Infinite Simians

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

I honestly don't care anymore. If I see another submission from a fifties hausfrau trying to be a tweenie wannabe, hawking yet another clone of Twilight and claiming they have the next platinum-level five-star triple-thumbs-up blockbuster, I will scream.

I am sick of this stinking slush pile. I am disgusted with emojis written into the story, and thoroughly done with words like moist and murmured and demure.

I think my boss is egging me on. I see her all the time at lunch, munching on that tasteless iceberg salad of hers (no croutons!), and I freaking swear every single time I mouth off about the craptastic slop that oozes across my desk, that slather of too-bright red lipstick opens, and murmurs, “Just, whatever you do, don't open the door.”

If I knew which one, I'd open it just to spite her!

I started taking walks to get away from her.

I walked all over the publishing department. Then editing, marketing, design, finance. It led me right back to... my own desk. In proofreading.

I saw all kinds of doors. Windows, solid; colors, monochome; inviting, forbidding.

I finally found it.

Behind the bathrooms, in a disused closet.

It rattled. There were scratchings, and a cold wind blew through the jamb.

There were murmurings.

I reached for the handle, and it was warm, so warm.

I barely twisted the knob, and it burst open. I was slammed against the far wall, surrounded by scrambling and chittering and furry bodies.

They were waving manuscripts, and reciting almost-Shakespeare. Or not three bees, Hie thee to a farmery, 'Tis nobler to fart than suffer the outrage...

They poured out the door, and down the hall.

And the screaming started...