The Newspaper
The NEWSPAPER
Copyright 2015 George Kavsekhornak
Table of Contents
Chapter One – Friday
Chapter Two – Saturday
Chapter Three – Sunday
Chapter Four – The Evening
Chapter One – Friday
This ordinary or perhaps extraordinary story was happening in the publishing of the newspaper "The Horn"; although with the same success could happen in any other publishing.
Petr Dmitrievich, an aspiring reporter, opened a heavy door and literally flew inside the publishing. He ran a small flight of stairs and habitual movement put his light bag to the card reader. Light up a red, but Petr did not notice it, stuck in the turnstile, leaning over him in a half. A guard watched him with mistrust from a glass booth. The young reporter had checked his bag and pockets didn't found a card pass.
"I forget my card, please, let me in." It was addressed to the guard.
The elderly person in a uniform and cap of the Canadian mounted police, with gold embroidery on a prancing horse and an inscription in English "Guard", stood up from the seat and awarded Petr with a sight.
"A-ah, Petr Dmitrievich. First of all, good day. Secondly, you perfectly know the rules, give me the document; I make a temporary pass" The guard rapped.
"Mefodich (TN: short patronymic of Mefodievich), let me pass, I have burning article." Petr smiled.
"What! Mefodich!" The guard has almost become angry. "My name is Stepan Mefodievich (TN: patronymic of name Mefodiy, Methodius), remember, punk's reporter."
"Sorry, Stepan Mefodievich" Petr lowered his gaze.
"You will have to fill out the questionnaire, give me your passport." The guard had already softened up.
"Oh... " Petr groaned, taking his passport and pen.
Petr Dmitrievich was an active person, his hairstyle formless talked about this, which in the recent past was called "an explosion at the pasta factory." Small camera at the ready and always searching eyes, somehow betrayed him a journalist. In contrast to the handsome, tall, although elderly Stepan Mofodievich, Petr was short, lean and somewhat resembled a grasshopper.
"Done. Please, dear Stepan Mefodievich" Petr turned to the guard without taunts and held out the questionnaire in the booth.
"That's it. In all things there should be an order! Remember!" The guard said, gave the reporter a temporary pass, pressed a button and the turnstile glows green. Petr hastened to the hated obstacle scrolling tripod, opened the door for the turnstile and literally fell into a narrow but well-lit corridor.
Decals on the doors of cabinets had always seemed strange to Petr Dmitrievich. Some inscriptions were using English words, but written in the Cyrillic alphabet. For a young reporter has always been a mystery what could engage the department of outsourcing or the department of outstanding. After standing in front of a door marked "The Editor" Petr, shifting from one foot to the other, scratching his illustrious hair, posing reflection, he decided not to go there.He stopped opposite the door with the caption "The department of proofreading". At least he knew, what only one staff member of this department – Stepanida Mikhailovna, same time the chief of the department did. A woman was medium-sized years old, yet attractive, but with the huge glasses on a small nose. Petr even couldn't imagine how many diopters in those thick glasses are. He knocked on the door.
"Good morning, Stepanida Mikhailovna. Can I come in?" Petr afraid a little the head of the department of proofreading, but tried not to apply it.
"A-ah, Petr, come on in. Once more sensation you have brought. You can do it on Friday... Did Kondrat Kirillovich (TN: patronymic of name Kirill, Cyril) see it?" Stepanida Mihailovna looked at the guest on top of her gigantic glasses.
"You perfectly know the rules. In all things there should be an order!" Petr quoted the respected guard.
"Well, sit down." She invited him.
Petr Dmitrievich gave a couple of small leaflets. Stepanida Mikhailovna began to read, running by long, sharp pencil on the lines with a speed not available to the ordinary person. She was the main and only one newspaper proofreader.
"'Yesterday night... Minister of Dairy... on his… drunk... knocked down a pedestrian… the plumber... in serious condition... hospital... doctors said...'" Stepanida Mikhailovna read, placing commas used a big sweep. "Take it, sir. Again, your verbal participle phrases are suffering - they must be allocated by commas! Remember, allocate them!" She handed the leaves back to Petr.
"If there are not my verbal participle phrases, you wouldn't have to work" Petr tried to joke.
"Funny? Go to Kondrat Kirillovich" The corrector said, flashing by lenses of glasses.
"Do you like the article, Stepanida Mikhailovna?" Petr asked with flattery.
"If this is the truth, sir, that it will take place in newspaper, you know." The woman replied, drowning in papers on her desk, glasses towered over the paper's ocean like two islands.
The young reporter was back at the first door. There was a large print on the label "The Editor". Kondrat Kirillovich was a solid man, both in physique and in appearance, which remained until retirement a little less than ten years. He wore a chic black mustache, like Hercule Poirot, the tips of which were bent upwards. If not for his modern suit and tie, it could be mistaken for a man of the last century. Right at the entrance to his cabinet, was the right corner, all in flower pots. Plants have done this angle with a table such as a piece of wildlife, urban jungle. In the bush, at the computer, the secretary was 'hidden' - Tanya. The girl was very brisk but responsible and even too serious. Short hairstyle and snow-white blouse hardly betrayed in her recent graduate-excellent student of the university.
"May I enter?" Petr knocked at the door, and opened it.
"Come in." The editor was thoughtful, however, as on every Friday.
"Good day, Kondrat Kirillovich. And you, Tanya, welcome. Here is an article." The young man came to the table and handed the revised list to the editor. Kondrat Kirillovich nodded in greeting and began to read out loud, but for himself, so it was not dismantled half of the words. "Minister of meat and dairy industry... Ilonov... Porsche... unregulated pedestrian crossing... the plumber sixth category... without consciousness... an investigation is underway... refused to admit guilt."
"Is it true? You know, today is Friday and it must be the truth only!" The boss looked at the ward with a squint, his mustache stood upright.
"Yes, of course. I was at the scene of the incident by myself. The victim was taken away by an ambulance. An interview with the police were impossible to take, but I hope 'to catch' the policemen soon. I have got the contact data – Nepodkupnih (TN: surname Nepodkupnih is translated from Russian as incorruptible, clean-fingered), road police platoon number 17, personal number 262." Petr read a piece of paper.
"Nepodkupnih you said... Here have to embellish... This is too much... Here is more detailed, please." Making notes on sheets the editor kept saying. "Tanya, accept it and through Stepanida Mikhailovna sent to release on the front page, there is enough space now. We must make it today. At the same time will verify it is the truth or not. Is it truth?" Kondrat Kirillovich once again addressed to Petr, giving him the papers.
"Yes, it is true, no doubt." Petr somehow justified and jumped out from the cabinet.
"More would be such truth lovers, especially on weekdays. Yes, Tanya? And that one - Ilonov, is an official servant of the people... Well, will let him nervous." Kondrat Kirillovich smiled.