Not Quite a Pulitzer

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Another free-written and edited short story. The last thoughts of a journalist who went too far in trying to get a story.

Submitted: March 07, 2016

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Submitted: March 07, 2016

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I never should have gotten involved. I saw them, through the window, I knew what they were doing, what they could and would do if they caught me there, without even a second thought. 

 Jimmy had warned me about them. Told me to 'keep my ugly nose out from where it ain't wanted', but of course, I didn't listen. I never listened to wise old Jimmy, who'd never stop giving me obvious advice. I wonder what he'd tell me to do now. Probably something clever.

 How can I call myself a journalist when I never asked the important questions? I didn't wonder why no one else had followed this scoop before, I didn't pay attention to the fear in Jimmy's eyes. I never questioned the gang's success. I ignored the silent contacts. I didn't see what was so clear so everyone else. All I was thinking about was the Pulitzer. How stupid of me.

 S*it. The cars almost there. I wriggle and sit up, the time for contemplation is over. The driver pulls the door open and I awkwardly climb out, hands fastened behind my back. He put a hand on my arm but I shake it off and follow after him, head held high. I wasn't going to let him drag me to the river.

 Moonlight dances like liquid silver across the surface. It looks inviting. I wish it didn't. 

 The rusty metal of the bridge is rough beneath my shoes. It slowly scrapes with an awful sound, which I somehow manage to enjoy. Everything I see is beautiful, the dark and dangerous trees look warm and safe, the old house up Linda Hill seems bright despite having no lights. I look again at the water, which still manages to capture the night in its depths. 

 I try to ignore the rocks now tied to my feet, I try to take in all that I can around me. I feel a calm that I never have before, a sense of acceptance. I don't resist the hand that presses at my back, and fall into the cold arms of death, which I allow to swallow me.

 


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