“That won’t fly.”
“What won’t?” she asked.
“From the third line on,” he replied, reading over her shoulder as she typed. “A story full of obscenities won’t ever win a writing contest.”
Exasperated, she considered how to sanitize her micro-fiction entry, a gritty drama rife with blue language. Then inspiration struck, and she believed her ingenious editing would yield a surefire winner.
“All the profanity’s been bleeped out. What do you think now?”
“Makes it a [bleeped] up piece of [bleep], I’m sorry to say.”
“Oh, what the [bleep] do you know? You’re a [bleeping] accountant!”
~ The [Bleeping] End ~
* * *
© 2013 by M.P. Witwer • All rights reserved