Ryan,
Thank you for sending us “Limits of Oceans and Seas”, which was shortlisted for publication. Unfortunately our editors could not come to consensus and, upon careful consideration, decided the work wasn't a good fit for our next issue.
I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding a home for this piece and we certainly would be pleased to hear from you in the future.
Thanks again. Best of luck.
Dear Ryan Boyle,
Thank you for sending your manuscript to us at ––––– via the online submission manager.
After careful consideration, we regret that this submission does not meet the editorial needs of the journal at this time. We do hope you will send to us again in the future as we could not publish ––––– without the many quality submissions we receive.
Although we would like to send an individual response to everyone, the number of manuscripts we receive makes it difficult for editors to respond personally to each submission. Please know that we are devoted to giving each submission to ––––– at least three reads and an editor personally reads each submission. We do appreciate your interest in –––––, and the opportunity to consider your work.
Thank your for supporting our journal with your writing, reading, and subscribing.
Sincerely,
——————————————
Dear Ryan,
Thanks for giving us the chance to read your work; unfortunately, it doesn't meet our needs at this time. However, we promise that if you keep writing, we'll keep reading.
All the best,
The Editors
–––––––––––
We regret that we are unable to use the enclosed material. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to consider it.
Sincerely,
The Editors
Dear Ryan Boyle:
Thank you for sending us "Common Features of Mammals in Captivity."
Unfortunately this particular work was not a right fit for
––––––––––––––, but we were very impressed by your writing. We hope that you'll consider sending more work to us soon.
We look forward to reading more.
Best regards,
–––––––––––––
Assistant Editor
––––––––––––––
Dear Ryan Boyle,
Thank you for sending your manuscript "Common Features of Mammals in Captivity," number 26652, to us here at –––––––––– via the online submission manager.
We are sorry this particular manuscript was not selected for publication in ––––––––––. We hope you will send us another soon, though. We could not publish –––––––––– without the fine writing submitted to us. While we regret that the large number of submissions we receive makes it difficult for the editors to respond personally, we want to emphasize that an editor personally read your manuscript. Devoted reading is part of the –––––––––– editorial mission; it is also our own personal one.
If this manuscript was a prize entry: we are sorry this prize entry was not selected for the –––––––––– fiction or poetry prize or for publication in ––––––––––. We receive many fine prize entries, so it was a difficult decision to make. Thank you for sending us your manuscript to read, and thank you for supporting the nonprofit –––––––––– with your entry's subscription. By the end of May we will announce the prize winners and finalists on the –––––––––– website, by e-mail list, and by SASE if you included one with your entry.
Thank you for supporting the journal with your reading, writing, and subscribing,
The Editors
Hi Ryan,
Thank you for your interest in –––––––––. We are going to pass on your
submission, but we hope that you will consider us again in the future.
Best,
–––––
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Sasha Hathaway, 2
I didn’t expect to hear from Sasha ever again in my entire life. But she showed up knocking at my door the very next night. My mom answered the door and called me down and there was Sasha, her cheeks pale and her eyes outlined in red.
“My Dad is missing,” she said. Her father had looked worse and worse as the days passed and the tests mounted—rings growing dark around his eyes, mouth sagging into a worried frown. Since being laid-off, he mostly sat around the house in plaid shirts and read conspiracy theories on the Internet—so his being gone from the house for hours was strange.
“The phone rang,” Sasha said. “He looked like he was about to crumple into a ball. Then he hung up and left and he hasn’t been back since.” I looked across the street. The car was missing from the driveway. “He ran away. Just like mom.”
I told my mom we were going out for a bit. The streetlights were just coming on as we grabbed our bikes and set off. I tried to question Sasha about the phone call but she knew nothing. We stopped at all his favorite hangouts: the coffehouses and parks of our neighborhood, the pool halls, arcades, and bars around the docks. The sky grew darker with each stop, the air grew colder. No one had seen him.
We walked our bikes along the docks, our breath steaming into the air, the city lights pooling together on the surface of the bay.
“I give up,” she said. “I’ll live as an orphan.”
“You can live with us,” I said. “In the basement.”
“The basement? Yuck.”
“Ok, you can stay in my room.”
“Where will you stay, Andy?”
“The basement.”
“Yuck! No, we can share your room.”
I smiled. We were walking by the place where her dad used to work in better times, when he still managed the stevedores and smoked cigars as he watched the ships come in from far-off foreign ports—riding low in the water because of the weight of exotic goods—and watched them leave again for those same ports almost empty. Back when he came home every night to a wife and a healthy baby girl.
“Is that our car?” said Sasha, pointing into the gloom of an open warehouse. Sticking out of the shadows was the beige nose of the car I’d seen parked in Sasha’s driveway day after day. The engine was running. We checked the car and the dark warehouse and found that they were both empty. We heard a noise coming from the outside. The city lights reflected off the water like spirits, and we could see a man outlined in that dazzling light. He was sitting at the end of the pier, hunched over with his head in his hands.
We crept closer, careful not to let the boards of the pier creak. When we got close enough, we could see it was Mr. Hathaway.
“Sasha,” I whispered, pulling her sleeve. “Let’s go.”
She moved closer, looked she like she was about to speak to him but stopped. The noise we’d heard was clearer now, but still distant. It was sobbing. He wiped his eyes on the back of his hands, looked up at the moon, and told it he was sorry.
“My Dad is missing,” she said. Her father had looked worse and worse as the days passed and the tests mounted—rings growing dark around his eyes, mouth sagging into a worried frown. Since being laid-off, he mostly sat around the house in plaid shirts and read conspiracy theories on the Internet—so his being gone from the house for hours was strange.
“The phone rang,” Sasha said. “He looked like he was about to crumple into a ball. Then he hung up and left and he hasn’t been back since.” I looked across the street. The car was missing from the driveway. “He ran away. Just like mom.”
I told my mom we were going out for a bit. The streetlights were just coming on as we grabbed our bikes and set off. I tried to question Sasha about the phone call but she knew nothing. We stopped at all his favorite hangouts: the coffehouses and parks of our neighborhood, the pool halls, arcades, and bars around the docks. The sky grew darker with each stop, the air grew colder. No one had seen him.
We walked our bikes along the docks, our breath steaming into the air, the city lights pooling together on the surface of the bay.
“I give up,” she said. “I’ll live as an orphan.”
“You can live with us,” I said. “In the basement.”
“The basement? Yuck.”
“Ok, you can stay in my room.”
“Where will you stay, Andy?”
“The basement.”
“Yuck! No, we can share your room.”
I smiled. We were walking by the place where her dad used to work in better times, when he still managed the stevedores and smoked cigars as he watched the ships come in from far-off foreign ports—riding low in the water because of the weight of exotic goods—and watched them leave again for those same ports almost empty. Back when he came home every night to a wife and a healthy baby girl.
“Is that our car?” said Sasha, pointing into the gloom of an open warehouse. Sticking out of the shadows was the beige nose of the car I’d seen parked in Sasha’s driveway day after day. The engine was running. We checked the car and the dark warehouse and found that they were both empty. We heard a noise coming from the outside. The city lights reflected off the water like spirits, and we could see a man outlined in that dazzling light. He was sitting at the end of the pier, hunched over with his head in his hands.
We crept closer, careful not to let the boards of the pier creak. When we got close enough, we could see it was Mr. Hathaway.
“Sasha,” I whispered, pulling her sleeve. “Let’s go.”
She moved closer, looked she like she was about to speak to him but stopped. The noise we’d heard was clearer now, but still distant. It was sobbing. He wiped his eyes on the back of his hands, looked up at the moon, and told it he was sorry.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Rejection letters
from Diane Smith
to ryan
date Tue, Dec 28, 2010 at 2:27 PM
subject Re: Grey Sparrow submissions
Dear Ryan,
Loved your writing--not a good fit for Grey Sparrow and please think of us again.
Best,
Diane Smith
from upstreet
to exadore@gmail.com
date Wed, Dec 22, 2010 at 10:00 PM
subject Your submission to upstreet
Dear Ryan Boyle:
We’re sorry we can’t use "Limits of Oceans and Seas," which you submitted to upstreet number seven. We have received a great deal of work by writers who will not be included in the final selection, but certainly deserve to have their voices heard in other publications.
We wish you all the best with your writing; thank you for giving us the opportunity to read it.
The Editors
from Hayden's Ferry Review
to exadore@gmail.com
date Fri, Dec 17, 2010 at 7:56 PM
subject Your submission to Hayden's Ferry Review
Dear Ryan Boyle:
We appreciate the opportunity to read your work, but we will not be publishing your submission, "The Oral History of Impractical Devices." We wish you luck placing your work elsewhere.
Thanks very much for your interest in HFR!
Sincerely,
The Editors
from editor@barrierislandsreview.com
to exadore@gmail.com
date Wed, Dec 15, 2010 at 9:46 AM
subject Your submission to Barrier Islands Review
Dear Ryan,
Thank you for sending us "Limits of Oceans and Seas". We are honored that you considered our publication worthy to receive your writing. We thank you for the opportunity to read your work, but we regret that we must pass on it at this time. After receiving so many equally wonderful submissions, it becomes impossible to print them all. Thus, we must make the painful choice between them.
However, due to the caliber of your submission, we invite you to submit new work next month. We wish you the best of luck in your authorial endeavors, and we hope to hear from you again soon.
Sincerely,
Rebecca Anne Renner
Barrier Islands Review
from awesome@pankmagazine.com
to exadore@gmail.com
date Sat, Dec 11, 2010 at 11:44 PM
subject Your submission to PANK
Dear Ryan Boyle,
Thank you for sending us "Common Feature of Mammals in Captivity".
Unfortunately, while we very much enjoyed your writing, we didn't feel it was quite right for PANK. While we respectfully ask that you wait at least one month before submitting more work for our consideration, we do encourage you to keep us in mind for future submissions.
Sincerely,
Roxane
to ryan
date Tue, Dec 28, 2010 at 2:27 PM
subject Re: Grey Sparrow submissions
Dear Ryan,
Loved your writing--not a good fit for Grey Sparrow and please think of us again.
Best,
Diane Smith
from upstreet
to exadore@gmail.com
date Wed, Dec 22, 2010 at 10:00 PM
subject Your submission to upstreet
Dear Ryan Boyle:
We’re sorry we can’t use "Limits of Oceans and Seas," which you submitted to upstreet number seven. We have received a great deal of work by writers who will not be included in the final selection, but certainly deserve to have their voices heard in other publications.
We wish you all the best with your writing; thank you for giving us the opportunity to read it.
The Editors
from Hayden's Ferry Review
to exadore@gmail.com
date Fri, Dec 17, 2010 at 7:56 PM
subject Your submission to Hayden's Ferry Review
Dear Ryan Boyle:
We appreciate the opportunity to read your work, but we will not be publishing your submission, "The Oral History of Impractical Devices." We wish you luck placing your work elsewhere.
Thanks very much for your interest in HFR!
Sincerely,
The Editors
from editor@barrierislandsreview.com
to exadore@gmail.com
date Wed, Dec 15, 2010 at 9:46 AM
subject Your submission to Barrier Islands Review
Dear Ryan,
Thank you for sending us "Limits of Oceans and Seas". We are honored that you considered our publication worthy to receive your writing. We thank you for the opportunity to read your work, but we regret that we must pass on it at this time. After receiving so many equally wonderful submissions, it becomes impossible to print them all. Thus, we must make the painful choice between them.
However, due to the caliber of your submission, we invite you to submit new work next month. We wish you the best of luck in your authorial endeavors, and we hope to hear from you again soon.
Sincerely,
Rebecca Anne Renner
Barrier Islands Review
from awesome@pankmagazine.com
to exadore@gmail.com
date Sat, Dec 11, 2010 at 11:44 PM
subject Your submission to PANK
Dear Ryan Boyle,
Thank you for sending us "Common Feature of Mammals in Captivity".
Unfortunately, while we very much enjoyed your writing, we didn't feel it was quite right for PANK. While we respectfully ask that you wait at least one month before submitting more work for our consideration, we do encourage you to keep us in mind for future submissions.
Sincerely,
Roxane
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Definitely a human being
Kyle Tiller found the bloody remains in a field across the road from his house. Tiller, who was 16, called us breathless on the phone saying he'd heard a loud crash and we should get there immediately because we wouldn't believe what he'd discovered. "I think it's a person," he said.
Isaac Phillips and I rushed over on his moped. Isaac was only 15 but he was already nearly six feet tall and couldn't have weighed more than 130 pounds, his limbs stretched and spindly like mosquito legs. His head was topped with curly red hair and round glasses. His clothes never seemed to fit, pant cuffs always ending before socks began, jean jackets not quite making it to his waist. The moped was no different, and seeing him ride it around town reminded one of an adult on a child's tricycle, all elbows and knees projecting at odd angles.
When we got to Tiller's, we found the body was terribly mutilated, like a piece of fruit someone had given up trying to peel—bruised flesh coming off in sheets, jagged shards of broken bone piercing through uneven holes that slowly leaked their reward. Spreading around the body was a red halo that was melting the light frosting of snow on the ground and staining the soil beneath.
"Well, that's definitely a human being," I said as the three of us looked down at it.
"No shit," said Tiller. "It's wearing a shoe." We could also make out what appeared to be a belt and a pair of pants scattered through the mess. As far as we could tell, the rest of the body was unclothed.
Isaac, standing between us, pulled a small red camera from his pocket. "I've never seen a dead person before," he said. The flash reflected off the white snow around us, painting the body in lurid tones. "Looks like it was beaten by a team of baseball bats."
"Looks like Guernica." I said.
We speculated about what could have happened to him: piranha attack, hit and hit and hit and run, swallowed a cherry bomb, stood under a landing UFO, hit by a bulldozer ... or a steamroller, spontaneous combustion, pop rocks and soda. Tiller, his arms folded across his chest, pronounced with some confidence that it was a drug deal gone wrong, that they met in the woods around here all the time, this guy had probably cut the drugs with rat poison and they had taken their revenge by crushing him under a pile of cinderblocks and dumping the body here.
We heard something crunch in the snow behind us and my heart leapt. I immediately thought about the drug dealers, their teeth gleaming, eyes shadowed, returning to the scene of the crime to dispose of evidence, to dispose of witnesses. We turned to find a cop car pulling up—almost as bad—lights turning but siren silent.
"Aw shit!" said Tiller, waving at Isaac. "Put the fucking camera away. We're caught at the scene of a drug murder."
The cop said the same thing—"Aw shit"—as he got out of his car and caught sight of a smashed ribcage splayed out like broken keys on a piano. "What the hell happened?"
I watched the planes fly overhead and wished one of them would take me to California.
Isaac Phillips and I rushed over on his moped. Isaac was only 15 but he was already nearly six feet tall and couldn't have weighed more than 130 pounds, his limbs stretched and spindly like mosquito legs. His head was topped with curly red hair and round glasses. His clothes never seemed to fit, pant cuffs always ending before socks began, jean jackets not quite making it to his waist. The moped was no different, and seeing him ride it around town reminded one of an adult on a child's tricycle, all elbows and knees projecting at odd angles.
When we got to Tiller's, we found the body was terribly mutilated, like a piece of fruit someone had given up trying to peel—bruised flesh coming off in sheets, jagged shards of broken bone piercing through uneven holes that slowly leaked their reward. Spreading around the body was a red halo that was melting the light frosting of snow on the ground and staining the soil beneath.
"Well, that's definitely a human being," I said as the three of us looked down at it.
"No shit," said Tiller. "It's wearing a shoe." We could also make out what appeared to be a belt and a pair of pants scattered through the mess. As far as we could tell, the rest of the body was unclothed.
Isaac, standing between us, pulled a small red camera from his pocket. "I've never seen a dead person before," he said. The flash reflected off the white snow around us, painting the body in lurid tones. "Looks like it was beaten by a team of baseball bats."
"Looks like Guernica." I said.
We speculated about what could have happened to him: piranha attack, hit and hit and hit and run, swallowed a cherry bomb, stood under a landing UFO, hit by a bulldozer ... or a steamroller, spontaneous combustion, pop rocks and soda. Tiller, his arms folded across his chest, pronounced with some confidence that it was a drug deal gone wrong, that they met in the woods around here all the time, this guy had probably cut the drugs with rat poison and they had taken their revenge by crushing him under a pile of cinderblocks and dumping the body here.
We heard something crunch in the snow behind us and my heart leapt. I immediately thought about the drug dealers, their teeth gleaming, eyes shadowed, returning to the scene of the crime to dispose of evidence, to dispose of witnesses. We turned to find a cop car pulling up—almost as bad—lights turning but siren silent.
"Aw shit!" said Tiller, waving at Isaac. "Put the fucking camera away. We're caught at the scene of a drug murder."
The cop said the same thing—"Aw shit"—as he got out of his car and caught sight of a smashed ribcage splayed out like broken keys on a piano. "What the hell happened?"
I watched the planes fly overhead and wished one of them would take me to California.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Sasha Hathaway, 1
On the morning of September 10, Sasha Hathaway woke up with blood in her mouth.
She was thirteen years and three months old and, even though she lived across the street from me, there was a lot I didn’t know about her. I did not know what she wanted to be when she grew up. I did not know which boy had kissed her at the last church youth party. I did not know what she thought of me or why I couldn’t keep my eyes off her or why she smelled like a vanilla cake all day—even after gym class. Her powers were immense.
Here is what I did know: The boy she kissed was not Billy Costers—who she had a crush on. Her favorite game was Uno and her favorite night was taco night. Her mother had left six months ago, without a goodbye. She said 'my life is over' all the time, whenever something went wrong, whenever she got a C. And I know for certain that when she woke up that morning with her mouth full of blood she didn't realize her life really might be over soon.
"I tasted something funny," she said, wrinkling her nose that morning on the way to school. "Kinda bitter. I thought I was still dreaming. But then I sat up. It spilled out of my mouth all over my pajamas and my sheets."
I wasn’t paying that much attention, I was thinking about her lips, how they seemed like they were made out of cotton and down, the stuff of bonnets and blankets, how they seemed like the softest, most delicate things imaginable, how if I could just find the nerve, just reach out and…
She spit on the sidewalk and wiped her chin with the back of hand.
I’d never seen her do anything so rude and it surprised me. "Totally gross," she said and I nodded at her. "No," she said, seeing my shocked face. She pointed at a wet red stain on the pavement. "Andy, it's still happening."
I spent the day at my desk, staring at her back—thinking about her hair, pulled back behind a headband, still the longest, prettiest hair of anyone in school, like a waterfall of ink spilling from her scalp—while she stared at Billy Costers. She seemed uncomfortable in class all day, holding a napkin to her mouth and taking frequent trips to the bathroom, but she didn’t mention the blood again.
We walked home silently after school. Her dad was waiting for her at the front door when we got home, holding the bloody pajamas in his hand. He had a worried look on his face, under the scruffy beard he started growing after Sasha’s mom left but before he was laid-off from the factory. He mostly sat around the house in plaid shirts and read conspiracy theories on the internet.
“Go home, Andy,” he said to me. He turned to Sasha, clutching the blood-stained cloth in his fist. “Is it woman problems?”
“Oh god,” said Sasha, turning bright red. “My life is over.”
“You can tell me if it is. Maybe it’s time we talking about … you know, birds. Things adults do. We can go to the lady doctor.”
“Andy,” said Sasha, without turning to me. “Go home.”
She was thirteen years and three months old and, even though she lived across the street from me, there was a lot I didn’t know about her. I did not know what she wanted to be when she grew up. I did not know which boy had kissed her at the last church youth party. I did not know what she thought of me or why I couldn’t keep my eyes off her or why she smelled like a vanilla cake all day—even after gym class. Her powers were immense.
Here is what I did know: The boy she kissed was not Billy Costers—who she had a crush on. Her favorite game was Uno and her favorite night was taco night. Her mother had left six months ago, without a goodbye. She said 'my life is over' all the time, whenever something went wrong, whenever she got a C. And I know for certain that when she woke up that morning with her mouth full of blood she didn't realize her life really might be over soon.
"I tasted something funny," she said, wrinkling her nose that morning on the way to school. "Kinda bitter. I thought I was still dreaming. But then I sat up. It spilled out of my mouth all over my pajamas and my sheets."
I wasn’t paying that much attention, I was thinking about her lips, how they seemed like they were made out of cotton and down, the stuff of bonnets and blankets, how they seemed like the softest, most delicate things imaginable, how if I could just find the nerve, just reach out and…
She spit on the sidewalk and wiped her chin with the back of hand.
I’d never seen her do anything so rude and it surprised me. "Totally gross," she said and I nodded at her. "No," she said, seeing my shocked face. She pointed at a wet red stain on the pavement. "Andy, it's still happening."
I spent the day at my desk, staring at her back—thinking about her hair, pulled back behind a headband, still the longest, prettiest hair of anyone in school, like a waterfall of ink spilling from her scalp—while she stared at Billy Costers. She seemed uncomfortable in class all day, holding a napkin to her mouth and taking frequent trips to the bathroom, but she didn’t mention the blood again.
We walked home silently after school. Her dad was waiting for her at the front door when we got home, holding the bloody pajamas in his hand. He had a worried look on his face, under the scruffy beard he started growing after Sasha’s mom left but before he was laid-off from the factory. He mostly sat around the house in plaid shirts and read conspiracy theories on the internet.
“Go home, Andy,” he said to me. He turned to Sasha, clutching the blood-stained cloth in his fist. “Is it woman problems?”
“Oh god,” said Sasha, turning bright red. “My life is over.”
“You can tell me if it is. Maybe it’s time we talking about … you know, birds. Things adults do. We can go to the lady doctor.”
“Andy,” said Sasha, without turning to me. “Go home.”
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
write a story about failed attempts at utopia. maybe seperate them by age, but link them by theme: the shakers, the 1960s, today.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
"we're like those uncharted continents in the sky, clouds passing before the sun. we are vast and unknowable, billowing in many directions at once, capable of either drifting peacefully or exploding into great fits of grey violence. but in the end we are only mist, molecules of water that happen briefly and coincidentally to exist in the same place at the same time—but not forever. we are only mist, capable of being pulled apart, capable of disappearing completely in the face of the wrong gust of wind or the slightest change in pressure. and yes, sometimes we do get to bathe in that bright warm sun but other times, we cover it up completely."
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