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Violet Miller and the Phone Number that Led to Nowhere

In the grand scheme of things, one should always carry at least six pens for emergencies. One to write down a great article idea, a witness quote, or to keep track of the facts. Another as a spare in case the first one runs out of ink. And the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth… Well, these spares can be useful tools for stabbing in self-defence should one find themselves facing certain death.

As the calm spring drifted away and summer crept into the streets of Toronto, a young, aspiring journalist with a chip on her shoulder walked at a brisk speed, stress eating a cinnamon roll. But despite her icing-splattered blouse, her ugly scowl, and her loudly clicking heels, Violet Miller wasn’t angry. Moreso, she was desperate. And possibly a little dizzy, though in this instance, her anemia wasn’t to blame.

The fragrance of kissing the spring days goodbye and welcoming the sunny heat laced the air as Violet headed up the stairs into the reporters’ lounge of The Sprinkled Scoop—the most hipster online news outlet in the city. Only the most elite journalists had blogs on this channel. Only the prettiest and most well-known reporters got to appear on the video stream.

“Have you seen this?” Fil was asking the other interns as Violet came in. He waved a newspaper around. “I haven’t seen a real print newspaper in like five years. And who calls their paper TheFairy Post?”

“Don’t feel threatened by some newbie reporter trying to drag everyone back to the stone age,” intern Uriah mumbled as he adjusted the lid of his coffee.

“I think it’s cool. I miss real newspapers,” Alice piped up.

Violet ignored the insignificant gossip of her fellow interns and marched past, sneaking into the hallway leading to her boss’s office. She pushed her way through his half-open door, her pink faux-leather purse slapping against the doorframe and announcing her presence—cinnamon and icing-speckled blouse and all—to her boss sitting in his chair…

And the four other people in the room.

Violet shrank an inch, but she kept her chin up.

“Violet?” Her boss Cedric stood from his chair. “Would you mind explaining this extremely unprofessional interruption?” The way he emphasised the last few words made it clear she was ruining her chances by barging in like this.

Violet cleared her throat.

“Don’t cut me,” she said, stealing a glance at the clock. She’d made it with less than a minute before The Sprinkled Scoop owners’ meeting was supposed to end.

Five sets of uninterested eyes blinked at her. Violet brushed the crumbs from her blouse and stood a little straighter, sure this was the first time any of the owners, or Cedric, had seen her in such a sloppy state. Typically, she was meticulous about her hair and makeup. It was one of the few things people paid attention to her for at The Sprinkled Scoop. “I’ve submitted all my articles on time since day one,” she said to all those in the room. “I’ve gone to every site in the city related to the memory-loss case, and I’m always at work on time. I’m also always the last one to leave. I know my writing style is unique, but—”

“Unique?” Cedric grunted out an almost-laugh. “Your writing style is weird. Whimsical at best.” He folded his arms and puffed his chest. “We hired you because your life story was interesting, and we thought your presence here would bring in new readers. But this is one of the most sought out news outlets in the city and we have to be picky. People read our articles for the facts, not for the pretty spin we put on things.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “We’ve gotten complaints, Violet. Like, actual real complaints!”

Violet rubbed her temple. “I can sharpen up my writing. My expressive descriptions are just a habit. It doesn’t mean I’m not a great journalist—”

“You’re not a great journalist.” Cedric said it flat out.

One of the owners turned his head away, but not before Violet saw his smirk.

“I’ve trusted you with plenty of stories and they always turn out the same. Your facts are great, but reading your articles is like reading a bad fiction novel. I’m sorry to tell you this, Violet, but you’re not going to make the cut. We just finished making our decisions, and we’re announcing to the whole office who we’re offering full time positions to in a few minutes. You can wait outside with the other interns.”

Violet’s mouth itched to protest. But…

“You’re not a great journalist.”

No one had ever said it so bluntly before.

The hallway seemed bland on the walk out. Violet hardly noticed the printed articles in frames along the walls—all showcasing work by other interns. She saw a blurry vision of the dull grey carpet as she made her way back to join her fellow permanent-position-hopefuls at a vastly different speed than when she’d come in.

Fil was still going on about The Fairy Post, loudly rejecting the paper’s authenticity, announcing to all within earshot that it wasn’t reliable news and that most of what was written didn’t make any sense.

“You’re jealous,” Violet said.

When seven heads turned in her direction, she realized she’d said it out loud.

But why should she care? She wasn’t going to be working here after today. None of these people had gotten to know her during the year they’d spent together. Most of them only wanted to be her friend because of her fame, and Violet was sure it was because they thought she might bring them a moment in the spotlight. Since day one, Violet had been asked almost a dozen times by her fellow interns if they could interview her for a story of their own. Fil especially; she’d mistakenly thought he was on her side in the beginning until it became evident that the boss didn’t like Violet’s writing style. Then Fil had avoided her and once even made her feel stupid for trying to sit beside him in the lunchroom.

Violet looked at Fil with new eyes now. No longer would she be subject to his egotism. No longer would he ask her in front of everyone to clean up after him and refill the coffee filters. Fil thought he was a god, but he was just Cedric’s nephew and therefore got special “family ally” privileges. He wasn’t even good at keeping facts straight.

Violet marched over and grabbed The Fairy Post from the god himself. She scanned the front page where artistic, flowery pictures were nestled into the margins like fairies were peeking out from behind the words. It was weird but also kind of adorable.

“You’re jealous, Fil,” she said again, lowering the paper and looking directly into his face this time. “This paper has been gathering a big readership in the past few months. Young people like the vintage feel of a real paper in their fingers. And unlike you and your boring unchecked facts, some people like to believe in magic.”

Fil’s cheeks reddened. “Jealous? Vintage?” He looked off and sniffed, bringing his hands to his hips. “There are still lots of real newspapers in print, Violet, even in Toronto. There’s nothing vintage about this.” He moved to take the paper back, but Violet jerked it away and held it out of his reach. Fil glared. “Of course, someone like you would be interested in frilly, unprofessional articles about nonsense. Keep the paper. Maybe it can entertain you on your bus ride home once you’re let go from this place.”

Violet opened her mouth to object but realized she couldn’t. She was being let go. Even if the interns didn’t know that for sure yet, she did—and apparently, so did Fil.

She swallowed whatever words she might have said, her throat feeling thicker than a second ago.

Violet remembered getting the acceptance letter to The Sprinkled Scoop. She’d cried tears of joy that day, and her Aunt Zorah had baked a gooey cherry pie to celebrate. Being a journalist was all she knew how to do. It was her only dream. Her one goal. There was no other.

It was only a matter of time before everyone heard she’d been kicked out. After she was gone, Cedric and Fil would have a field day harassing the women in the office the same way they’d harassed Violet all year. She stole a sympathetic look at Alice, wondering if the only other female intern would make the cut.

With that in mind, Violet rolled up The Fairy Post and tucked it under her arm. She headed for the door in silence. She didn’t make it outside before she heard Alice whisper to the others, “Was that icing on her blouse?”

Violet untangled her hair tie as she walked, freeing her chestnut locks to fall around her shoulders. She whacked the icing bits off her blouse in rigid motions as she headed for the bus stop. “So embarrassing,” she muttered to herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone out in public looking this bad. If the owners’ meeting hadn’t suddenly been moved up, she would have showed up on time, looked a thousand times more presentable, and she would have had a convincing speech prepared.

Shouts of reporters filled the street, and Violet leaned to try and see around the hoard of people extending microphones. Some of them were even wearing jackets with The Sprinkled Scoop embroidered on the arm, and for a split second, she imagined herself wearing one of those prestigious jackets. Being one of the lead journalists trusted with the expensive microphones, capturing the story.

She realized they were gathered in front of the mayor’s personal, offsite office building when a young girl in a private school uniform stepped backward, hugging an armful of books to herself. The girl’s wide eyes darted from one reporter to the next as they inched in, holding their microphones toward her face. The sight turned something in Violet’s stomach.

“You’re the former mayor’s daughter, right? What do you think of your father’s behaviour?” one of the reporters asked. Before the question was finished, Violet hurried over the sidewalk to reach them. She cut through the pack and found herself in front of the former mayor’s daughter. For a second, Violet wondered why she’d chosen to put herself in this spot. It had been a while since she was on this side of the cameras. She turned to face the reporters.

“She’s in elementary school,” Violet scolded the pack. “Let her go do her homework.”

A few reporters grunted; some rolled their eyes. One or two tried to reach around her with their mics, ignoring her completely. Violet pulled the newspaper from beneath her arm and held it up like she was going to smack the next reporter that didn’t back off. The journalist closest raised his hands in apology and finally took a step back.

“Hey, isn’t that Violet Miller?”

Violet flinched. Somewhere in her consciousness, she was aware of rainclouds moving overhead. Of darkness crawling over the street and cold drops hitting her cheeks and shoulders. Of reporters pulling out umbrellas to save their cameras.

There was a time Violet would have gladly smiled for the cameras when she was recognized. But not today. Today she’d been let go from her dream job. And before that, she’d stress-eaten a cinnamon roll on the bus ride that had ended up exploding all over her blouse. And now her hair was wild instead of in its original smooth ponytail, and she was being rained upon.

Once, she’d been proud to be the pretty, mysterious girl in the spotlight, but for the first time, she wanted to run.

All it took was one reporter in the group to ask, and suddenly half a dozen microphones were held inches from Violet’s mouth. She swallowed, lowering her newspaper weapon and blindly reaching behind her for the former mayor’s daughter. She tucked the girl in her shadow as she looked right into the cameras and said, “Yes. I’m Violet Miller. ‘The girl in the purple dress.’ If you want an interview, interview me instead. I’ll give you a good story.”

Ten questions fired in her direction at once. Violet felt the girl slip away behind her. The sound of the mayor’s office door slamming shut filled the air a second later. It was a small relief.

“Do you still forget everything?” asked the closest reporter, stepping forward and cutting off all the others.

Violet tried smoothing down her dark hair, knowing it was no use trying to look decent right now. She wrung her fingers as she tried to sort through the questions. She’d avoided interviews for the past year while she’d focused on her career. She’d done it believing she could be known for her journalism instead of her peculiar life story. But she could hardly think of answers past the realization that on this side of the camera was where she might be trapped forever.

When she finally reached the bus stop, Violet entered the plexiglass waiting shelter and plunked onto the bench. Rainwater gushed from her skirt and dripped off the ends of her hair. Thankfully no one was around to see her sopping wet, miserable state. She leaned back against the glass wall and closed her eyes, wondering if she might be lucky enough to just evaporate right there.

Paper and ink, blogs and facts, catchy titles, and trending hashtags. Big news and entertaining stories, fact-filled articles—especially about the weird and unexplainable. Those were the things Violet had lived and breathed for a whole year. She’d been following the memory loss case for over half of her internship. She wasn’t sure she had it in her to let it go. There were still mysteries to be solved. People still needed answers.

She still needed answers.

Violet tugged a hand through her unruly hair and sighed. She unrolled the newspaper, glad she’d saved it from Fil’s recycling bin. Despite her rotten day, the sketches on the front page of The Fairy Post brought a smile to her mouth. They reminded her of children’s doodles; not super detailed, yet charming. As her gaze raked down the page, it snagged on a box of text at the bottom:

JOB POSTING

The writer of The Fairy Post is seeking an individual capable of being a somewhat decent secretary.

That was all it said. Violet turned the paper over. There was no job description, there was no office address or contact name. There was just a phone number in very small text.

“That’s it?” she mumbled. She flipped the newspaper open but found only articles with warnings of common fairy tricks, fairy sightings, and an odd crossword puzzle that wasn’t built with straight boxes but instead twisted around and connected at unusual points. There wasn’t a single word more about the posting, like the person who wrote the paper had gotten distracted and forgot to include it. Maybe Fil was right. The Fairy Post did seem a little unprofessional. Violet released a small laugh. She closed the paper and tucked it back beneath her arm. It didn’t matter if there was no job description. She didn’t want to be a secretary; she wanted to be a journalist.

Though… she needed to buy groceries this month. And she’d been eyeing a new pair of heels in a storefront window every day on her way to The Sprinkled Scoop.

And how in the world was she going to tell Zorah that she didn’t make the cut and was now jobless? Zorah would have a heart attack, then probably drive to her own surgery wing at the hospital and perform emergency surgery on herself. Then she’d come right back and smack Violet over the head for screwing up her life by not doing whatever it takes to get the job she wanted.

Violet released a huff and pulled her phone from her purse, dreading the inevitable conversation with her aunt. She opened the newspaper and held it close to her face to see the phone number. It was almost too small to read, but she plugged in the numbers with her polished nails and cleared her throat, pulling the phone to her ear as it rang. And rang. And rang.

There was no voicemail—the line just clicked off. She tapped the corner of her phone, scanning The Fairy Post again. On the back, right at the bottom, the last article ended with:

—and if any faeborn fool has a problem with this, feel free to come meet me at the cathedral on Roll Street, and we will duke it out fairy to fairy.

Violet shook her head with a smirk. The writer of The Fairy Post was odd, but at least he or she had a sense of humour, unlike most of the journalists she’d been working with up until now.

The bus rolled up to the curb and Violet stood, dragging out her bus pass from her pocket. She boarded in silence, was met with an evenly spaced crowd of smelly city people who didn’t own cars just like her, and found a seat far at the back. When she was seated, she eyed the phone number on the job posting again. She tried dialling one last time.

It rang once.

Beep.

Heavy breathing came over the line.

Violet sat up straighter. “Hello?” she said when the person on the other end didn’t speak first.

A loud smashing sound filled the speaker and Violet nearly sprang out of her seat. Other sounds followed—shattering glass, metal objects clattering to the ground, and other unidentifiable sounds that left Violet guessing. “H… Hello?” she tried again. There was a grunt, then a startling growl-like screech.

Violet pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at the number to check it. She’d dialed the right number for The Fairy Post office. When she put the phone back to her ear, it was silent. She realized whoever had picked up on the other side had hung up. Or maybe their phone had smashed during whatever was happening at the office.

Violet slowly slid her phone into her pocket. She wanted to be a journalist anyway. She was about to put the newspaper in her purse when she spotted that last article again. The one inviting her—or anyone who had problems with The Fairy Post, it seemed—to a certain cathedral on Roll Street.