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Rejection Letter

While Die Hard is still 12 hours away, I sit here now and wonder why the world does not take a pause and give me a freakin’ break. I’ve been working really hard all my life. I worked all through college which forced me to spend extra years in a place I’d rather not be. I was sick too often (still am). I stress far too much and I care WAY too much about what other people think.
That being said I’ve paid my fucking dues. Give me a shot world for fuck’s sake.

Today I feel rejected and present you with this.
Today the world is enemy–tomorrow who knows.

…. We Regret to Inform You, Your Work Will Not Be Published….

By Katie Wynne

Normally a speed-reader,

he read the letter one word at a time. The alphabet seemed to be an enemy army now, creating vicious formations to attack him on all fronts. Sharp T’s had bayonets and Q’s lassoed him around the neck. Falling to his knees he felt the defeat, and now the torture. In his stomach it pounded, his spirit, his will, and his love. Violently pulsating it began to rise toward his chest. Against the cage of his body it pounded, pound-ed, pound-pounded. He clenched the letter in his fist trying to make one last stand against the letters, the words, and the sentence. Eyes shut so tight; all he could see was white canvas. The sound of the paper crumpling in his fingers echoed like a thousand trees cracking and falling onto solid ground, the sound bouncing off the walls and straight into his

pounding-pound-ing chest. It continued to rise up now through his throat, a giant tough ball. He was choking on it. Dropping the crinkled foe he tried to find air, nothing. Not wanting to die this way, he coughs

and out comes his spirit, his will, his heart. On the floor pounding more slowly its juices flowed into the carpet he bought only yesterday. Veins, pipes, translucent skins all on the carpet before him. He picked it up and felt his heart in his hands. Against his palms it pounded soft, soft, like the wings of a tired hummingbird. In his room defeated and behind enemy lines, his heart stopped. Leaning over he picked up the letter and held it in his left hand, and his heart in his right. Like ventricles. He felt them both permeate his skin. He weighed them against one another, and

feeling that his heart, his will, and his spirit held more weight he opened his jaw, and consumed it like a snake would a whole orange. Though it did not beat at first, the force by which he pushed it down his throat, hitting all of the edges of his larynx, squeezed it into convulsing faint beats. Drums coming from a far away place, through jungle, through lands with castles and dragons, through vast oceans filled with giant sea-monsters, beating-beating, beating-thumping, beating-BEating, BEATing-BEATING.

Finally his heart dropped into place and he realized that with a sentence, with words, and with letters he could fight back. He could wage a new war and win. In that moment he knew that for all the times he was told he wasn’t, he would forever be, in all


A Writer.


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