Seeing the sea as a journalist
The journalist's main prerogative was to survive. He was very low on money. He had other things to do too. There were many reasons; so many, that he wondered if he wasn't making excuses. He sat at his desktop and worked a rather beautiful article into manifestation. He had decided to pay closer attention to the ocean. There was little else that was interesting in his new little town. The journalist had been freelancing for such a long time, that he had somewhere forgotten that he was freelancing. It tended to happen in a world filled with wonders. Each new day yielded some surprise or another. That had been a trend in his life for so far back in it as what he could remember.
The journalist sat in his study, and remarked in writing on his wonderful view. It began with a study filled with books and a sword in the corner and a clock going tick tock. The most remarkable sight, beyond the sword, was an unframed picture of Albert Einstein sticking his tongue out. Beyond the workstation is a window, through which can be seen a brown balcony deck; beyond which can be seen waves crashing - almost into the houses along that hill over there. And beyond the crashing waves lies the ocean. spreading blue as far as the naked eye can see. The journalist laughed, marveling at the strokes of fortune that had allowed for such prosperity. The journey was not yet, however, at a close, he knew. Even in reprieve, the journalist knew what had to be done to survive. It was drastic, however it had to be done. As though perfectly timed in synchronicity with his thoughts, his mobile phone rang: an unknown number.
"Boheiman, speak," the journalist said.
"I have a tip for you about something shady going on in the fishing business in town central!" a female voice burst out in a single breath.
"Airie, Queen. Bless, good womahn! Tell us your news," said the journalist.
"So I was walking, and we saw these people wearing hoods carrying bags filled with fish down an alleyway close to the fish shop and they were, you know, they were looking like the sort of people that would be stealing wearing hoods."
"Ah," the journalist began taking notes, "three black men wearing hoods, proceed, Queen."
"Now wait a minute, I did not say they were black!" the female voice protested.
"Tell me, my queen, do you wish to get to the truth of this matter, or do you wish to simply spread rumors?"
"Now just you wait! First you call me a racist, now you're telling me I'm a rumor mill?" She sounded enraged, so the journalist pressed on.
"My queen, I said none of that. The point is, if they were black they were black. That they just so happen to be 'the sort of people that would be stealing wearing hoods' to you does not take away from them being black to me and to the rest of society that probably saw three black guys carrying a bag wearing hoods."
The phone went dead. The journalist could not help but laugh. That had been an interest example to him of how people just don't listen and want to be heard. He was no dissimilar, he knew; however, he was qualified to dismiss on hearing while still remaining heard. He poured himself another double brandy and ginger beer. The journalist had resolved to focus on the ocean. He longed for excitement to come from it. He sat a dreamed and drank for a while. It wasn't a fancy dream. A Giant tanker would randomly float to the surrounding beach, and land on the sands with a crushing thud. He would, at that point, simply be watching. In the journalist's mind, it was visibly deserted. A group of people begin gathering around, at which point he takes his cue and gets closer than anyone else before the police arrive. He knew security services would be on their way.
"It's Okay! I'm a journalist!" he hails to a cheering crowd that applauds while he traverses the ladder along the side. He hops onto the deck and begins recording the scene with his camera. He walks carefully, making as little noise as he dare. He must be conscience that this could easily be the aftermath of a pirate attack, or a smuggler ship. The journalist finds himself going down a flight of stairs, into a well-lit corridor. For some reason, he follows it. Along the wall, he spies the shadow of a handprint. He enters through a door, his mind flowing most freely in anticipation, and finds a room filled with an assortment of candies and confectioneries. His camera, naturally, captures everything. The alarm sounds. The journalist is shaken awake from his slumber. He yawns, and sees that clouds have almost obscured the whole sea. He laughs at his own wit.
The journalist sat in his study, and remarked in writing on his wonderful view. It began with a study filled with books and a sword in the corner and a clock going tick tock. The most remarkable sight, beyond the sword, was an unframed picture of Albert Einstein sticking his tongue out. Beyond the workstation is a window, through which can be seen a brown balcony deck; beyond which can be seen waves crashing - almost into the houses along that hill over there. And beyond the crashing waves lies the ocean. spreading blue as far as the naked eye can see. The journalist laughed, marveling at the strokes of fortune that had allowed for such prosperity. The journey was not yet, however, at a close, he knew. Even in reprieve, the journalist knew what had to be done to survive. It was drastic, however it had to be done. As though perfectly timed in synchronicity with his thoughts, his mobile phone rang: an unknown number.
"Boheiman, speak," the journalist said.
"I have a tip for you about something shady going on in the fishing business in town central!" a female voice burst out in a single breath.
"Airie, Queen. Bless, good womahn! Tell us your news," said the journalist.
"So I was walking, and we saw these people wearing hoods carrying bags filled with fish down an alleyway close to the fish shop and they were, you know, they were looking like the sort of people that would be stealing wearing hoods."
"Ah," the journalist began taking notes, "three black men wearing hoods, proceed, Queen."
"Now wait a minute, I did not say they were black!" the female voice protested.
"Tell me, my queen, do you wish to get to the truth of this matter, or do you wish to simply spread rumors?"
"Now just you wait! First you call me a racist, now you're telling me I'm a rumor mill?" She sounded enraged, so the journalist pressed on.
"My queen, I said none of that. The point is, if they were black they were black. That they just so happen to be 'the sort of people that would be stealing wearing hoods' to you does not take away from them being black to me and to the rest of society that probably saw three black guys carrying a bag wearing hoods."
The phone went dead. The journalist could not help but laugh. That had been an interest example to him of how people just don't listen and want to be heard. He was no dissimilar, he knew; however, he was qualified to dismiss on hearing while still remaining heard. He poured himself another double brandy and ginger beer. The journalist had resolved to focus on the ocean. He longed for excitement to come from it. He sat a dreamed and drank for a while. It wasn't a fancy dream. A Giant tanker would randomly float to the surrounding beach, and land on the sands with a crushing thud. He would, at that point, simply be watching. In the journalist's mind, it was visibly deserted. A group of people begin gathering around, at which point he takes his cue and gets closer than anyone else before the police arrive. He knew security services would be on their way.
"It's Okay! I'm a journalist!" he hails to a cheering crowd that applauds while he traverses the ladder along the side. He hops onto the deck and begins recording the scene with his camera. He walks carefully, making as little noise as he dare. He must be conscience that this could easily be the aftermath of a pirate attack, or a smuggler ship. The journalist finds himself going down a flight of stairs, into a well-lit corridor. For some reason, he follows it. Along the wall, he spies the shadow of a handprint. He enters through a door, his mind flowing most freely in anticipation, and finds a room filled with an assortment of candies and confectioneries. His camera, naturally, captures everything. The alarm sounds. The journalist is shaken awake from his slumber. He yawns, and sees that clouds have almost obscured the whole sea. He laughs at his own wit.
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