Line editing illustration of fiction text using Chicago Manual style (14th Edition).

This short piece of fiction below has 20 mistakes in it. Test your editing skills by finding them all. Click on the link at the end to see the correct, edited version using Chicago Manual style--a common editing style for fiction--and an explanation for each error and how the correction was made.

Zoe felt the Jetranger slow and then come into a hover position. It slowly rotated until the nose was aligned with the major axis of the island. From the right-hand side of the helicopter, in the aftermath of the driving wave, Zoe watched a ferry and several assorted boats capsize. Passengers floundered in the water none in life jackets. The lucky ones found debris to cling to, while a few hardy souls swam strongly, divesting themselves of excess clothing in an attempt to survive.

The wave overwhelmed all the by standers on the piers and banks with its rapidity. The flooding was extensive, covering most of lower Manhattan and parts of the surrounding boroughs. It was as if a giant muddy lake had suddenly formed. Junk of all kinds floated on the surface: boxes, trash bags, paper, pieces of wood, cars, intermingled with bodies.

Zoe felt sick--she wiped the window with the palm of her hand, as if there were the slightest doubt this was an illusion. People were drowning in front of her, and there was nothing she could do. She struggled for breath. Small waves were sloshing on shore, as on a beach. Several cars that had floated off the main roads were now slowly sinking. One black sedan on the East River Drive abruptly disappeared, replaced by an oily sheen. She surveyed its wake, but no human forms merged.

Brookes pulled her close. "You okay?" He said, cupping his hand to her ear.

She nodded, gripped his hand, and turned her head back toward the carnage, unable to take her eyes off it. Further inland, people were swimming and frantically scrambling to find higher ground--anything that would serve as a refuge: a concrete wall, a window ledge, a step, the top of a car. She tried to estimate the depth of the flood inland, but it was tough at this altitude. Scrutinising the water level and trying to visualize what was missing, the rise above ground seemed to be ten feet maybe more.

There were now dozens of bodies floating on the surface. Her palms oozed sweat. The pit of her stomach felt as though it contained a lump of concrete. God, she thought I've got to get tougher if I'm ever going to get through this.

Gilmont shouted something unintelligible. She looked back and saw that he'd unfastened his seatbelt and was frantically clawing at the window. She touched Brookes and pointed. In answer, Brookes unhooked his belt and maneuvered in the confined space, to reach the back row. He gripped Gilmont by the shoulders and started talking. Whatever he he was saying, it seemed to be working, Zoe thought. She picked up the headset next to her and fitted it over her head, brushing hair aside. "Vern? Can you hear me?"

A huge flash in the downtown area diverted her attention--a fireball swiftly followed it. She glanced at the skyscrapers nearest to her. The interior fluorescent lights were blinking out, block by block. The city was growing ominously dark.

The pall of smoke grew, ceased, and then gradually disipated. Boats that were out, on both sides of the river, were slowly nosing toward the buildings, picking up survivors--there were precious few. She thought about the people that had been inside, on the ground floor. They never stood a chance. Then there were the subways....

She felt nauseated again and tapped the microphone. "Vern?

"Zoe?" His voice sounded strained.

"Gilmont's in trouble," she said. "Stephan's dealing with him, but we need to get out of here. I think this stationary positions making him freak out."

"Got you. Time we split, anyway. I hear Boulder calling."

Moments later she felt the Bell 47G dip and begin to pick up speed. It banked sharply to the right and dropped even lower. The tower of the World Trade Center swam into focus. They were a dozen floors lower than the roof. "Vern? What's going on? Why are we going lower?"

"Chaos. Pilot says it's not safe to be any higher. Air Traffic Control is working on an emergency basis. All the New York airports got flooded--bad. They're non-operational."

She heard a choking sound over the din of the motor and the blades. "Non-operational?"

"Sorry ... poor choice of words. They're mostly under water. Lots of partially submerged planes and drowned passengers. The Center on Long Island is still functioning, but they're overwhelmed, trying to reroute dozens of incoming planes."

Brookes dropped back into his seat and drew closer to her. His face was the color of chalk. She removed one earpiece of the headphones so that she could hear him better. "How is he?" she asked.

"Better. He just lost it ... vertigo ... panic attack, who knows? I've got him doing a yoga breathing exercise."

The headphones crackled to life. "Pilot says we'll be at Morristown airport in about fifteen minutes."

"OK," Zoe said, with relief. "Thanks." She slipped the phones off and awkwardly stretched out her hand toward Brookes. "Hold me," she said, closing her eyes, trying to blot out what she'd seen.

"You are vindicated," Brookes said. "Right on the money." He stroked her hair. "I guess they'll have to take notice now."

She allowed herself a sad smile. "Too late for that."

The conversation finished. They all knew what was coming. It was unspoken. The countdown was already under way.

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