The metaphor

“She cast the journal overboard, into the inky sea.”

“What a load of dog crap.  Why can’t anyone come up with a decent metaphor anymore?” Amy wondered as she perused the stack of short story submissions for the magazine.  Maybe it’s true what they said, there is nothing original under the sun.  Umberto Eco recognized that to be true, Shakespeare said so – hell, it’s even in the bible. 

“Maybe it’s unrealistic to expect something new.  How many possible word combinations do you suppose there are?” she muttered.

“Scolding your manuscripts again?”  Ed had entered the room soundlessly, startling Amy and sending her into a rage.

“For Christ’s sake, Ed!  Why do you keep sneaking up on me?”

“The fireworks are unmatched.”  Ed replied.

Be careful you don’t lose an eye.”

Ed grinned his shiteater grin.  Amy knew that meant he was feeling magnanimous because he was about to dump a project on her that he should really be taking care of himself.

“J. W.’s nephew has coughed up a hairball and I need you to edit it and make it printable.”

“Ed….” Amy paused, trying desperately to keep  her temper under control.

“I know, I know.  You aren’t a grade school tutor.  Just remember who signs your checks.”

“….and yours!  How do I get stuck with stuff?  Will you look at the stack of manuscripts I have to get through this afternoon?  Let me guess, you just got back from a three martini lunch?”

“Well, you’re a weepy drunk, my dear, so better me than you.  J. W. wants this in the next issue.”

Ed left the room as soundlessly as he came.  Amy scribbled on her notepad “and with that, the tribulation set out in search of other souls to badger.”

“Eh.  Dog crap.”

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