Be not a slave of words.

Host: The typewriters clattered like rainfall in a metal storm. The room was filled with the smell of ink, coffee, and deadline panic. Old fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their flicker cutting the night into restless frames. It was the newsroom of a dying paper, the kind that still smelled of truth and tobacco, where words were both weapons and wounds.

Jack sat hunched at his desk, sleeves rolled up, his eyes fixed on the screen like a man staring down an enemy. Across from him, Jeeny, her hair tied back loosely, read over a draft she’d written, her brow furrowed in quiet concentration.

Above the editor’s door, someone had tacked an old quote — yellowed by time, ink faded but still legible:
“Be not a slave of words.” — Thomas Carlyle.

The hum of the press below thudded like a giant’s heartbeat, steady, relentless. The world outside waited to be told what to believe.

Jack: (gruffly) “Be not a slave of words.” Easy for Carlyle to say. He didn’t have a chief editor breathing down his neck, cutting everything that doesn’t bleed.

Jeeny: (without looking up) Maybe that’s why his words still matter. He wasn’t writing to sell papers; he was writing to say something true.

Host: Her voice was calm, but there was an edge in it — the kind of quiet rebellion that comes from believing too deeply in something others have already given up on.

Jack ran a hand through his hair, the glow of the monitor catching the tired lines around his eyes.

Jack: Truth doesn’t sell, Jeeny. Stories do. People don’t want facts; they want feelings. That’s what we’re paid for — to feed their illusions.

Jeeny: (looks up sharply) So we just lie prettier?

Jack: (shrugs) We frame the truth. There’s a difference.

Jeeny: (coldly) That’s what every liar says.

Host: A pause. The machines below clicked and hummed, as if listening. The sound of rain hit the windows, a quiet rhythm of accusation.

Jack leaned back, his chair creaking beneath his weight. His voice softened, though the steel in it remained.

Jack: Words are tools, Jeeny. You use them, or they use you. You think you control them, but the minute you start believing in their purity—you’re done. They’ll twist you. They’ll own you.

Jeeny: (leaning forward) And yet, without them, we have nothing. Words build nations. They heal, they warn, they ignite. Every revolution started with a sentence someone dared to speak.

Jack: And every war did too.

Jeeny: (quietly) Maybe that’s not the fault of the words, but of the hearts behind them.

Host: The clock struck midnight. A long, heavy sound. The pressroom roared to life below — a deep, mechanical growl that shook the floor.

Outside, the rain turned into a downpour, tracing long, trembling lines across the windowpane.

Jeeny stood and walked toward the bulletin board, where old front pages were pinned: war, scandal, election, revolution. A whole century of headlines shouting over each other, each claiming to be the last word.

Jeeny: (softly) Sometimes I wonder if we’ve forgotten how to mean what we say. We use so many words, Jack, and yet say so little.

Jack: Meaning’s a luxury. Most people just want something to believe in for five minutes — then they move on.

Jeeny: (turns to him) That’s the problem. They move on, and we help them forget. We flood them with noise until the truth drowns quietly.

Jack: (coldly) Truth doesn’t drown, Jeeny. It adapts.

Jeeny: No, it disappears behind a paywall.

Host: The tension in the room thickened like smoke. The neon sign from the diner across the street pulsed through the window, painting their faces in flashes of red and white — like sirens, like confession.

Jack lit a cigarette, the tiny flame reflecting in his eyes.

Jeeny: (after a moment) You used to believe in the weight of words, Jack. I read your old column. You wrote like the truth was a living thing.

Jack: (quietly) Yeah. And I learned it doesn’t pay the rent.

Jeeny: That’s not why you stopped. You stopped because one of your stories hurt someone you cared about, didn’t it?

Host: The question landed like a punch. Jack’s hand froze mid-air, the smoke curling upward between them, a ghost of the past taking form.

Jack: (low voice) It wasn’t supposed to. But it did. My words — they cut deeper than I thought they could. After that, I swore I’d never let words use me again.

Jeeny: And now you let money use you instead. Congratulations.

Host: A flash of lightning filled the room, spilling across the desks, the walls, the half-empty cups and crumpled pages. The storm outside felt closer now, as if it had come to listen.

Jack’s jaw tightened; he slammed his cigarette into the ashtray, sparks flaring like a brief argument between fire and steel.

Jack: Don’t pretend you’re better, Jeeny. You edit the same stories I do. You cut truth for timing, water it down for tone. You just decorate your guilt with morality.

Jeeny: (furious now) Maybe. But at least I still feel guilty.

Host: The air between them crackled. Rain lashed the windows harder, like the night was echoing their anger.

Jack’s voice dropped to a whisper.

Jack: Words are dangerous. That’s why I stopped believing in them. Every “truth” becomes propaganda the moment someone signs it. That’s what Carlyle meant. Don’t be a slave to the words — or to the lies they wear.

Jeeny: (breathing hard) No, Jack. Carlyle meant don’t be afraid of meaning something. Words aren’t the enemy — cowardice is.

Host: The storm began to ease. The lights hummed softly again. A truce lingered in the air, fragile and necessary.

Jeeny sat back down, her hands trembling slightly, her eyes glistening — not from tears, but from the weight of conviction.

Jack watched her in silence, the sound of the printing press below like the heartbeat of something larger than either of them.

Jack: (quietly) Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve spent too long treating words like chains when they could’ve been wings.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Words are both, Jack. It’s up to us which ones we build with.

Host: Outside, the rain stopped. The neon light faded into dawn’s first grey. The city, exhausted but awake, waited for its morning stories — for the next lie, the next truth, the next heartbeat of language.

Jack: (closing his laptop) You ever think we’ll get it right?

Jeeny: No. But we can get it honest.

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Be not a slave of words.” Maybe Carlyle wasn’t warning us to avoid them. Maybe he was warning us to earn them.

Jeeny: (softly) To let them serve the truth, not ourselves.

Host: The press below gave one final thunderous churn as the first edition rolled out — their words now inked into the veins of the city, ready to live, to wound, to heal.

Jack stood, staring out at the soft light creeping between the buildings.

Host: And as the sun broke through the clouds, washing the world in pale gold, the two of them sat in silence — surrounded by pages, sentences, and the quiet understanding that words were never the enemy.

The real slavery was in forgetting why they were written at all.