On the heels of a rejection, I finished editing my short story and submitted it today—thanks to my spouse whisking the boy to Zuma Beach for the afternoon, leaving me to my laptop in my quiet bedroom office—quiet but for Big Al’s novel-length, audible cat-sighs—silence but for the A/C clicking on because once again we broil in an unseasonly manner, although I doubt unseasonly has pertained to the West San Fernando Valley for some time. It’s just always hot here. My Halloween pirates and skulls are in danger of melting. This might not be a bad thing as my husband and I are constantly startled by our wind-swayed decorations, which we foolishly hung to the height of a tall man—whether heads have bodies, or not. We twinge, we gasp for a moment, we don’t laugh. Our son, however, is never startled, but constantly delighted by his spooky front walk and Pyrate Patio. This is a very, very good thing. Martha Stewart—poet, fiction submitter, sweltering-Fall survivor and Halloween participant—signing off.