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What is the meaning of life? Is it this?

-Paul B.

Last September, at the annual Superhero Convention, hundreds of superheroes gathered at the Millennium Broadway Hotel in New York City to mix, mingle, and socialize. They all had their masks dry-cleaned and their best tights ironed and the ladies spent hours at the beauty shop having their hair done. The banquet tables were decorated with lavish centerpieces, embroidered napkins, gleaming silverware, crystal wine glasses, and placeholders with each superhero’s name written in gold trim.

I submitted this story to my course anthology and it did not get selected (sad). This story was inspired by true events experienced by my good friend Jeff Hunter as a Marine in Iraq. Also it's a bit of an emotional response to my Mom's death a year and a half ago.

He slowly, quietly cracked the white door to her large, seashore mansion and stepped in.

I wrote this in 1992 at 11 years old to submit to a children's Christmas story contest for the Las Vegas Review journal. Can somebody tell me why this possibly wouldn't win?

Warning! This short story is gruesome and filled with illness inducing descriptions of human mutilation. It is not appropriate for the faint of heart, squeemish, pregnant women, or average well adjusted folk. In fact it might not be appropriate for Headhug all together.

The increasing down pour of rain and the steady drop in temperature brought him back to consciousness.
“It is so cold.”
“*Cough* *Cough* Hack! Wheeze…”

In a society of specialists where the jack of all trades is master of none, Edgar Anderson had found his niche. He was an employer. He was never picked first on the playground, he never would have succeeded in rigorous academic pursuits, and he was never very popular at parties. But there was one thing that Edgar did well, and he did it better than anyone else. He employed people who were the best at what they did and put them to work.