How We Did Things Back in the Day
You send out the thing that wants to be a book. You wait.
You wait a long time. You wait a very long time.
The thing comes back: “No thanks.”
Might as well say, “You suck.”
Rinse. Repeat.
And again and again and again.
Years pass in endless repetition.
“Does not fit our current needs.”
“Not our aesthetic.”
“We don’t publish crap like this.”
“We know where you live and are coming to kill you.”
“We have ceased publication because of this awful shit.”
“Go straight to hell, motherfucker.”
You send out the thing that wants to be a book.
You wait.
The thing that wants to be a book
begins to rot.
It festers.
It wants you dead.
It knows your weak spots,
your pressure points,
your night terrors and flop sweats.
The thing that wants to be a book
will see you suffer, by God, by Hell, by damn.
It is your mistress and your fate.
If you had the balls you would burn it,
but you won’t.
Coward.
You will send it again.
Just once more, and once more and once more.
And you will never forget, ever,
to include sufficient return postage
with your SASE.
Horror Sleaze Trash 