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Chapter 1
I leaned against the doorframe of my cubicle, my eyes scanning the newsroom for the last time. A wave of restlessness pulsed through me, like a radio signal searching for its receiver. This was it, my final day at The Bay Chronicle. I let the symphony of keyboards clacking and phones ringing wash over me, each sound a note in the melody of a life I was leaving behind.
A part of me would miss this chaos—the relentless energy, the stories birthed from pandemonium. Yet, a stronger part yearned for the whispering waves and slow dance of clouds over Pebble Point. That’s where my next chapter waited, penned in serenity and sea spray.
I turned to my desk, strewn with mementos of a career bathed in ink and ambition. A photograph of the team grinning at some forgotten celebration, a collection of press passes from events that once seemed like the pinnacle of existence. They all looked different now, through the lens of departure.
“Etta! You ready for this demo?” called out Mark from across the room, his arms waving like he was directing planes on a runway.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied with a smile that felt more like a question mark.
The tech startup had arrived for their live drone demonstration—a story I’d been following with an odd mix of curiosity and skepticism. As I weaved through the desks toward Mark, I wondered how these flying contraptions would change journalism—would they replace photographers in the field? The thought lingered, unwanted but insistent.
The drone buzzed to life, its rotors spinning with a whir that sliced through the newsroom’s din. It hovered with an eerie steadiness before zipping off over our heads. Murmurs rose from my colleagues, eyes tracking its flight.
Mark handed me the controls with a grin that screamed ‘this is going to be good’. “Give it a whirl, Etta!”
My fingers grazed the controls as if they were hot to the touch. I gave them a tentative nudge, and the drone dipped before stabilizing.
“Not too shabby,” Mark teased.
Then it happened—a twitch of my thumb sent the drone veering towards chaos. It skimmed past Rachel’s head, who ducked with an agility I didn’t know she possessed, papers scattering like startled birds around her.
“Oh, no!” I half-laughed, half-panicked as I fumbled with the controls.
The drone spiraled like a dizzy bumblebee, zooming past screens and coffee cups. A collective gasp punctuated its erratic dance before it clipped a ceiling light. Shadows flitted across faces as the light swung wildly above us.
“Etta Harwood! Flying ace!” someone shouted from across the room—a quip met with laughter that did little to mask my embarrassment.
Desperate to regain control, I jabbed at buttons like they were keys to salvation. The drone took this as a cue to dive bomb into Phil’s open briefcase. Papers erupted into flight; Phil’s expression morphed from shock to disbelief.
“I am so sorry!” My voice barely rose above the chaos as I scrambled towards him.
The drone had other plans, though; it buzzed free from Phil’s briefcase and zipped up into its aerial mayhem once more.
“Turn it off!” Mark shouted over his shoulder as he ducked another rogue pass.
“I’m trying!” My fingers were traitors playing their tune on the remote control, now slick with panic sweat.
It swooped again—too low—and snagged on Tiffany’s ponytail. She yelped—a sound that would’ve been comical if not for her eyes wide with shock and strands of hair ensnared in plastic propellers.
With an ultimate act of defiance or perhaps mercy from some higher power looking out for hapless journalists on their last day, the drone sputtered and came crashing down onto a stack of old newspapers—the headlines blurring beneath its defeated body.
Silence settled over The Chronicle—a rare occurrence—broken only by Tiffany’s muttering as she tried to untangle her hair, losing no more strands than necessary. My cheeks burned hotter than any deadline pressure ever caused.
“Maybe stick to writing,” Phil quipped as he collected his scattered papers around his feet. His smirk didn’t reach his eyes but there was no real anger there either—just another day at The Chronicle.
I set down the remote control like it was cursed and offered an apologetic shrug that didn’t quite capture the magnitude of my mortification or gratitude that this circus act hadn’t ended worse.
“Hey,” Mark clapped me on the shoulder gently. “At least you’re leaving us with one hell of a story.”
I retreated to my desk, navigating through a maze of upturned chairs and a carpet damp from recent events. A departure so fittingly absurd, I mused wryly. Within the confines of my small newsroom haven, serenity prevailed, the space overflowing with books, notepads, and photographs adorning the walls in a haphazard yet comforting display. As I sank into my chair, inhaling deeply, the scent of stale coffee grounds enveloped me, a familiar and reassuring aroma. This cluttered enclave had served as my home away from home for five long years. Running my fingers over the weathered covers of my cherished books, I shifted my attention to the overflowing bulletin board. Each glance at the faded snapshots of old friends and cherished moments evoked a poignant pause. Methodically, I unpinned each photograph, placing them tenderly into a box, wrapping up the memories of an exciting chapter reaching its conclusion.
“Only you could turn your last day into a three-ring circus,” a voice chuckled behind me. I turned to see Rachel leaning against the cubicle entrance, blue eyes dancing with amusement. Her blonde hair was pulled back in its usual no-nonsense ponytail.
“It wasn’t my fault!” I protested. “That wonky drone had a mind of its own. I was an innocent bystander.”
Rachel laughed, her face creasing into a broad grin. “You have a knack for attracting mayhem, Etta. Plus, Tiffany needed a haircut anyway!” Her expression softened. “But you know what? It won’t be the same here without you.”
