The Rules are Clearly Spelled Out

The rules are clearly spelled out in the brochure.  Yeah, but maybe, just maybe not clear enough for a guy like me to understand.  They must have been in fine print, just small enough and in a space just inconspicuous enough for a guy like me to miss, but just by that much; high and inside, just enough to force the batter out of the batter’s box and take a long, hard look out at the pitcher, trying to catch his eye, see if it was intentional and charge the mound if he sees the faintest tinge of red.
          I need a cup of coffee and head slowly for the kitchen.  It’s small but cozy, and I feel comfortable enough to have one or two people over at a time, as we can eat in the kitchen and not feel too crowded.  The carafe clinks against the cup sitting on the counter and I return it to its place, having finished pouring.  Black.  No cream, no sugar.
          I’ve waited for this moment all week.  Not the coffee, not sitting at my breakfast nook.  These rituals I perform daily, along with the retrieval of my mail.  These are regular items on my daily agenda.  This week, however, is different.  This week I knew it would be here.  They told me it would be here this week, the third week in June, 1999.  I have waited for it since the time I mailed off my submission, almost eight weeks ago to the day.
          I look at the opening two sentences of the letter again, feeling more self pity than anger.  How could they do this to me?  I worked so hard.  Write, rewrite, rewrite again.  I followed the submission guidelines, making certain every line, every paragraph was clear and concise, every semicolon in its proper place, every dash used correctly.  Yet here I am, faced with this letter of rejection typed up on fancy, company stationary and looking very professional.  I personally don’t see the need for professionalism when smashing a guy’s hopes and dreams.  Just do it and get it over with, no need to go overboard and get all fancy in the process.
          I sip my coffee.  It’s hot as it runs down my throat.  Taking another sip, holding this one in my mouth and swirling it over my tongue until it cools, I begin reading aloud to myself:

        Mr. Davis:
          Thank you for submitting a sample of your writing to our 1999 Summer Fiction Open.  We are sure you submitted only your best, as the rules are clearly spelled out in the brochure.

          It went on, I’m sure, but I stopped at this point, feeling too humiliated and ashamed at having received yet another rejection slip.  More of my precious time wasted, churning out mere drivel in the eyes of  the more experienced.
          Walking over to the garbage can, I begin ripping the letter into a thousand tiny pieces, only stopping when my fingers can no longer shred, when the letter is a substantial amount of Mardi Gras confetti.  Feeling both satisfied and drained at the same time I retire to my room, resolving to sleep the remainder of the day away.

          As the confetti flitters down towards the garbage can, two pieces almost touch.  If taped back together with delicate fingers these two pieces would, without a doubt, spell out the word, “Congratulations.”