wildwestwind: Tired of Rejection

Michael's Fáilte

Welcome to these writing warmups, blatherings, rantings, meditations, perorations, salutations, latest and those on time, those narrative, declarative, interrogative, gollywogative and other outdated, belated, simulated musings, perusings, shavings and other close calls, with no disrespect intended, that's why no real names included whenever impossible to avoid the guilt that came in the crib for uttering something that would hurt or injure those in authority, being of everlasting servitude to all and sundry, having chosen the road not taken and the frost on the pumpkin long before the kettle turned black or the cat found its own tail fascinating,
Your humble servant, etc.

Monday, October 1, 2012

Tired of Rejection

Tired of rejection Martha turned to the wall. "Hi. It's been awhile."

"Wasn't that a Johnny Cash song," said George.

Martha placed both palms flat against the wall and arched her back.

George had seen that done in a television special on yoga one time. A thought flickered across his collegiate brow. Jesus. Maybe it's too, what's the word? dispassionate. He shook his head and said, "You okay?"

She spoke from behind the curtain of hair that screened her suspended face. "I think it was the Beatles."

Now George was really lost. He knew it really couldn't have been the Beatles. It had a country vibe he couldn't put his fingers on. The ice maker in the refrigerator went off, whirring and clunking. Maybe the machines of the world were sent to save us, thought George.

"It's big," said Martha.

"What?" said George. Then he caught himself. Rejection. It came folded up in the morning mail, a little bent from the way the cute postmistress had crammed it into that pigeonhole they called a PO Box, but when you unfolded it, George realized, it was a pretty big rejection.

"Don't..." he cleared his throat.

Martha hadn't moved and her body language, half asana and half comical—My God. She looks like she's going to push the wall down, he thought. No wait. She's holding it up! The wall of rejection. He shook himself again. "Don't some people, uh, writers," he said, "don't they say you can wallpaper your walls with rejection notices?"

"Go to hell," Martha mumbled.