Rapid Response

"That's the sort of thing I need" the editor said, fingers splayed over the sheets of paper which covered her desk "incisive commentary, the real experience behind the eyes, we neeed to know how these people are feeling. The human stories behind the expulsions. How it feels to be kicked out of a country. a human pawn in an international game of tit-for tat. I want" she paused "emotional intelligence." "Um" I said. I had submitted a series of light-hearted poems about sheds. I really was becoming a parody of myself, these days. "I'll just go, shall I?" As the door closed behind me, I pictured the paper falling to the floor, it seemed to be a thing. On the upside, I found a fiver in my pocket.

"No no" said the Editor, sweeping the sheaves of paper from her desk in what would have been an impressive arc, had one sheet not blown backwards and obscured the picture of herself and her husband rock-climbing somewhere sunny. "School shootings? Don't bring me this. What would you know about school shootings?" I watched the other sheets settle around the room like crap snow. She was, of course, right; I knew nothing about school shootings. But what I'd actually written was a poignant short story about  regretting the way it had ended with my childhood sweetheart. I didn't recall any shootings. That said, she was right in a broader sense. Exploiting long lost loves to try and mine a bit of creative spark is a bit creepy, obviously. I felt obscurely pleased at her decision not to publish, and wondered why I'd brought the story in in the first place. For that matter, I wondered why I'd written it. Then I worried that I was going to be late to ...

The editor pushed the papers back across the desk. “Poems” she said “based around the shipping forecast are so far beyond old hat that I’m amazed you haven’t bored yourself to death. Get me something on data breaches and maybe we’ll talk.” The papers fell to the floor like shit confetti.   I stayed silent and ashamed as she walked past me, off to lunch. Ashamed as I was unable to admit to her that my data had indeed been breached, parcelled up and sold off with the rest. But I only knew this for a fact because it had been returned to me that morning, in a brown envelope with a polite note reading that it was of no use as it was too boring. Outside, it still didn’t look like spring.

hey guess what we've run out of news we pushed it too far the last year was the worst-rated for several seasons and I think it's taking a while for the new writing team to gel and I mean this is all *waves hands* I know we had to get  something arresting but this is all the reviews are terrible, and that wouldn't normally matter but the advertisers they can't back out fast enough heads are rolling already I called down to  script and they said they've got nothing that isn't too far-fetched we're running it anyway

Downtown Salisbury Afternoons Clueless Responders I am Russian Assassin Nerve Pizza Daughter on a Bench Wash your Clothes, pub-goers Previous Agent Production I Made Indiscriminate Act Wetwipe Fone Expressions of Outrage Sainsbury's Car-Park Shut Down HazMat HazMat Cordon Breacher Escapes Unlawful Scran Toucher First Responder School (I'm Waiting For a) Credible Response