of screams and shakes. In one second it’s over, but I can’t get the blood-curdling sounds out of my mind; I know they will follow me for the rest of my years to come. Instinctively, I cover my mouth and try not to scream out in shock, diving behind the nearest desk. My newsfeed alerts me of another update, put out by the government’s official newserver, Google:
CHRONICLE SHUTS DOWN; EDITOR BRANDT COMMITS SUICIDE
Just like that, the new wave of government-controlled print journalism has started. There is not one single adjective in the entire article. Nor is there any trace of sympathy for the company and its abrupt loss of life. His accomplishments aren’t even mentioned anywhere in the article, which was usually a standard practice for the ending of an obituary piece. Though the most haunting part about this entire development is the article’s warning about his alleged self-induced unplugging, essentially scaring the entire population out of ever wanting to remove their own chips -- not like the radical idea ever even occurred to them. I’m sure by now every citizen of the state is being simultaneously force-fed this inaccurate news. It’s almost as if the government’s telling them all how to think and what to believe. Because of the government's monopoly over the entire industry which just went into effect this morning, no dialogue can ever again exist between competing publications, something that used to prove different angles and points of view.
Yes, democratic monarchy really is a well-oiled machine.
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