The editor shakes his head and mumbles.
His red pen scribbles across the page and comes to a halt. He picks the page up and tears it in half.
For him, words are bullets aimed at the little scabs who forget the Oxford comma.
He rolls his chair forward and dusts off his name tag. “Nathan Nipick”
A new paper slides across his desk. After a couple of moments, he crumples it up.
“They didn’t read how to apply… it was only a 47-page,, clause heavy, Latin-forward document.”
He scratches his beard. A new paper. Something deadly catches his eye.
“So you like using colons?”
He shakes his head.
“We’re em-dash only here.”
Another paper. Another disappointment.
The editor tears through 100 more entries, moving his pen like a surgeon. Each paper more uninspiring than the last like a short man who lied about his height on a dating profile.
When suddenly the editor pushes himself away from his desk and paces around his office. He’s grabbing his head like it’s threatening to explode when his eyes fixate on a framed diploma.
It reads. “Grammar Nazi Association” With a little paragraph that says, “Protecting the innocent from the misspelled.” He salutes it and feels restored in his namesake.
The editor gingerly walks back to his desk and picks up his coffee. He sniffs it, breathing in refined appreciation.
“Nothing like a French press to make my opinions more pressing.” When suddenly a brick comes shattering through the window.
There’s a thick rubber band holding a note attached to the brick.
It reads. “Without you, creativity might even thrive.”
The editor mumbles.
“That sentence is too short for this publication.”