Finally, as they attain the rim, the reverberation of seismic activity throws them to the ground. Their chief is the first to struggle to his feet.
"My fellow writers!" he thunders to the crowd. "We must appease the publishing gods. Have you your sacrifices?"
As one, they respond with an affirmative cry over the grumbling of the volcano.
"And are they first drafts, unedited and pure in their original form, printed on pastel paper in colored inks so they are sure to gain the attention of an editor?"
"Are you certain you have made no attempt whatever to research which publishers might be interested in your genre or type of writing?"
The natives are in a wild frenzy by now, waving their manuscripts over their heads.
"It is time!" shrieks the chief. "Throw your sacrifices into the volcano. The publishing gods must be appeased!"
In a cascade of colorful papers completely lacking sufficiently postaged self-addressed stamped envelopes for return responses, the manuscripts plunge into the fiery depths where they are incinerated before they can touch the molten maelstrom below. A wailing keen fills the darkness as the natives hurry down into their jungle huts.
"Do you think we'll hear anything this time?" one native whispers to his neighbor.
"Absolutely. This time I added a handwritten note about how my kids and wife loved my story. I'm guessing they'll get back to me in less than two weeks. By the way, I'm looking for an illustrator for my picture book. Can you recommend anyone?"