Rejection is part of being a writer. I’m not gonna lie, it stings a bit. I mean a bunch of tiny journals, that like no one reads and they have the balls to reject you. It’s a cold cruel world. I don’t get too bummed about it, though I must admit I don’t submit a lot in the way of stories.
But I wanted to start submitting some more stuff. So this is the first piece I wrote and had it rejected. I wrote this piece specific for this journal because they only publish stories of 500 words or less. I thought I would try my luck. Well, my luck sucks apparently. So you, dear sweet reader can check this noise out. Hope you like it. I thought too I would include the rejection letter.
———- Forwarded message ———-
From: Quick Fiction
Date: Thu, Jan 1, 2009 at 4:18 PM
To: FRANCONIA STATION
Dear FRANCONIA STATION,
Thank you for submitting your work:
With hundreds of literary magazines to choose from, we’re truly honored that you selected Quick Fiction! We’re sorry to say, however, that we were not able to place your work in this issue. We wish you the best in placing it elsewhere and hope you will submit again.
Editor in Chief
8:07 AM, we met at the corner. My coffee was already cold. I brought cherries in a plastic bag and the seeds I spit out littered the ground. Each one was outlined by a dark red star burst. He looked down at them as he approached me. He was carrying a plastic shopping bag filled with some of my laundry. Not all of what I left behind was in there, mangled and mashed together, thoughtlessly, hurriedly. He eyed the contents timidly, sadly, his eyes scanning the different folds that collided and bent over each other. He looked for anything around me to focus on so he could avoid my eyes. They were vast in their loss and I wanted him to see this white empty space. I wanted him to be enveloped into the pale void, to be the microscopic speck, searching the nothingness forever. There I could give him purpose. I open my mouth to speak, tongue bleached red by the pulp and juice of the cherries. It’s crimson bright would remind him of the menstrual stains he would find on some Sunday mornings, blotching his white sheets. My embarrassment was unmet by his sorrow on those cold but glittering mornings. Here laid more evidence of my body now before him. There he found my reason. I could not speak, only show him the oxygen and plasma. I could only choke out a gasping breath. He looked at me, only then seeking and finding validation. He sniffled lightly, delicately. He grasped at the air, wanting to comfort me, acknowledge me and also know his own existence. We stood there, starring at the cherry pits, lying dead on the ground, the stains penetrating the concrete. The empty storage bag stood crumpled in my hands. The air and wind made sounds with the breaking of bodies against it’s movement. We searched for patterns but we found none.