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A Publishable Story
By V. Lee Parker At a Dairy Queen in Alexandria, Louisiana where the Rapides Parish Women Writers Circle meets every Thursday evening. Wanda Jones enters clutching a paper and looking forlorn. She orders a large Blizzard with extra Butterfinger chunks and sits at a booth with three other women, Sandra Watkins, Lenore Reynolds, and Patsy Aucoin, all members of the Circle. Patsy: Wanda, don’t you know that Blizzard’s got over a thousand calories. What’s wrong with you? Wanda: I got rejected again. Group: Aw. Wanda: Yeah. This time it was less than 24 hours. Lenore: I told you not to mess with those internet journals. You’re just throwing your pearls at swine. Sandra: Yeah, and anyone with any sense knows that rejecting someone in less than 24 hours is downright rude. They ought to at least wait a week to be decent. Wanda (shoving a piece of paper forward for the group’s perusal): This is the rejection I got. See right here – it says my work’s not in sync with the editor’s sensibilities. Patsy: What in the world does that mean? Sandra: Means they didn’t like it. Patsy: Why don’t they just say what they mean? Sandra: Probably because they don’t know how without sounding ugly. It’s kind of like people who talk fancy because they think it makes them sound smart. Patsy: Don’t you hate that? Lenore: Now, Wanda. Don’t let this get you down. You know that story is good. Wanda (digging into her Blizzard): Well, it just hurts. Getting a nasty rejection like this. Sandra: I bet if you Google this broad you’ll find something she wrote. Wanda: As a matter of fact, I did. It was about a woman who liked to sniff her own armpits, but it wasn’t funny. It was dead serious. Something about loving the intoxicating scent of her own excretions. The group laughs hysterically. Lenore (wiping away a tear): Now that should tell you something right there. For one thing, there is just no accounting for taste these days. People will write about anything. Sandra: Remember the time I got something published at Flybynight.com and then I found they’d put me right after that story about the high school girls who volunteer at the local nursing home and have a contest to see who can have relations with the most patients. Lenore: Lord yeah. You’d be hard pressed to outdo that in the bad taste realm. Patsy: I hope you didn’t give Father Perry that link. Sandra: I did, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe he didn’t look at it. Lenore: Well, I did notice him looking at you kind of funny at mass that Sunday. Sandra: I don’t know why he would. My story was clean as a whistle. Lenore: We are judged by the company we keep, my dear. Sandra (sighing): Well, there’s nothing I can do about it now short of telling them to delete it from their archives. Lenore: Do what you have to. Sandra: I think that’s awfully drastic. Patsy: Just ask yourself what would Jesus do. Lenore: Patsy, honey, Jesus wouldn’t be submitting to internet journals at all. Wanda: Yeah, he’d just clothe himself with power from on high and get right into the Atlantic or the New Yorker. Lenore: Just not Playboy. The group laughs hysterically again. Wanda: Lordy, y’all are gonna make me wet my pants. Sandra: Go right ahead honey. Sounds like the start of a publishable story. |
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