Aargh! {{erika}} I hate that feeling.

On the one hand, I'm proud because I didn't rush it out. I know I gave it all I had. On the other, if that was all I had, maybe I'm not good enough.

It just might not have been what they were looking for. I'm kind of wary of my story's chances, cause it's weird and unconventional, and would be off-putting to anyone who doesn't like excessive stylistic flourishes. Maybe the judges weren't into your story for reasons that had nothing to do with its quality. There are other venues. There will be no giving up of the hope for you.

Maybe mine was not weird *enough*...it's kind of domestic.

Erika, all that means is that one editor didn't think the story met his or her criteria for stories for the magazine. It's not a judgment on quality. Just send it right back out somewhere else.

I definitely could... it was all betaed by Deb and Nilly...you don't suppose I can put a sticker with that on it...like a seal of approval.

Here's a broken glass drabble:

"Aren't we even going to talk about this?"

"I'm going to work."

She watched as he climbed into his car and backed out of the driveway. He didn't look at her.

She slammed the door and heard an echoing crash in the next room. It was the mirror, which had hung safely for 10 years or more. She could see the colors of the room reflected in the shards arced across the floor, and for a moment it made her dizzy. She held onto the doorjamb. "Seven years of bad luck," she thought. "I wonder if I'll notice the difference."

Ooo. A broken glass drabble of EXTREME sap. Warning. Warning.

Union

In the ocean breeze, the chuppah billows and swells like a sail, the proud stripes of blue and white calling the eye to the couple circling below. Oak trees loom gravely at the rear of the assembled crowd, ancient witnesses to an ancient rite.

Ghost-sweet nightingale notes from the chazzan blend with the raucous crying of the gulls and the gentle murmur of the surf. A sharing of words, a sharing of wine. Seven blessings read before G-d and man alike.

Their covenant is gladly entered into, made and blessed and marked with the shattering of glass beneath his foot.

Ouch, Ginger.

Another non violent drabble for this weeks challenge:

She always thought that someday a nice guy might fall in love with her. He would be attracted to her mind or her heart, and he would over look her physical flaws. It was possible. What wasn’t possible is that she would have a purely physical affair. The kind of affair that led to sex in the kitchen because you couldn’t wait long enough to walk the few extra steps to the bedroom. That idea was laughable. She laughed as she cleared away the remnants of a cobalt vase that he had knocked off the kitchen table the night before.