Disclaimer: This is a short short written for my studio class, with certain required words. I personally don't think it's very good.
Cadavra looked over her shoulder for them. Word ninjas. Shinobi that stole or switched what she wrote in a cruel substitution technique. Spineless, shadow steppers – they broke her flawless, fluid storytelling into a mess unfit for a first grade reader. She gripped her manuscript to her chest. They would never again turn anaconda into aardvark and shatter the suspense of the death trap. Set by the villain whose hair was greasy black and not candy pink.
Her foot caught on an uneven segment of sidewalk. Rather then throw out a hand to catch herself, Cadavra slammed her shoulder into the brick wall beside her. She wouldn't let go. If she lifted just one finger they would snatch her words right from her mind. No, no, no. Oh no. She would get those traipsing, intrepid ninjas.
Viter sent them. She knew he would stoop so low to keep her from being published. Couldn't let it go. Never, not until she got to the editor's desk. At least they were honorable enough to not touch it when she got it there. She hoped. She never knew. They could be everywhere, oh, how they were. Not letting go. Ignorant, blind sleuth couldn't see any of them, but she could. She even showed him the altered manuscripts. So obvious, so, so obvious. He took her money and kicked her out. Case closed, he said. Lap dog. On the payroll. Viter's, duh.
Write nonsense. It was easy. They couldn't steal what they couldn't understand. Make a code. A long code. But don't let go. If she lets go they'll crack the code and blot out the brilliance.
When did this start? Cadavra couldn't tell if one asked anyway. The word ninjas would crack her code and rewrite her. Her life; all of it.
