He cautiously let the light of his torch fall upon the carved surface.

Oh my God, there must be hundreds of them!

Carefully not to wake them, he approached and unsheathed his weapon. The sound of steel grinding against steel cut through the silence of the night. He dared taking another step.

Suddenly, he got the feeling one of them had moved, and he panicked.

With an unearthly scream, he launched his attack. Slashing around his weapon, the Editor cut sentences where he could and moved them where they belonged. Redundant word after word he sliced, stabbing many grammar mistakes and chopping down a few punctuation errors.

Suddenly, his intuition warned him and he dove. Just in time, as it was only seconds before he would have become prey to the ferocious attack of a large inconsistency in time. The big chunk of text next tried to bite him, and he desperately used his magical cut and paste spell to launch it into the depths of an epilogue.

When dozens of little fangs sunk into his calves, he screeched and looked down. He saw uncountable little clichés feasting on the flesh of his lower legs. He howled a primal scream and struck as many as he could with his red marker, sending them back to the Hell of Reviews where they had come from.

Blood poured from his wounds onto sublimely worded sentences, and he realized he had to get out of there before it became a massacre of the innocent. He jumped to another page, leaving two deductive fallacies to collide into each other where he had just been standing.

When he landed on top of the next page, one of his feet got stuck in a plot hole, and he felt a stinging pain in his leg. He tumbled to the ground and then, a large shadow darkened him.

Towering above him was his sworn enemy, the Deus Ex Machina. The merciless robot swung one of his long arms, yielding deadly looking drawn-out dreams. The Editor rolled over from left to right, barely avoiding the weapons that would have caused him to wake up, as if everything had been only a dream.

He kept rolling until he managed to get out of reach of the hated machine, and crawled back on his feet. He ran away as quickly as he could, unknowingly entering the Fields of Repetition.

A small band of Pleonastic rovers ambushed him. He tried fencing them off with his writer’s block while he parried their blows, striving to cover himself in the process for his protection. He jumped just in time as he almost got hit by one of the rovers, making it just barely before he would have been wounded. His face grew red as he was getting angry, which was rendering a blush on his cheeks and a mad expression in his eyes, from where lightning bolts seemed to strike.

Suddenly, he realized the danger he had stumbled in and he knew he was in peril. He understood the situation was hazardous and that he had to flee from the jeopardy.

When finally out of the Fields, he froze in terror. Before him waited the complete Army of the Empty Adverbs. The zombie-like creatures all stared motionless in front of themselves, their eyes empty like the bank accounts of the many young yet unsuccessful authors the Editor had worked for.

Their leader, who was called Hemingway the Bold, approached. “Surrender, you filthy excuse for a failed writer.”

“I don’t think so, you idiom!” answered the Editor, and secretly shook a bottle behind his back. “This dialogue is as phony as the sight of you!”

“Show, don’t tell,” hissed the leader, and he signaled his army to attack.

“Okay, no sequel for you then!” shouted the Editor, and he threw the bottle of Tipp-Ex away.

The bottle landed in the middle of the armed forces and covered them in a white, liquid cloud. He could hear their screams while they were being erased from existence, and was glad for the sudden inspiration he had received. He looked up at the sky and murmured a small prayer for the Muse, and then turned to continue on his journey.

Half an hour later, he was actually enjoying himself slashing away at pointless suffixes, abusive filler words, and needless commas.

Hey, this goes well, he thought. I’m actually going to make the word count if I can keep it up this way.

Then, he finally met the last obstacles on his way, the Three Persons.

They didn’t give him any time to reconsider. The first person attacked him with an open-end, which he barely could avoid. The Editor sent him out cold with the flat of his keyboard, and hovered around just in time to parry the joint attack of the second and third person.

His two adversaries got interweaved, rendering the Editor totally confused. He ducked under an incorrectly formatted paragraph and sliced open the belly of the third person, causing his intestines to spill out on the grass.

Just as he wanted to face his last opponent left, the Editor slipped on the third person’s semicolon, and made a hard tumble to the floor.

The second person towered above him, grinning devilishly while he heaved his mighty dangling modifier for the fatal blow. The Editor’s last thought kept lingering in his mind.

Shit, I’m so gonna fail my deadline.