Thursday, January 1, 2015

Editing Process, Part One

     "I remember last century in a far more favorable light than this one," the Ghoul remarked, a party hat perched stickily atop his rotten skull. Rolling, bloodshot eyes turned to peer at the Editor, who was already going over a few new stories the Ghoul had pulled from his collection. "Well?"

     "Well what? These are all good." The Editor, the head of a woman strung up by her hair, along with an arm bearing a red pen, "sat" at a desk that had been appropriated last Halloween. Already death was overtaking the freakish creature, the meat on the arm all but gone, leaving a flaky crust of skin.
     The Ghoul stood up, running rancid hands down his Christmas present from the caretakers, a new blue set of puffy robes made of some coarse fabric. He kept the belt tied at his hips and walked about in his bunny slippers (their ears threadbare and dirty), moving up to the desk to look the Editor in the eyes.
     "Good? I don't want good, I want great!" The Ghoul growled, picking up a stack of parchment. "This one just needs a little editing, that's all! Why haven't you done it yet?"
     "I'm slowing down, I admit, but you're the one who has a dead woman serve as the final eyes on your work. You need more input from your readers, and you need to provide me more material if you want more than good!"
     The Ghoul glared at her before swiftly snatching up her arm and striking her with it, snapping the wrist as the tender scalp peeled free from the animated skull, which fell to the ground with a pained grunt and clatter.
     Standing over her, the Ghoul held the twitching limb, staring at the gray bony thing. The hand moved feebly as it wriggled back and forth, the broken wrist held to the rest of the arm by stretches of dried skin. Taking hold of the hand, he pulled it free and threw it across the crypt, smiling at the satisfying clattering of bones. Looking down at the rolling skull, now missing an eye, the Ghoul's smile widened.
     "So this is what you're going to do then? Throw a tantrum cause I don't praise your work?"
     The Editor was silenced by the crunch of her skull beneath his ragged bunny slipper, her eye-popping free of the socket with a wet splat as her head caved in with ease. Reaching down to pluck the eyeball from the ground, he held it up to his own eye before lowering it to his mouth.
     "Everyone's a critic...," he said, clearly enunciating the words so the eye could discern his meaning. He then went about looking for a jar to deposit his eye in so he could keep his first Editor as a memento.
     Sadly, he didn't possess anything resembling a jar, nor anything to act as a preservative for the eye to float in. All he had were scrolls of stories, a computer connected to the internet to upload them, and a desk. Hell, the desk didn't even have a chair!
     "This may mean I have to leave home to accommodate you..." the Ghoul grumbled.  

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