? I have no story unless you give me one. ?

Rachael urged, as she turned in her chair. Dark eyes were settled on the man who stood in the door frame. She could hear the blinking line in the Microsoft word, as she diverted her instincts to erase the whole page. It was crap anyway, who the hell would ever read it.

? I told you that you could write the story when I get out the country. ? The man replied.

? You know what, Richard. I want to write a story about what?s happening in this country. I want to write about the war, and about the hunger, the homeless, and the impact that it won?t have in the States. I want to write something that I will be remembered for. But I can?t, I don?t have the proof. All I have are statements which people won?t even write off, and say that it?s their own personal influence that has left the country in shit. I want to write about the children, and their struggles; the children who are forced into slavery, and the others who are forced to carry a fucking gun at the age of twelve.

? I capture the moments of great despair when families are torn apart by a death, or by someone from whoeverthefuckitis taking their children away. I capture the moments of happiness when a mother hugs her child, or when a mother is reunited with her husband; but that?s not the story. I don?t get paid to write, and capture photos of happiness. I?ll be laughed at, and I?ll be exiled from every single Newspaper, Magazine, and article processor in the World. Happiness doesn?t sell. ? Rachael took a drag off the cigarette that hung from the corner of her mouth, as she canted her head.

There were photographs tacked on the walls. Photographs of the dead from warfare, and the photographs of the children Rachael had mentioned with the guns. Disaster zones bombed by fire, and heavy gas bombs which left the imprinted affects of a smoky atmosphere. Mothers with tears in their eyes, and young girls with the bellies of that of pregnant women. They weren?t pregnant, but sick with a disease that had caused many deaths in their young demographic.

There had been some of the homeless, and what they now lived in; the tens of millions laid now in what the United States would call a ground zero project. The ground had been blasted so many times by the bombs, and gun shells now laid in the still settling dust. It had been a horrible situation, and Rachael wanted something to help the people of the Country. But like she said, she had proof of what was happening. It seemed to be a whole WWI, and WWII all mixed up in one Country. Not only had the Country dealt with the AIDS epidemic, which seemed to be very exclusive, but now they had to wonder if their children were going to be sold, or taken to be turned into monsters. They had to wonder when the help of the States were going to come, or if the enemy had poisoned the only water source; they had to wonder if they were going to get out of Hell.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ April 20, 2008 09:07 PM: Message edited by: white lines do not lie ]</font>