The Echo is the name of the newspaper that brands itself as objective and the voice of the people, as the slogan beneath its name declares, roared the head of the department. The journalists shrug—what does a name matter? It’s all the same anyway. The news isn’t written, just translated. The letters-to-the-editor section is perhaps the only thing still being written. In most cases, it’s done by some elderly person reminiscing about how things used to be. Back when not everyone was brainwashed, glued to a screen, clicking and mindlessly repeating whatever was said without a second thought. Why bother going out into the streets anymore to hear what the people have to say?

"What about the coverage of the battlefield next door?" bellowed the editor-in-chief, who definitely could have used some valerian root.

The entire department stared at the man they once held in high esteem, but for whom they had long since lost respect. After all, he wasn’t the one who paid their salaries—just some fool with passion. A rarity that had long gone extinct in most newspapers and books.

The computers pinged one by one. News trickled in and had to be translated by Google or AI, then copied and pasted to fill the blank spaces.

That evening, the editor-in-chief stood before the printing presses, running at full speed. He had thought long and hard about it and had had enough of the same people always deciding what counted as news.

Satisfied, he looked at the first copy of the morning paper. It wouldn’t be long before the paperboys arrived to deliver them. It had been a productive night.

prompt: echo + newspaper
picture