Cover Story Massacre

This is how all good stories begin, no? A day dawned when Smita’s almost still born, refusing to kick, cover story idea suddenly jerked back to life.
Tiny tendrils of information that confirmed the hotness of the idea snaked in and zapped The Powers That Be. “We must, we must, we must/ before the story does rust/ In words do fetter/ The quicker the better/ without too much of a fuss.”
They comandeth, I followeth. Since the deadline was now fixed firmly and unassailably "for next week," it was used like Mowgli's thaba. Charming but deadly emails were sent out asking for inputs or else. They came. There was mad scramble for pictures and much hand wringing, begging on bended knees was done in person and on phone. They came. It was all coming together in one blindingly beautiful blaze of doingness.
Then My Specs Broke. I get contact lenses. Then My Story Is Swept Off Cover. I end day by drinking massive amount of rum. The End. The End.