Run

I thought I was safe.

I had taken all the proper precautions, but somehow... They've found me.

The rush of bat-like wings fills the sky above me. The revision demons. Circling, as if over a carrion Thanksgiving, but it's my hide they're after. They want to delude me into thinking my novel is dying.

But that's just what they want me to think.

I stand straight and shake my fist at them, cradling my manuscript to my chest. All the while, they hurl taunts at me, but I can't listen to them. For that is certain death.

I sling stones to strike them from the sky, and run-- shaking, but surviving-- to where they won't find me again. Not any time soon, anyway. My novel is safe.

For now.