Story 1: Submissive

Chapter 7:

I'm a journalist. I work for a city rag. A shrinking, dying rag choked to death by the shifting paradigm of the digital world. I work for, or actually, I am the obituary department. I have to write them all. It's a pathetic job, but alas, one of the only sections of the paper that ever gets read anymore. I'm sure that that will change as soon as some web startup called Craig's Dead List or something gets properly funded. Until then, it's me.

I have always had ambitions to write features and such but, no one ever seems to be interested in the topics I propose. Actually, I propose good topics but I always seem to be too late. NemesisGirl, the bitch, seems to be able to read my mind and submit ideas disturbingly similar to mine. She's got to be stealing them somehow.

In fact, when I returned from my morning break, I noticed that my computer screen was on and a document containing a lede I was investigating was highlighted. Apparently some redneck Georgia legislator suggested that women should not be allowed to abort dead fetuses. He suggested that just like his farm animals, women should wait and pass them naturally. (Fuck me!)

When I looked up NemesisGirl was sneering at me with a smug look on her face.

I stood up and marched to BossWoman's office certain that this time I would complain about NemesisGirl. Unfortunately, I am unable to speak in her presence for some reason.

"Oh! subGrrl! Hi! How was your weekend? Did you do much?" Her eager blue eyes sparkled in harmony with her warm smile.

"Um..." I eloquently responded.

"Did you get the stack of profiles I left on your desk? I think that the woman who was burgled, raped, and beaten to death with the carcass of her own chihuahua is up today. Please be gentle when you mention the dog. We don't want another PETA incident, do we?"

Her voice is just particularly distracting. It makes me think of things that are not pertinent like leaves rustling and cool creeks on hot summer days. Chocolate.

"Oh, shit! Sorry, subGrrl. Meeting! 'Machete Man' has struck again. We're going to figure out how to write a crossover story in the Lifestyle section." She danced past me and I watched her walk down the hall. Yes. She must have been a dancer.

Writing obits is ok I guess. You have to put yourself into a certain mindset. I try to speak of the deceased as though they have won a race. I try to treat the survivors as I would my dolls as a girl sipping tea from tiny ceramic cups. When I do a good job BossWoman sometimes lays an electric golden hand on my shoulder and says, "Great job, subGrrl" in a way that makes me want to believe that I have done something to save the world from sorrow and sadness.