Don't Panic!

Don't blink, either. Or breathe. Just stand very still and wait.

Accept and Decline letters are going out even as you read this. Editor Stevens is strapped to his computer, red-eyed, pop-eyed, hairy tongue a-loll, mouth a-froth, head steaming, elbows jerking wildly, St Vitus' marionette, hands flailing, typing frantically away through the long list of Submitters, notifying them of the fate of their beloved poems. His magic fingers are a blur of frenzied prestidigitation as they rap out a dazzling keystroke hypersyncopation which resolves into a streaming blizzard of emailed notifications, each one bearing joy or despair, Heaven or Hell, mild boredom or slight irritation. And one such notification will reach you very soon—provided, of course, that you submitted work in the first place. It will come. Patience.