Moral stories about news: how much it cost

Stories and News No. 758

I read that, since we have 14 survivors and 40 bodies recovered, there are still 400 people missing in the Yangtze River in Hubei province, China.
400 people.
Four hundred.
I read in the 'little paragraph' on the bottom left.
Kept space for the terrible sinking of the cruise ship.
I read, I read even more.
And, perhaps, I understand...

Once upon a time there was a news.
A news as many.
Really, nothing extraordinary.
Poor her, poor them.
Living between those words.
Maybe forever.
Because their history is all there, for those who are too much hurry to look down.
Read as well as ‘where the valuable life’s scraps end up’.
The news as many, nothing exceptional, poor her, poor them, concerned a handful of human beings’ fate.
A handful, yes.
Yes, human beings.
Because the miniscule lives, although grouped by love or bad luck, are squeezable in the palm of your hand without any effort.
They are small.
Or, perhaps, your hand is too large.
Nevertheless, even in the eventualities of the world strictly in the footer of noble creation, ambitions are blooming.
The most naive, in fact.
Well, go to explain them, try to dissuade them as well, those guys.
Convinced by the unlikely hope that's enough even only one of the last people victory and will be joy for all.
I was with him, I was next to her.
I was there and I know everything.
What the press will say and TV will show.
What they tell about her and will show about him.
But above all, I will know ‘the rest’.
The ambition of the news of the suspended souls was getting to the top, on the roof of words that long ago appropriated the honor to tell the big trip.
At the beginning, she took the field bold, a bit too much, to be honest.
Convinced that the mere story was enough to earn at least the podium.
A handful of lives, but are we joking?
Minuscule, that is clear, but the hand is great, we said, right?.
Nothing to do, the fingers slipped on the reflexes mirrors of conscious indifference and unaware distractions.
“Wait,” the news said, “suddenly realizing the hint.”
“Among the handful of lives there are your countrymen!”
“Interested, huh?” She said gloating, seeing the return of fickle flashes and as inconstant microphones.
The news plunged her hands in the prose hemisphere and told.
Invented.
She invented, dressing herself in familiar shades and moving colors.
She liked, let's say.
Staying there, dazzled by the eyes that would have suggested the rest of the planet where to look, was intoxicating, and she thought she would do anything to stay.
Once upon a time.
There was a news.
Once upon a time there was the news of a handful of creatures at the mercy of fate.
There was, to be precise.
Because the news that there is, today, now, at this very moment.
It is not even a shadow of what it was.
Because the top has a price.
And who is willing to pay for it needs no shadows.
Just like everything is behind us.
Surviving.
Or less...

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