It is a difficult thing to be a full-time writer. Not all of us will become a best seller, multi-millionaire author like that chick with them wizard books. Rachel knew this. She would have been satisfied with just go out for dinner and not worry about the check at the end. Alas, no cigar. After 15 years of professional writing, here she was, in the land of prose-mortem. The office of the Metropolitan Morning, was, for lack of a better word, disheartening. It was too small for the hired staff, it was in the basement, it only got cleaned every two weeks or so, and even then, just superficially. As for the restrooms, well, Rachel was sure that most gas station toilets are cleaner. But what do you expect from a paper that is printed on the cheapest quality of pulp, handed out for free in train and subway stations by questionable individuals to commuters, and which has for content stories that even the tabloids would not touch and advertisements for goods and services that usually will end up as subject in a lawsuit. If only they would not smoke in the office…

Rachel kept staring in her computer screen. She had to write 200 words for next morning’s issue with not much time left until the paper lock, which she could not afford to lose. This article was the third from a set of ten she needed to complete so that her position in this illustrious gazette would have become permanent. And if the position is secured, Rachel can expect a generous pay bump, so that she can afford 3 frozen dinner meals a week instead of two. 

Norm, one of the senior writers was often at his desk after hours. Of course, he was sleeping after emptying his second pocket size vodka bottle of the day. He needed some shut eye before driving home for bottle number three. Eileen also liked to hang around more than the average. Especially during winter times, when the power and/or the heating is cut off in her building due to unpaid bills every other week. At least in the office she can knit peacefully.

But still, Rachel needed to write something. There were a couple of topics available, that nobody ran with, so she might as well take one off the board. Finally, her eyes land on the name Jenny.

Jenny was a young girl, born and raised in some backwater, rural area. She was not bright, and she was not pretty. One night, some of the high school kids threw a party, she gets hammered, unwillingly, and ends ups pregnant. Jenny lives in a small town, so naturally this makes some noise, but nobody steps forward as the father and there are far too many suspects to test them all. Paternity tests are expensive. Eventually, everybody gets bored, and the case gets buried. Except Jenny did not like losing the spotlight. She wanted more of it. So, on Sunday, she got up in front of the congregation in church, right after the sermon has ended, and declared that she did nothing wrong. Jenny made the announcement that her baby was an alien. She was not having sex with a highs cool kid while being drunk, she was abducted by aliens. This has caused some commotion, but undoubtedly qualified that day’s sermon in the top 5 sermons ever held in that church. Eventually, the local pastor took Jenny under his wings. But as it turned out, this did not keep Jenny safe from the aliens, as she got abducted three more times in the next five years. Eventually, somebody in power decided that the town could afford at least three paternity tests, and what would you know, turns out them spaceships were driven by the pastor. All three kids, his. He got kicked out of his parish and child protective service have collected the kids. Jenny ended up in a care facility for the mentally challenged individuals, two counties away. Apparently, the aliens do not venture out that far.

After reading the details, Rachel knew that she could have turned this into rather compelling human-interest story. Like a five-part limited series, two thousand words per article. But this was not her former paper, or the one before that, or the one before that. No, this was the Metropolitan Morning. Their stories had to be short and entertaining. Nothing more beyond trivial. And most of all, not a downer. 

Rachel had thirty minutes left before paper lock. She really needed a stable job, even one as wretched as this one. So, finally, she took a deep breath, and with rapid fire speed, she keyed in 200 words before her second breath. This performance was loud enough to wake up Norm. Well, for the duration of an ass scratch and a fart. Rachel quickly re-read her writing. It was basically about Jenny’s alien baby announcement, combined loosely with the plot of this C rated sci-fi movie she watched the week before, after her third glass of chardonnay. It was 200 words of empty calories, that the government did neither confirm nor deny the existence of the aliens. She hit the send button and off went the story to the presses.

On her way home, Rachel bought some groceries at her local corner store. Nothing but the best that the cheapest brands can offer. As she walked towards her building, she heard some noises from some trash cans. A small kitten jumped out from between the cans and started climbing up on Rachels pants, meowing all the way. Rachel was selected by the cat distribution system, or so it seems. She picked up the little fellow in her palms, looked it in the face and tried really hard not to tear up. Finally, Rachel rushed home with the kitten and the groceries. She locked the door behind her, spilled the store bag over the kitchen desk, picked up the small can of tuna, opened it up and gave it to the kitten, which proceeded to eat it with a frenzy, while purring. Rachel backed up to the wall then collapsed down, crying her eyes out. That can of tuna was the last one that she could buy for a long time, but dammit, she will save that small purring soul. God knows, she cannot save her own…