Sometimes you have to become your own gatekeeper.

I kept these replies in my head—no sense bothering their pretty little ones.

Dear Editors,

Many thanks for the rejection.

I shredded it—quickly, gently, and with all the care you clearly put into crafting it.

It went straight into the compost pile.

The hydrangeas are especially blue now with that mulch.

Bless your hearts,

Abra Rue

Dear Editors,

I appreciate your rejection.

I shredded it with great ceremony—mirroring the haste with which you wrote my name inside the form letter—and added it to the bonfire materials for next month’s meeting.

I’ll be thinking of you.

Bless your hearts,
Abra Rue

Dear Editors,

Thank you so much for your rejection note.

I do wonder—however did you manage to squeeze it in between your champagne brunch, your manicure appointment, and that mango–salt scrub you simply cannot live without?

Bless your hearts,
Abra Rue

Dear Editors,

I appreciate the rejection.

From the cadence alone I could tell it was composed with one thumb while you clung to a swaying UES train strap, no doubt wedged between a woman with a Pomeranian and a man loudly negotiating stocks.

Thank you for thinking of me amidst all that majesty.

Bless your hearts,
Abra Rue

Dear Editors,

Thank you for your algorithmic condolences.

I fed them to the crows. One poor soul belched and fell to the ground like an anchor from the Titanic.

Thanks to you, I finally have a way to keep those pesky birds off my kitchen garden.

Bless your hearts,
Abra Rue

Dear Editors,

I appreciate the rejection.

Your unusual capitalization pattern felt like a coded message from an ancestor or a ghost with poor motor control.

I tried to ’cipher it, but all I could interpret was: “we don’t hanker no proofreadin’ ’round here.”

Bless your hearts,
Abra Rue

Dear Editors,

Appreciate the no.

I’ve seen raccoons make clearer decisions riflin’ through my trash at 2 a.m.

But hey—you do you.

Bless your hearts,
Abra Rue

Dear Editors,

I appreciate your form rejection letter.

I printed it out and placed it on my stack of “ceremonial combustibles.”

Later at a full moon, I’ll use it to spark a small altar burning in your honor.

Wish you could attend…

Bless your hearts,
Abra Rue

Dear Editors,

Thank you kindly.

I laid your rejection inside a neat salt circle
on the kitchen counter.

When I came back, a breeze had blown every grain clean away— except the ones stickin’ to your name.

Can’t say I’m lovin’ that sign….

Bless your hearts,
Abra Rue

Dear Editors,

Thank you for your thoughtful rejection. I appreciate learning that my story “was compelling, haunting, and unforgettable” but also “not quite what you’re looking for.”

I’ll treasure that contradiction always.

Bless your hearts,
Abra Rue

Dear Editors,

I appreciate the decline.

I pressed your letter between pages of my grandmother’s Bible
to see what sort of mark it would leave.

The page curled at the edges.

Make of that what you will—but church starts at 11:00.

Bless your hearts,
Abra Rue

Dear Editors,

Thanks for the decline.

I pressed your rejection between two oak leaves to see what omen it carried.

The leaves turned coal black overnight.

I’ll let you know if that’s good or not—best stock up on some vinegar.

Bless your hearts,
Abra Rue

Dear Editors,

It’s Thanksgiving, and my Southern manners require me to be grateful for your 7:30 a.m. rejection note.

So—here goes—I’m damned grateful it arrived today, before I slid the turkey in the oven, rather than on Christmas morning.

Bless your hearts,
Abra Rue

Dear Editors,

Your rejection email made my laptop hum when I opened it.

Just a faint vibration, like a trapped insect.

I printed it off and tucked it beneath a jar of river stones
to keep it still—

Bless your hearts,
Abra Rue

Dear Editors,

Thanks for the pass.

I put your note next to my cousin’s DUI paperwork and honestly? His has fewer typos.

Do better, sugar.

Bless your hearts,
Abra Rue

Dear Editors,

Thanks for the rejection—and the inspiration.

I set your note aside for a minute,
just long enough to sip my coffee
and remember that anyone who’s actually read my stories
already knows I’m built from grit, bone memory,
and the kind of truth that doesn’t wash off.

So truly—no hard feelings.
Some folks recognize strength.
Some just blink at it.

Bless your hearts,
Abra Rue

Dear Editors,

Thanks kindly.

Your rejection landed on my kitchen counter and the salt cellar tipped just a bit, as if it had an opinion.

I’ve had calamari in Madrid, oysters in Manhattan, and a layover in Icheon on my way to Beijing—where even the air was rehearsed— but nothing judges like Appalachian table salt.

Bless your hearts,
Abra Rue