My big brother can’t stop making fun of what people wrote in the sympathy cards we’re supposed to answer. What makes him think he commands insight into the written word? He’s a twenty-two-year-old heating and air conditioning guy. I’m seventeen, and already my writing has been rejected by some prestigious sites and publications. I’ve been rejected by pretty low-rent operations, too. But I think I have a shot.
He flips another card across the kitchen table, this one off-white with gold script. As it lands it flies open. “Check it out,” he says.
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