Absolute Fiction

“The Shrinking Middle Class.” Written a month or so after the economy convulsed in 1989, the story follows two men, strangers to each other, who both are cash poor. Larry, an assistant professor at a university in Maine, and Jason (“Starch”), a homeless hustler, discover a common connection on a day when a blizzard paralyzes Portland. Both men confront a third stranger, the city’s notorious “Dog Man,” who walks the streets with a pack of unfriendly dogs. Today, when the economy still (or again) suffers, the story’s title frequently is heard on the news. It was rejected by eight pulp magazines, accepted by one that later disappeared, then accepted again for the first issue of a start-up literary review published in Maine, wordplay 1.1 (winter 1995), 10-20.

“Expect Delays.” Never published, “Delays” was started two years after the disaster at David Koresh’s Branch Davidian separatist religious compound. A classic rejection came from George H. Scithers, editor of Weird Tales and fantasy entrepreneur. The story is seriously “time-limited,” he said, as though the Waco catastrophe were not seared forever on the public psyche. Betty, a broadcast journalist, covers a similar stand-off caused by Phillip Lorica, a charismatic leader whom Betty interviews in person. Since puberty, Betty has received occasional visions of future tragic events, which becomes vital after she begins to resist her network’s coverage of the event. “Delays” racked up thirty-one rejections and two acceptances that ultimately fizzled. The rejection history includes both (low- and high-) level genre mags (e.g. Shadows and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction) and solid literary publications (e.g. The Tamaqua Literary Review, where it worked its way, according to the rejection letter, to “the final round of jurying”). The general enthusiasm level for the story was strong and equally distributed among the different types of publications. The strongest disadvantage with editors was the story’s length. Spout Press (still “serving the weird community since 1989”) provisionally accepted the story (from a pool of over 200) and actually changed the forthcoming issue’s layout in different ways, trying to wedge in the bulky muscle of “Delays”—but to no avail.

“Girls’ Stories.” One for the irony books: this story went to only two markets, both prestigious genre mags, before being picked up by Fusion: The Anthology of the Undiscovered, a new annual publication. It paid! $360.00 USD! It sent a copy of the illustration (full-page) made for the story! The check cleared! The publication and editor disappeared without a trace! At least, he never responded again to queries, even though he edited a genre zine, Magic Realism, through the nineties. In the story, Dan and Ann, visitors to Prince Edward Island, become enmeshed in plots both paranormal and human. The House of Green Gables (from Anne of Green Gables) and its powerful attraction to Japanese tourists make the locus for the mysteries.

“A Spike in the Head.” Submitted for the first time in October 1993, when this story received its final rejection in March 1995 it had dug a grave twenty-three rejections deep. It finally appeared in wordplay 1.3 (fall 1995), 9-20, which had already published “The Shrinking Middle Class.” Nearly all the markets that rejected the story were upper- and mid-level mainstream markets that described themselves (in the usual reference works) as being open to considering category stories. A rejection note that should do any writer proud came from Primavera, a historically significant feminist literary mag founded by students at the University of Chicago. Co-editor Ruth Young wrote “I’m sorry we’ve kept your manuscript so long. Our policy is to publish by unanimous vote only, and when your story came up for discussion there were some negatives. Since others were strongly positive, they agreed to re-read ‘A Spike in the Head.’ While we did not vote for publication we wanted you to know that we think that the ‘spooky family memory’ pregnancy evokes in Paula is fascinating. We’re certain this will get published. Think of us again when you’re submitting stories. Good luck.” The story’s point of view character, a magazine feature writer visiting her grandmother in upstate New York, discovers—despite her grandmother’s opposition—murder, illegal abortion, and unexpected acts of compassion in her own family’s history

“Della’s Motivation.” The rejection history for this story is short, only five mags, but it did not end with an acceptance. Sheer word count, like that of two or three other works in the collection, virtually doomed it from creation. Two reigning horror editors disliked it intensely, while a third, Kristine Kathryn Rusch at The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, complimented it highly, but found the alligators “too much” for her. Rusch may be right, but she apparently did not see the story as a farce, textured with the paranormal, adventure, and feminism. Della is an erstwhile, self-deprecatory junior corporate executive competing with others of her type through several physical challenges at a behavioral motivation facility in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. As the trials become increasingly dangerous, Della becomes convinced that not all of the campers will leave the facility alive, but her own ambition to succeed in business drives her to the conclusion.

“Fin de Siècle.” One rejection for this story probably resonates through the pre- (and non-) publication histories for this entire collection. After listing many strong points for the piece, the note says “It’s just not genre—there’s no stretching it.” “Fin” first went into the world in February 1992, when the American reaction to the identification and spread of HIV/AIDS was still mutable and volatile. It tells of a gay man’s relationship with a homophobic “shock jock” who bears a deep secret. Interspersed with this narrative are scenes describing playlets in which AIDS victims enact their fantasies before committing suicide. The story, another long one, was rejected by eleven markets —mostly genre zines, but also some mainstream places—before being accepted, five years later, for a new annual, A Theater of Blood, in March 1997. The editor, C. Darren Butler, a major figure in horror and fantasy, praised the story in his acceptance letter, but another issue of Theater never appeared (and never another letter from Butler).

“Only All the Dead.” The only piece submitted to a competition, “Only” was written in 2009 over two short work sessions for National Public Radio’s “Three-Minute Fiction” contest, which seems to have been discontinued. The shortest piece in this collection, it also probably is the only one with a classic “twist ending.” The first story in this collection with special appeal, perhaps, to Roman Catholics.

“Near the Windows.” Altogether, this story certainly received more extremely positive responses than any other story in the collection, even though it finally was published by a literary “little mag” with a very modest circulation, Timber Creek Review 10.1 (spring 1999), 3-19. Not a genre work, despite two bloody deaths, the story’s narrator recalls her flirting with a younger man while vacationing in Belize without her husband and the husband’s long-postponed violent reaction to her behavior. Oasis, Story, High Plains Literary Review, and Missouri Review are only four of the thirty-four rich markets that rejected “Windows.” An annual student publication in Maine, Words & Images (2001), 32-39, reprinted the piece.

“A Morphology of Panic.” In Ireland’s Connemara region, a loner who suffers from anxiety attacks bikes from Galway to Sligo (with a stop on the Aran Islands), then back to the west coast, where he takes a ferry to Inishbofin. Twice before he hikes to Cromwell’s fort on Inishbofin, he has chance encounters with a stranger, Mark, who is backpacking through Ireland. At the fort, the two men meet again, leading the loner, possibly, to understand something about his behavioral problem. “Morphology” was accepted by Compass Rose, a biennial publication, 3 (2001), 24-29, just short of two full years after it had been rejected by thirty-one mainstream mags. One of these was Kaleidoscope: International Magazine of Literature, Fine Arts, and Disability, where everyone on the board wanted to publish the piece—except for the person with the final word. That rejection smarted—not because Kaleidoscope paid for its fiction, but because it has a wide audience.

“From Lunenburg to Shelburne, N. S.” This piece may belong more to creative non-fiction than narrative fiction, but the key scene, in which the protagonist, another bicyclist, is verbally abused by pointlessly hostile onlookers, veers away from exposition. “Lunenburg” was published in Words of Wisdom 15.4 (spring 1996), 32-41. When Words accepted the story, the mag seemed like a poor substitute for the sixteen prestigious markets that had rejected the piece (e.g. The Antigonish Review, Amherst Review, Grain), but now that perspective seems elitist. Words and its sibling, Timber Creek Review, have published much fine fiction.

“A Map for a Fictional World.” Another piece that might be called creative non-fiction, it follow an unnamed night runner through his routine 3.5 miles around Portland, Maine’s Back Cove. His run is punctuated by his own reflections on the dangers of night running, while the narrative is interrupted with (someone’s) reflections on an ancient Hellenistic epic, the Argonautica (or Jason and the Golden Fleece). The threads intertwine, perhaps, in the conclusion. “Map” received only six rejections, all from literary magazines of the highest quality, before being retired.

“The Punishment for Felonies in Belize.” Published in The Massachusetts Review XXXVIII.ii (summer 1996), 241-62 (which nominated it for a Pushcart Prize), after earning a paltry eleven rejections (all from the usual suspects in classy literary magazines), “Felonies,” despite edging toward minimalism, contains a strong plot. In Belize, two young professionals with a long history of platonic friendship and shared travels, learn more about each other. But genuine deepening occurs after the vacation, when the woman comes to the wake of her friend’s brother’s unexpected death.

“And Marion Never Looked Lovelier.” The titles of a few of the twenty-four journals that rejected this farce reveal the type of market for which it was written: Semiotext(e), Mobius: A Journal of Social Change, Postmodern Culture, The New Yorker. When it was accepted by a less toney market, Timber Creek Review, a submission thought to be dead requickened: Studies in Contemporary Satire, an “occasional” publication loosely affiliated with the University of Nebraska, Kearney accepted the piece. Unfortunately, Studies in Contemporary Satire, changed from being occasional to being dead, sending “Marion” into a long hiatus. Raucous, mean-spirited, millennial, “Marion” features an elderly tycoon who produces, it seems, a new film starring dead actors dating back to the Silent Era. The rejection note from Puck: The Unofficial Journal of the Irrepressible gives a good idea of the story’s effects on a receptive audience: “Thanks for sending ‘And Marion.’ This story shows a great ear, a knack for composition, and a biting wit. I really enjoyed reading it.”

“All the Weeks of Easter.” Selected from over a thousand blind submissions by The William & Mary Review 33 (1995), 38-53 and reprinted in wordplay 2.2 (spring/summer 1996), 9-16, “Weeks” is the only story in the collection with origins in a specific contemporary event, the abduction of a young woman in the Adirondack Mountains. The tragedy still haunts the mountains, especially the Saranac Lake area, and upstate New York farther west, where a suspect eventually was arrested and tried. The story studies the social rituals that the abduction fosters in a heavily Catholic community more than it dramatizes an abduction and rescue search.

“Seven or Eight Versions of She.” Laurence Goldstein, noble as one can get in the world of academic journals that publish original poetry and fiction, wrote the following in a full-page letter rejecting this story from inclusion in a special edition of Michigan Quarterly: “She is a favorite novel and film of mine … so I’m sympathetic to your project here. It reminds me a bit of [Theodore] Roszak’s novel Flicker [1991] in its hip adaptation of the quest motif. But I found the story wildly uneven…. It could have been a possibility for our film issue … but I’d rather see something else of yours for the future.” Hard to tell if rejection letters like this keep more emerging writers working hard or fighting suicidal fantasies, but the story was revised and improved on the basis of Goldstein’s remarks. Unpublished until now, except in a student-operated review, Words and Images (2009), 51-67.

“An Octopus Vase.” Finished at 6:58 PM, Wednesday, 20 April 2011, a full thirteen minutes before it was read aloud and edited on the fly (to thunderous applause and a partial standing ovation, in place of the hisses and jeers that not only were anticipated but entirely possible, given the nature of the audience), “Vase” is one of only two “short-shorts” in the collection. Despite the highly marketable length, the minimalist texture, and the live audience’s approval, the story was rejected with no comments by the four or five high-end places that considered it. It presents two sisters, both devout Roman Catholics, dealing with the church’s unexpected reaction to their brother’s possible suicide. The older sister has an unusual preoccupation with an obscure Catholic tenet.

“The Stillness Caused by Trains.” Glimmer Train receives over 40,000 submissions a year, so a rejection note that says “Please send us more of your work” might be framed by some writers. The fourteen other similar markets that rejected the piece said nothing negative or positive. A minimalist piece, “Stillness” provides local color of upstate New York (as do two other pieces in the collection) in its story of a young man visiting his deceased grandparents’ rural home after an estrangement caused by his family’s propensity for stifling emotional reactions to life’s misfortunes. The location is inspired by a house that still stands, still shaken by trains, where I now reside.