Awaiting Moderation

“Between Sleeps,” another of the recently published spate of stories by Salvatore Difalco, can be found here. I was pleased to see that the online litmag in which the story is published includes a comment box at the bottom of each story. No comments had been posted yet on “Between Sleeps” when I read it last Friday. “Be the first to start a conversation,” the site invited me, so I did. I wrote:

As above, so below: one guy’s rooftop is Another Guy’s subterrain, landfill, toilet, sewer, perforated intestine.

“Your comment is awaiting moderation,” the site informed me after I hit the Post button. I checked back later in the day: still awaiting. Next day, still nothing. My comment began to wonder: when does moderation slip into immoderate sloth? Maybe when a new story goes up the publisher/editor will notice the new comment in the queue and put it up? Well, a new story was published this morning, and still my comment hasn’t been approved, still the conversation remains unstarted. I clicked onto each story published over the past month and a half: not a single comment on any of them. Maybe there are dozens of comments, hundreds of them, sitting silently in the waiting room. Maybe there’s a hole in the ceiling and they all got sucked up into the vortex…

6 thoughts on “Awaiting Moderation

  1. Maybe I should submit my comment as a poem:

    as above
    so below
    one guy’s rooftop is Another Guy’s
    perforated intestine

    I wonder if the publisher sends out rejection notices.


  2. Here’s another comment I’d drop on this story if I didn’t know that it too would be held forever in the moderation waiting room. It’s a passage from The Flamethrowers, a 2013 novel by Rachel Kushner that I’m reading now…

    The next image Ronnie showed us was rephotographed from the cover of Time magazine, a woman sitting at her kitchen table, pulling down the waist of her stretch pants to expose her hip, revealing the outlines of a huge bruise, like a cloud was crossing the kitchen ceiling, darkening an area of her body in its shadow.

    “Meteorite,” Ronnie said. “Only human ever to be hit by one.”

    The woman’s expression was of calm, satisfied wonder. As if there were some secret logic to what had taken place, to her having been selected for this unusual fate. Time had posed the woman where the meteorite had hit her, seated at her kitchen table. Above her was a torn hole about the width of an oven rack, a shaft of sunlight boring straight through like an inward punch of God’s hand.

    Is there any difference, I wonder perpetually, between an unposted comment and a posted but unread comment?


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