The Featherweight Saga

By Paul Peckerwood

The Featherweight Saga is the story of Paul Featherweight, a reporter for a tabloid newspaper, covering his development from grade school to high school to college to newly hired feature reporter to full-fledged investigative reporter to editor-in-chief, with the acquisition of a family along the way. Samples of his work are included.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Aug 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466951044

Paul Peckerwood

Paul Peckerwood is a graduate of the University of Alabama. All records pertaining to his existence while there have unfortunately been lost or deleted. When not dreaming up stories or spinning theories, he works at various odd jobs to make ends meet.

Book preview

Contents

Introduction

In the Midst of Things

1 A Day in the Life

2 White Room

3 Terminal Velocity

Flashback

4 Puncturing a Balloon

5. Dizzy Orion

6 What’s that Smell?

7 Head Hunting

Back to the Present

8 The Two Elvises

9 Tiny Bubbles

10 I Don’t

11 The Green-eyed Gremlin

12 Papoose

Into the Future

13 Rocket

Interview concerning The Featherweight Saga

Introduction

When I first started writing, I didn’t really know what to expect. I still remember the turmoil of ideas, images, bits of dialog, etc., seething in my brain before I sat down to write my first work of fiction. It surprised me that all I got out of it was a short story. Somehow, I thought it would be bigger. I hoped, I guess, to get a book. I kept trying, but the same thing happened again and again and again, story after story after story.

I’m used to it now. What seems like a huge mass of material gets boiled down to a hard little lump, and no matter how much I labor over it, it just doesn’t get much bigger. To some extent, this is a reflection of qualities I admire in other writers: concision, finding just the right word to express the thought, not blathering on and on but getting to the point, etc., etc. But there’s more to it than that. The truth is, I’m probably the most nonverbal writer you’ll find.

But I still haven’t given up on something at book length. Books, it seems to me, have a better chance of survival than short stories. Novels, even bad ones, sell. Short stories, even good ones (with a few rare exceptions), don’t. So the ambition to write something longer is still strong. But until that happens, the question for me is what to do next to make the work I’ve already completed last.

Here, I’m trying to sneak up on a book. One day, looking back over my work, I found myself with a collection of short stories concerning the same group of characters, a reporter named Paul Featherweight and his colleagues at a fictional tabloid newspaper, The Inquirer. It occurred to me that by filling in the gaps between the stories I had already written, I just might achieve my goal. Thus was born The Featherweight Saga.

The first completed story in the saga was A Day in the Life. It presented a typical day at work in the life of my recently-hired, more-than-normally-gullible young reporter. Subsequent stories moved forward into his future to see how he developed as he continued his career, and backward into his past to see how he became what he is when we first meet him. In order to make a book out of them, I had to decide first how to arrange them, including which story to end the book on, and then I had to insert the missing pieces.

One obvious arrangement was to put them in chronological order, starting with Featherweight’s school days and following his career with the Inquirer on up until his mentor, the chief, retires and chooses him as his successor. But the arrangement I leaned toward from the very outset was to begin in the midst of things, with A Day in the Life, and maybe another story or two, showing Paul as he begins his career, then to go back to his schooldays and show where he came from, then to go into the future and show his later success as he wins a Pulitzer Prize and eventually becomes editor-in-chief when the chief retires.

As for ending the book, my first thought was to end on a high note with Rocket, at the end of which Paul and his wife and colleague, Rita, win Pulitzer Prizes for investigative reporting. But on second thought, I decided I’d prefer to end on a sobering note with the chief’s retirement, which sets the stage for Paul’s future. Then I changed my mind again and decided to end the first volume with Rocket and save the chief’s retirement for the start of the sequel. Either arrangement makes sense.

Another question was whether to present the ‘saga’ as a collection of short stories, the way it was written, or to reedit the stories into chapters from a book. Because of its origin—as a number of short stories written over a period of several years, in no particular order, each story written in its own style—the book has a rough feel, which I like, and I didn’t want to lose that. At the same time, it seemed foolish to keep reintroducing the main characters at the start of each story, so I knocked some of that out. The result is a collection of related short stories with enough structure in the presentation to justify calling it a book.

For the future, I intend to write more stories about these same characters. A second book will, I hope, cover Paul’s years as head of the Inquirer. It’s possible that I’ll also add additional stories to later editions of this book, revealing more details about Paul’s past. I’ve started a few more stories from this period already.

But enough of that for now. There’s a lot more work to be done in order for me to realize these dreams. It’s time to shut up about this book and get started on the next.

The End

In the Midst of Things

1

A Day in the Life

Monday morning, at ten o’clock on the dot, Paul Featherweight arrived at the office building of the National Inquirer where he worked as a cub reporter. He was precisely one hour late for work.

Morning, chief.

You’re late, Paul.

Calm down, chief. I’ve got an excuse.

This had better be good.

I had a hot tip, chief. I got a call about two o’clock this morning from some guy at a local nightspot who claimed he had just spotted Elvis Presley working in the lounge as an Elvis impersonator.

Think it’s for real?

Don’t know, chief. The truth is, the guy sounded pretty drunk. But it wouldn’t hurt to stake the place out.

Could be a hoax.

Maybe. But when I spoke with the guy, he was very excited. In fact, he was almost incoherent. Now you tell me. If it was a hoax, would he call in that condition? I don’t think so.

Hm . . . I’ll have to think about that one.

Elvis sightings are up, chief.

I’ve noticed that myself.

Elvis was no dummy, chief. My guess is that, after he faked his death, he hired a small army of Elvis lookalikes to travel around the country getting themselves spotted on purpose.

I get it. Sort of like using chaff to confuse enemy radar.

That’s it exactly. Chaff, chief. He knew full well that reporters would soon get tired of investigating these reports. If anyone ever did actually spot him, the report would just get lost in the shuffle.

You may be right, Paul. Elvis had a shrewd mind.

They didn’t call him the king for nothing, chief.

After a short pause in the conversation, the chief got down to business.

What are your plans for the rest of the day?

I plan to spend the rest of the morning working on my feature article for next month’s special edition.

You mean you haven’t finished it yet?

The rough draft is finished, but I want to polish it a little more. To be honest, chief, I think I’ve got a shot at the Pulitzer with this one.

What do you mean, polish?

As you will recall, chief, my thesis is that the lost city of Atlantis is located somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle. I believe the original city to be in ruins, but the literature suggests that alien beings from the planet Neptune have established a base underneath it by tunneling into the sea floor.

Why Neptune? said the chief aloud to himself.

Paul didn’t hear the question and continued.

I was thinking of beefing up the section concerning Atlantis. I thought I might give a more detailed account of the ancient lore on the subject.

I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Paul. It’s perfect like it is.

I would also like to relate all this to a recent trend I’ve observed.

Oh? What’s that?

Alien abductions are up, chief.

"Paul, how many times do I have to warn you not to jump to conclusions? My own view is that alien abductions are occurring at about the same frequency today as in years past, but that nowadays people are less reluctant to report such incidents, thanks in part to the trail-blazing articles that have appeared in this journal. There used to be a stigma attached to anyone who

made such a claim. That is no longer the case."

The chief returned to his office and Paul went to work on his feature article. He was deep in thought when a noise at the desk next to his disturbed him.

Dammit! Where did I put those pictures?

Rita Skylark, a staff photographer, rummaged through her desk. She was in a hurry as usual. Her bleached blond hair was cut short and choppy, tinted purple at the temples, and swept back in waves. She wore a peasant blouse, a leopard skin miniskirt, and red go-go boots. Contemplating her from a distance, she had always seemed to Paul a being altogether too lofty and high-minded to be approached by someone as low on the totem pole as himself. But today he gave it a shot.

Rita, I was about to get some lunch. Wanna . . .

Not now, Paul, I’m busy.

Oh, OK.

Paul ate lunch alone at a cafeteria near the office. At the register, he ran into John Rider, a reporter for the Miami Herald.

Seen any UFOs lately, Paul?

Don’t smirk, John. It doesn’t become you.

You don’t really believe all that garbage, do you?

There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your crappy philosophy, Jack.

Face it, man, you’re wasting your life away.

Oh yeah. So what are you working on that’s so important, Mr. Big Shot?

I’m doing a feature article on the O. J. Simpson trial.

Ugh! said Paul, shaking his head in disgust.

Just after lunch, Paul drove across town to the Stardust Motel, to keep an appointment. Before getting out of his car, he spoke into the tape recorder he carried with him.

Note to myself. It’s a quarter after one. At 1:30, I have an appointment with a Mr. John Doe. (I assume this to be an alias.) Mr. Doe claims to have obtained an exclusive interview with Bigfoot.

At 1:30 on the dot, Paul knocked at Mr. Doe’s motel room door. Mr. Doe was nervous. His large frightened eyes blinked at Paul as he handed him the manuscript with trembling hands.

W-w-w-what I w-w-want, said Mr. Doe, is for you to l-l-l-look it over and get b-b-back to me. I’m s-s-s-sort of in a h-h-hurry.

I certainly will, said Paul. I have a question though. Why didn’t you just mail it in?

I-I-I wanted to put the m-m-manuscript into your hands, p-p-p-personally. I’m a-a-a great admirer of your w-w-work. You’re a true believer. Not a sc-scoffer like so many of the others.

Paul spent a few more minutes browsing through the manuscript. After discussing a few points with Mr. Doe, the two shook hands, and Paul said goodbye. He then returned to the office.

Sitting at his desk, Paul was about to read through the Bigfoot interview, when the encounter with John Rider recurred to him. At that moment, the editor-in-chief approached.

Anything the matter, Paul?

No, nothing, chief.

Then why are you frowning?

OK, OK, you got me, chief. I ran into John Rider at lunch.

Ah, a respectable journalist. I know him well. Let me guess. He ragged you a little.

Paul nodded.

They don’t respect us, chief.

Don’t let that bother you, Paul. Don’t try to compete with them. Find your own niche.

Paul brightened a bit.

Right, chief.

So, what did Mr. Doe have to say?

It’s a heart-rending story, chief. It seems that Bigfoot is actually just a very tall, scraggly mountain man who was separated from his family when he was just a baby. He was raised by bears who found him wrapped in swaddling clothes beneath a tree in the forest.

How does he know all this?

The bears told him. He speaks their language, chief.

OK, that’s logical.

When he reached maturity, Bigfoot decided to visit his own kind. He gave each of his adoptive parents a big hug and set out, but things didn’t work out the way he planned. Apparently, his first encounter with human beings after all those years in seclusion was pretty traumatic. They made fun of him, chief. As a consequence, he decided to remain a recluse. According to Mr. Doe, it took a lot of coaxing to persuade him to grant an interview.

Any chance you might get to interview him yourself?

That won’t be easy, chief. I’m afraid that the effect of all that derision was to make Bigfoot a bit oversensitive. According to Mr. Doe, before the interview was over, Bigfoot left in a snit over some imagined insult.

That’s too bad.

It really is, chief.

What was your impression of Mr. Doe? Do you believe him?

Yes, chief, I do. He seemed very sincere. Besides, I found his characterization of Bigfoot very plausible. I don’t believe he’s a kook.

"I trust your instincts in these matters, Paul. If you say it’s believable, we’ll go to press with it. Just remember,