The News

It was one of those waiting rooms where the air conditioner blasted as cold as the shrinking Antarctic, a TV played a sports game, and magazines eagerly announced which of the latest celebrities had gotten married or divorced or remarried. In other words, it was perfect for how I looked on the outside: a young, blonde, white woman, wearing high heels and dangly earrings, the image of a stereotypical businesswoman. It also meant that on the inside, I hated it.

I tapped my fingers on the side of my chair, resisting the impulse to peel off the stupid attached nails a friend had somehow convinced me to wear. At least I would look appropriate for the interview. As much as I despised the look that was common and proper among women like me, I did want the job. I had been a writer since before I could read, and now, frustrated with the incompetence of the current media, I decided I could become a journalist and try to improve the system from the inside out. That was a poorly planned idea (they’re my specialty)- the news companies were so big and powerful that it was unlikely a single girl like me could hold any sway over them. I knew this, had been born and raised in that reality. And yet I dared to hope.

Maybe it was my mother who taught me to hope. She was always a bit odd, and she would likely have been declared a madwoman if we lived centuries ago. In our current era of medical advancement, we knew they suffered from mental illness, but we didn’t treat them much better. She had been convinced there were voices all around her, all around everyone, and she never knew if what they said was true or not. They tormented her for as long as she lived. I’ll never forget the day she gave me her heart locket, a cheap little trinket that might have cost ninety-nine cents at a dollar store. “This locket represents truth, Junia,” she had told me, putting it around my neck. “Because truth is tricky. It looks like it’s right there, but sometimes you have to dig a little deeper. Look inside.”

My five-year-old self had admired it, not realizing or caring how worthless it was. I delicately cracked it open like a clam. “But Mommy, it’s empty. There’s nothing in it.”

“Nothing in it yet,” she countered, and walked away.

I wore the heart locket everywhere after that. I never tired of it. Even today, I insisted on wearing it, even though it didn’t really match. It was my only concession, the sole personal chink in my professional armor.

After what seemed like eons of waiting, a door finally opened, providing a break in the whitewashed walls, and a man emerged. “Mrs. Ellington?”

“Miss,” I mumbled, as I stood and followed him along the subsequent corridor. Everyone assumed an attractive young woman like me should be married, and they never bothered to check.

The man approached an office and held the door open for me. I could barely control my surprise when I walked in. Instead of the tiny, sparsely decorated cubicle I had expected, it was enormous, at least the size of a small house, with all the comforts of a home as well. On one wall was a large plaque that read “The most powerful weapon is words.” I supposed the managers of news networks made more money than I had anticipated.

He curtly cut in front of me and slouched down on a couch. I found a chair and sat primly upright in a way that would have made my childhood tutors proud. I had never cared for their lessons then, but now it was strangely satisfying to feel more professional than my potential employer.

“So,” he said, rifling through some papers. Some would have considered him a handsome man, with tousled blonde hair, dark eyes, and a tough masculinity that was somewhat diminished by my knowledge that he had an office job- he was the kind of person who would drive an enormous gas-guzzling truck to the grocery store. He seemed to be about my age. I seriously doubted he had started this company; more likely he had inherited it from a billionaire father. “You are Mrs. Junia Ellington?”

“Miss,” I corrected, louder this time. “I’m unmarried.”

“Hmm,” he said, not-so-subtly reminding me that he didn’t particularly care. He told me his name, confirming his identity as the president of Weasel News, and then stared me down, perhaps expecting me to swoon (I did not, and I didn’t think he was impressed).

“I had surmised as much,” I said. I wondered if my sharp tongue would get me in trouble again, but he ignored it.

“Good record,” he commented, glancing at the papers again. “You’ve done some journalist work in the past, and seem to have some talent.” He looked back up at me. “As you know, you’ve been accepted into the internship here at WN. You’ll work for four weeks, after which we’ll assess your progress. If we find you satisfactory, you’ll stay.” He made no mention of what would happen otherwise.

“Okay,” I said, putting my hands together in my lap.

He smirked slightly. “Let’s start with some practice problems. Let’s say we want to report something to disadvantage the Tigerhearts’ cause. What kind of story would accomplish that goal?”

I faltered slightly, but concealed it from him. “Um, if a Tigerheart man owned a store and refused to serve anyone other than Tigerhearts, that would make people angry.”

“Precisely,” he said, clapping his hands together and leaning back. “Maybe a non-Tigerheart tried to come in and the owner beat him away with a broom. Perfect! See? You’re a natural.”

A frown furrowed my brow. “But to hurt the Tigerheart cause, that would actually have to happen.”

He smirked again. “Not necessarily. People would only need to believe it happened.”

Suspicion crept upon me like a shifting shadow. “Most Tigerhearts are normal people simply trying to live a normal life. Just because they weren’t born here doesn’t mean they’re the monsters some make them out to be.”

“Sure, but that’s reasonable,” he said, still reposed on his couch. “Reasonable stories don’t get clicks or subscriptions. People want to read news that makes them outraged.”

“Well, you can’t just make up a discriminatory story against a Tigerheart to make people outraged,” I pointed out, fingering my heart-shaped locket.

“Sure we can,” he replied, inclining his head to look at me. “There’s nobody to stop us. That’s how we make money. And making money is why we work in the news in the first place.”

“I thought we worked in the news to give people news,” I shot. A kind of horror was filling me. Everyone knew there was corruption in the news and media organizations, but that’s all I thought it was: corruption. Stretching the truth here and omitting one fragment of a story there. But the concept of mega news networks blatantly lying in their stories had never crossed my mind. It did, however, explain why they frequently reported completely different stories that often contradicted each other. People criticized them regularly and loudly, but their voices were ignored.

He finally sat up straight. “Let me explain something to you, Mrs. Junia Ellington.”

“It’s Miss. You’re doing this on purpose now.”

He leaned closer. “Our world is, as fiction tells it, a dystopia. Our world has always been a dystopia. But it isn’t an inferno, burning whoever it touches. And it isn’t smoke and mirrors, deceiving and hiding the truth. It’s a nice, comfortable, candlelit room, and you’re free to do whatever you want in it, regardless of what’s on the outside. Isn’t that nicer than going outside and realizing the world isn’t as nice as you want it to be? Some news companies will print the truth. Nobody will stop them, and some people will listen to them. But everyone can choose whatever news they want, no matter how obviously untrue it is. In other words, people will choose their own reality. They’ll choose their own truth.”

“That’s…” I couldn’t even find the right words.

“They’ve always done it. And they always will. That’s what they want. What we in the news world do is benefit from it. Take the pickings. Pigs are going to eat slop, so you might as well stop trying to convince them to eat healthy.”

My mind was whirling. Every time I had ever read news flashed before my eyes. How much of it was true, and how much was fabricated or at least manipulated? If I paid attention, I might be able to tell the difference, but most people wouldn’t. He was right: the masses wouldn’t care enough about truth to substitute it for their own comfortable simplicity.

“We’re not trying to silence anyone. We’re trying to yell louder and drown out their voices. Listen to whichever voice you please. Believe what you want to believe.”

“No,” I said, then repeated it, louder. My fingers automatically wrapped around my heart locket. “No. That’s wrong. Truth is truth. There is no ‘your own reality’.”

He shrugged. “Sure, fine. You can believe that too.”

“Seriously!” I almost shouted. “I won’t be a part of this!”

“Okay,” he said, casting me a look as indifferent as an offhand glance at a pebble on the side of the road. “I won’t force you. You’re free to value truth. You’re just not free to value truth at our firm. It will get in the way.”

For the briefest of moments, I hesitated. I had always wanted to be a journalist. It was my life’s calling, my dream. And I knew I was about to throw away a perfect opportunity. But an opportunity to do what? To make up terrible fake stories about Tigerhearts or brainwash people into thinking whatever they wanted to think? To sell my soul to the devil? To plant voices everywhere and blur the line between fact and fiction? To recreate my mother’s schizophrenia for the whole world?

I stood up, regaining and maintaining my businesslike composure. “I am sorry that I am unable to ethically work in this environment. I no longer wish to apply for the job.”

He nodded apathetically. “Goodbye, then, Mrs. Junia Ell-”

I slammed the door before he could finish his sentence.