SUBMISSIONS REJECTIONS & OTHER STORIES
FRANCESCA ALBINI
Introduction I've always been a writer, but in July 2019 I decided to become a full time writer. My plan was to submit poetry, flash stories and creative essays to as many printed and online publications as possible, as well as to enter all sorts of competitions. I intended to be very systematic in my approach, and spent quite some time building an amazing online database with dates, type of entry, theme, name of publication, title of work, etc. Then the website I was using made some changes, and my database vanished into thin air. I continued the exercise of writing and submitting works without bothering with a database. My submissions were mostly done through the fabulous Submittable. I would peruse the various opportunities, and enjoy the challenge of writing 100 words stories, themed poetry, and essays on specific subjects. I wrote and submitted incessantly for a month. Some of my works were accepted (yes!), some, sadly, rejected. Here is a collection of my rejects during that month, accompanied by images that were also rejected at some point in my life. The first of such images is the cover of this ebook, a photo of Lake Watson, AZ, I submitted as a cover for an online poetry magazine. As I have lost my database I don't remember what publication I sent the various works to, but I remember some of the themes and guidelines, and I have written them under the divider at the end of each piece.
Floaters I don’t remember if it was raining outside Because inside there was a thunderstorm, White flashes, black flashes And the roaring of fear. Fear was followed by laughter Under the outside rain Running to the Emergency Room. More flashes and soft yellow snow. I don’t know why I was still laughing. While I was watching The slow descent of the floaters An inner lava lamp, A bee landed in my eye. It gently drank my tears And suddenly flew off In a halo of pollen and mist.
This poem was an ekphrasis of a photo-montage of an eye, a bee and some kind of pollen.
Glass In 1967 I discovered infrangible glass. It was not really infrangible. Rather, it was frangible, but in a less dispersed fashion, it all stuck together in small beehive cells. The fun consisted in flinging the clusters of broken unbreakable glass against the pavement and make them explode into a myriad of single cells. That evening, I interrogated my parents on the theme of infrangible glass. I thought it was supposed not to break. ‘Of course, infrangible glass breaks,’ they answered, ‘but in a more cohesive way. It doesn’t shatter.’ Nothing in the Sixties amused me more than breaking unbreakable glass. 100 words microstory
Rejected book cover
Tristesse Tristesse, your face is everywhere, Young, not me, not me, not anymore. Never again. Here, for yet another thirty years, When the body is corrupted, marching to the end, delirious. Tristesse, all broken. My scary bed sheets, The dreams that come out of their world, A world that I cannot handle, not anymore. It's never been before today, Before yesterday Before the past two months. Tristesse, I want to talk to you about this town, The woman in handcuffs, the fat policeman, the mouse under the door. Everything is so black, so grey, so far away is the sun, Unreachable, unjust, Exclusive to those who have not left. For me, Tristesse, There's only guilt, Filth, misery, And a deep, embracing Horror.
This poem on mental illness probably was not entirely rejected. I think it was part of an exhibition. I also probably did publish it somewhere else. Still, here it is.
Rejected book cover
Blank I sang walk on the wild side To sailors Red lights, wrinkled darkness Runaway kids Red lights smoothing the skin .Young woman With dentures .She lost them on the floor of her flat. I wanted to give her a spoonful of oil To sober her up. Back at the club I'm going to make you a star You are wasted here. Of course, I'm wasted Moet Chandon Too expensive for just a kiss Love becomes money, And your friend is harbouring An underage girl In his basement. I talk to him while waiting For you at the train station. /cont.
I get arrested. They have nothing on me Because I have nothing. Except for a sharp pain That makes me drink, And sing for sailors. My foreign boyfriend Passes out on a damp couch, While a random man Slips a finger in his mouth. Red lights to take my pain away. I'm only an innocent kid. Were there really guns In the trunk of the car? Was the little flower girl Really selling flowers Or was she stalking me? I had inadvertently Killed her brother. None of this Would be possible today. But then, I'm not innocent anymore.
This poem was written a while ago, but I submitted it in July to some kind of urban dark magazine. I thought it was urban dark.
Collage rejected by the RA Summer Exhibition
Best Friends I could be grieving Your future death, Fearing you might fade From my life And leave me naked, With unshared memories. But I could have imagined you All along, I could have created you, Your joys and pains. I could have been alone, All the time Sipping margaritas at the bar, Talking to ghosts, On my own, Grieving somebody Who never was.
Submitted to a poetry magazine.
In the Morning I wrote a poem last night In my sleep Half asleep, A new poem, A different poem. I wrote it with my finger Inside my eyelids, So that I would remember it In the morning. Because it was my best poem, Ever. And I wrote it in my eyelids, And read it over and over, Aloud, With my inner voice, Keeping half awake, So that I would remember it In the morning. I would Remember.
Submitted to a poetry magazine.
Submitted to a Dan Eldon postcard competition
I Ring my Dead Father I ring my dead father, he says he’s still writing, with a publisher called Black. I say, you can’t be. And he asks me why. Then I cry and tell him I am sorry, so sorry I couldn’t have loved him better, that I always have, anyway, and all is good because the connection is interrupted and I have no idea as to where to find his phone number again. Just a broken doll. Sitting on a couch in an overwhelming flat full of stuff. Stuff. Stuff. Hotel room with chocolate and nuts and one tea after another, while it's whisky I really want, but then can you imagine. It’s bad enough as is. My friend smells of old and unkempt, I can’t tell her that. She thinks she’ll see me again, I take her bracelets, she kisses me on the cheek, and I know that’s it. I am done with this town, with my past. I spend the rest of the afternoon watching TV in my hotel room, curtains drawn.
I don't think I have ever submitted this, and I'm not so sure that it is finished either. But I found it in my Submissions folder, and I'm sure it would get rejected.
DK photo competition
The Girl in the Wall I had a friend, when I was a child, called Marina. Marina lived in the wall of our bedroom. When I went to bed at night, she’d rush down the stairs in the wall to come and talk to me. Unlike other children, she really liked my company. I was special to her, and she was my best friend. Marina was cheerful and wise. She had a big family, with brothers and sisters, a dog and a cat. We had to whisper, not to wake my sister up. One time, Marina came down with a parrot she got for her birthday, and we feared we might both end up in trouble. “Shush. Quiet!” we'd tell the parrot. “Shush. Quiet!” the parrot would repeat, screeching, and we both laughed and laughed. Luckily my sister did not wake up, and all was well. Marina’s house in the wall had many floors and many rooms. Her bedroom was two floors up, and it was filled to the brim with toys. I was never jealous of her, and I never really told her much about my life. Hers seemed so much more fascinating. Her father was a ship captain, and he always brought her exotic presents from all over the world. Her mother was really young and beautiful. I would have loved to see her. But there were no doors in the wall, so I could not go and visit Marina’s family, and she could not come and sit on my bed. But it was okay, because we could talk. And we talked a lot. Every night. In time I started to open up to Marina, and tell her about my worries, my fears, my hopes. One day I had a big fight with my sister. We screamed at each other and called each other names. I flung myself onto the bed, crying, and calling my friend, “Marina! Marina!” /cont.
But nobody came rushing down the stairs. “Marina, where are you?” Silence. “Please, Marina, I’m so upset, I need you.” “Marina is gone,” said my sister quietly. “No, she can’t be.” I sobbed. “Marina! Please!” “She will never come back. Because I created her to make you happy, but you are so ungrateful. She’s gone now. For ever.” Did I really think there could be a girl in the wall? Had I never noticed that Marina spoke with my sister’s voice? I guess the answer is that there were no borders in my life yet, no hard boundaries between reality and imagination, I could come in and out as I pleased. Until that fight with my sister broke the spell.
Themed competition for a short story about boundaries
Art gallery submission
Hebdomera or the Palace The building is one of those Genoese buildings otherwise known as palaces for their grandeur and decay. The itinerary is aggressively imposed by ageing guards, happy and annoyed with their only visitor. You must start here on the left in the Renaissance room says one of the caryatids, while removing a cobweb from his mouth. Hebdomera looks at the map of wrinkles on the guard’s face and it reminds her of those machines that carved grooves into vinyl. She turns around to tell her two friends, but they are so invisible they are not even there. So, she turns back to the guard and says, actually, I'm only here for the exhibition. As you wish, replies the guard irritated. It's downstairs but it has nothing of the Renaissance opulence. You should really start here on the left. Thank you, answers Hebdomera proceeding down the stairs. The exhibition is about the light of Egypt and the lights turn on as she progresses through the path of vitrines. The photographs are yellow cream faded. Nothing has changed, says Hebdomera to her invisible friends. They say nothing. If they were to say something, they would disagree. Just as well you don't exist, comments Hebdomera. She takes a brochure to make sure she remembers the names of the photographers, and expedites onto the street. The sun shines yellow. Nothing has changed. /cont.
You see she says later, while sipping prosecco in a glass way too wide to conserve bubbles. You see, she says to Georgia De, everyone thinks the sun was a god because it gives life. But not in Egypt not in the desert. In the desert, the sun is a giver of death. And the temples are the only source of shade. That's why worshippers worshipped. What palace was the exhibition in? The red palace or the white palace? Asks Georgia De. I'm not sure replies Hebdomera, it looked kind of grey. It was one of the palaces in the ex via garibaldi ex strada nova ex garibaldi ex nova. Ah, exclaimed Giorgia De, pushing a rebel lock of her wig out of her eye. At this point we are both pretty much artificial and have bits of metal sticking out of our bodies. You must be extra careful when you fall. But her eyes are so luminous, so solar, in a good way. Not in a desert way. We must walk very slowly now but that's fine because we walked fast before. And we didn't get very far. Plus, nobody is waiting for me at home, that place, called home, sort of. Hebdomera gets on the same bus heading in the same direction. But its number has changed.
Entered in a flash story competition. I think.
Acknowledgements I would like to thank all the people and organisations who rejected my works in July 2019, giving me the opportunity to put together this little scrapbook. I don't take it personally, really, I don't.
Lomography competition
A scrapbook of rejected works
Francesca Albini is a published author and artist who, VERY OCCASIONALLY, gets rejected, and NEVER takes it personally