“... 100 words.” The voice seems to float to me across a great gulf. “Then freedom.”
I look at the flames ringing my desk. The sores on my skin. The squamous squirming within them.
I start to write, only occasionally diverted by the seething hellscape.
At 25 words, I notice my title is a consonantal garble. I fix it. At 57 words, I see that my protagonist is speaking in Yiddish. I fix it. At 99 words, I sigh, close my eyes—
—and open them to a blank page.
But that’s fine, right? I can fix it. It’s only ...
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