UNTITLED IN PROGRESS: A NOVEL…

Untitled, in progress novel…excerpt…

 

UNTITLED…

My name is Jack Pratt and this is a story of modern America. It comes at a time of great divide, at a time when the rich of America were getting richer, the middle class was working their fingers to the bone and the poor were becoming obsolete, mere votes in a society that fought amongst itself. It is a time of great confusion with one side of the power spectrum screaming social injustice and the opposition yelling about corruption and globalism. It is a time when the truth is buried and the airwaves were filled with false narratives, lies, propaganda and collusion. Where once the reputable institutions of reporting had been robust and objective, they were now bought and paid for, subjectively opinionated and the American People were their sounding board. At a time of advanced technology, of great information and of tracking how those stories play out in the minds of the people, the data they searched for in pursuit of the truth was all documented. With every click and every move made through cyberspace, the stories changed or kept on and grew or disappeared altogether. It is a time of great battles for those in power and the daily struggle for the average American to make ends meet in what was the culmination of years, perhaps decades or even centuries that put The United States at risk of losing its freedoms.

This story is what you don’t know and what they won’t tell you. If you are reading this then these words are either propaganda or the truth and I am either dead or have gone into hiding, because what I know and who I worked for have made me a marked man. This story, if the truth is a collection of media stories that were reported to The American people, my own personal notes, my observations and firsthand account of what I had seen, experienced and learned. The amalgamation of all this info if the truth was collected over many years and if this is propaganda written by those who have a vested interest in suppressing the truth in our opposition, than let that determination be made by the informed reader. If this is propaganda there is no truth and if this was found in the fiction section there is a good chance it is, 100% true. These are the times we live in.

We worship the wrong people. We see actors and stars on T.V. and we hold them in high regard, though we are not entirely sure why. We put them above the solider, the policeman, the teacher, the fireman, the honest hard working American citizen, etc. We somehow put high stock in their opinions just because of who they are and what they do. We worship the wrong Demigods. This is my general consensus.

I am a journalist. I was a journalist. I know of what I speak. The moment hit me that I was not doing my justly service sometime ago. It was the typical pre-election coverage meeting that was the final nail in the journalist coffin so to speak.

The California Chronicle is the most popular newspaper in the country. It boasts a circulation that was rivals only that of the New York branch, which is owned by the same corporation. That newspaper is called The New York News and that company, Night Light Corporation, is a subsidiary of Cy-com, one of the biggest media corporations in the world. I was first hired out of college at the age of 22 and was overwhelmed yet thoroughly honored to be working for such a journalism giant, but approaching 33 years of age the excitement and optimism has been compromised.

            To the excitement of new reporters and to the slight dismay of the seasoned reporters, another Presidential Election is upon the horizon and Editor in Chief of The California Chronicle, Richard Archgold needed to gather his editors together. This was a few months ago in February, as it happened every February in every Presidential Election, ever since I had been here. I was sitting in my office working on a story about a police officer, who was clearly acting in self-defense and a police officer who shot an African American after a high speed chase and it was the hot story in the media. In no way was it murder, yet this was the angle they wanted me to play up. I did not want to write it and be just another media head spouting the left liberal voice in America and this is what my journalism degree had boiled down to…being a shill. It made me nauseous.

            “Hey Jack, Dick wants the editors in Conference Room 2,” Bob Cortez said as I sat behind an oak desk in my small office throwing pencils at the ceiling.

            “Let me guess. Election rigmarole?” I replied.

            “That’d be a good guess,” Bob snapped back then walked off quick and rapidly towards the main cubicles of the office. “Hey guys, Richard wants us in Conference Room 2 now, c’mon let’s go. You know the drill!” Bob said off in the distance.

            “Ah, fuck my life,” I muttered to myself, got up and refilled my coffee cup from the Mr. Coffee in my office. It was a small office, one desk, one fridge, a small closet and two cheap futon like chairs by the window. I knew what was coming and dreaded it. This upcoming election had kept me up lately, especially with the recent revelations concerning the primaries, Democratic debates and especially one particular Democratic candidate who had her hands in more pots than a barista.

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