Grieving the loss of a Falcon print copy

January 20, 2022 — by Selina Chen
From a newspaper issue’s perspective, a reporter details the horrifying alternative usages of the Falcon.  

To Whom It May Concern,

I am a copy of The Saratoga Falcon’s Vol. 62 No. 5. I was conceived on a grueling deadline night and printed for the school a week later on Dec. 10, 2021. I’ve since come to know the despair of being born into a world where my brethrens are routinely abused in cruelly inventive ways.

After being distributed to a Spanish classroom, I sat abandoned in the back of the room, stacked amongst my fellow copies, slowly tanning into an antique yellow.

One day, I was yanked out from my stack. Hopeful that I’d finally serve my purpose — spreading important news — I squinted at my bright surroundings, only to realize that I was being lowered onto the floor and … ouch! The metal ring of a desk’s leg lowered onto me with a thud.

The cruel student shook the desk a few times and, satisfied that it was no longer wobbly, settled down for class, leaving me to suffocate under the unbearable weight.

However, true misfortune fell when I was picked up and carried to the science building along with a plethora of other Falcon issues.

In horror, I watched a teacher tear out my double page and spread it out flat on the cold, black counters. Wet beakers and graduated cylinders were placed upon me, the slow drip-drip of water blurring my carefully inked words into indecipherable dark botches.

When a clumsy student spilled their distilled water, frantic hands grabbed me and shove me into the puddle, scrubbing me around as if I was some common mop instead of the fruit of my creators’ hard work. I was appalled, thinking there was no worse way for me to be used.

I was wrong.

When heavy rain drowned half of the school, the majority of campus was pitying their stained shoes or the state of their Teslas in the quickly flooding back parking lot. I watched water splash into the door of my current classroom, dreading what was to come.

As I’d feared, calloused hands flicked me open and dropped me onto the flooding zone. My wood pulp pages screamed in silent agony as the reluctant material was forced to soak up the rain.

Ow! A muddied shoe landed on my front page, knocking me unconscious.

When I regained my mental faculties, I found myself disassembled, pages lost in unknown crevices of campus, including the dark belly of recycling bins or other dubious locations — possibly down the bowl of a toilet.

I beseech you, dear readers, please hear my plight and put a stop to my torture because as the harbinger of news for our school, I deserve love and respect.



The Saratoga Falcon, Vol. 62, No. 5


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