Dear Future Publisher,
I slash and pierce, wielding my weapon with fatal precision. A bloom of red trails behind it, like the wake of a boat, marking its deadly passage through the crowd. I slice, I mince, I sever.
It is satisfying to watch these soldiers fall.
Once, I loved them. Maybe I still do.
And yet their presence affronts me, their too loud voices, their self-conscious pandering, their clutter, their excess, their superfluous existence.
They must die.
I must kill them.
I lash out, stabbing, striking them out one by one.
There are survivors. The lucky few. The worthy.
But there are victims. Victims who maybe didn’t deserve this fate. Victims who are in my way, in the way of progress. Victims innocent of anything but being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
In the wrong manuscript.
I bear down on them, scratching at their varied shapes with my pen, erasing them, deleting them, ending them.
I set down my weapon, staring at the red-spattered page, at the savage marks of the ink on the bodies of my poor ailing darlings.
I am creator. I am executioner.
I am god.
I look at my work, surveying the massacre I have unleashed.
And I smile.