P.I. MANNING RUN OVER BY A PICKUP TRUCK

I've been struggling again with the futuristic novel, and this morning, my frustrated gaze fell upon this short story, "The Pickup", whose first page is to the left. It's been sent out wandering 7 times over the years, but it's been a long time between the last time and now. So I went through it again, the third full revision, calked the holes in it, I hope, and put a fresh coat of paint on the old structure, w/o altering it's hidden naughtiness. I don't count as revisions all the times I've skimmed it for language. The tale's now on its merry way through the application, Submittable, to a large West Coast literary magazine in a transcendental city named after a Saint. These Spring days aren't the most favorable for sending to literary magazines supported by state institutions because most are shutting down for the Summer and won't be accepting again till in the Fall. However, I keep an eye on that detail and hope not to waste my time. Another publication would get my novelistic engine firing again, I'd think. I've got high hopes for it, then, again, I always do until it's been rejected several times more and comes back home with its tale [sic] between its legs.