My army of 78 march along side me. The staccatto of the march drives me forward.
Progress has been slow but methodical. The yields of my efforts barely discernable; leaving only small knicks on the beast's hide. I am wary and unsure, but determined to continue.
My army and I slash at everything in our path, searching for my elusive prey. Each stroke reshapes the landscape as we dodge and cut, cut and dodge. The fallout flies to the ground, cast aside by my savage hands, landing somewhere beyond my vision. The irregular rhythm pulses through my blood.
Turning the corner I spy the beast. Its horrendous face looms over me as it stalks me. The knowledge that I created this monster tears at my heart. Must I destroy it to redeem myself?
Before I can continue my charge and summon mercy it races away. And bound as I am, I follow. Thus the chase continue.
Slashing away, I move forward slowly. No matter my efforts, the beast is always a step ahead, always beyond my reach.
As I pursue my terrible creation, I am confronted by altogether different foes who steal me from my path, forcing me to wage a separate battle. Engaged in this other struggle, I am diverted from my purpose.
No matter; I clench my dire hope to my breast. The hope that I will continue my pursuit of the beast and I will be triumphant.
Yes, one day I will conquer this beast. The beast I call Revision of the First Novel.
Thanks to Tamlyn Leigh for the inspiration that led to this post.