Fear and slush piles

Fear was seven feet tall and genetically predisposed to hate. His father’s great grandfather was an Original Hater. His great aunt on the other side, modelled for the Queen of Spades. They say she gave the axe to Lizzie Borden.

Fear hated my poetry. His corporate monster nearly broke it’s neck iron trying to get me. Fear let his arm extend just so I was a chain link away from the snarltooth snout of a traditional heavy in the publishing business, who just caught the scent of a self-published success story in the making.

Lucky me, I had my kindle on me. Tucked in my waistline, cool comforting my skin. I quickly drew it upon my enemy, Fear and his rabid corporate extension. I opened and swiped the screen like Zorro at the top of the Z.

The blazing light of my E book cover blinded the bitch, who fell back on her nub of a tail. Fear began to howl at an impossible pitch, like all the writers ever burned by rejection, in unison.

I held my forward stance Warrior #3 asana, for the longest. Whipping back fear and the blue-blooded beast. By the light of my novel let out to the world. Shining as dreams coming true always do.

What was left after the fire, you would not have believed! No trace of Fear or his dog… just a sparkling pile of golden slush, for every manuscript ever heaved.

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