Rejection, Shame and Misery

Hello everyone
      Today brings miserable news. My entry for Massacre Magazine summer contest has been rejected. 250 carefully crafted words thrown out with the trash by the click of a button. I can't even bring myself to read the winning entry.
     I worked hard on that piece of flash fiction, cutting, preening and polishing until I was satisfied; I thought it was good (for me anyway) I thought I had a chance, I really did, but obviously not.
     As usual I've wasted my time; time I could have spent on my novel, but then if I can't even get 250 winning words, what chance do I have with 80,000+. Am I just kidding myself; will it be 300 pages of drivel that no one will be interested in?
     The story had to be about an abandoned summer house in the woods and this is it.
                                                                 THE HUNGER
     The summer house remains, its origins a mystery now. A drifter through time, slipping between worlds. Decayed and broken but never falling. A deadly visitor. The eater of children; the destroyer of lives. Enticing the innocent into its shrouded domain with the promise of base camps and dens. Places to play. Secrets to share. An army camp on Monday, a dolls house on Wednesday. It waits silently, patiently for the curious to stumble upon. It is always eager, desperate for the fresh young souls; it has a voracious appetite. I played there once, lured in by its earthy scent and almost hidden location. I was a robber hiding out from the police and in the end, they found me, the officers with their sniffer dogs. They say my body was unmarked, slumped in the corner, looing as if I'd simply falled asleep and forgotten to wake up. If only they knew the truth. The sudden sense of isolation, the feeling of being watched by unseen eyes. Its painted skin rippling with anticipation. Vibrations so subtle that only the hair on your arms can detect. The ancient wood, porous, thirsty. The very bones of the beast breathing, sighing. A chill in the air now, almost imperceptible as it makes its move. Siphoning the soul from its body, dredging the foundations of your mortality. The damp wood beckons. You sit as tiredness overwhelms until the vessel that housed your being is empty, drained of its life force, you are dead.
     I suppose I still have my Fiction Feast story awaiting its fate and another for Saga, but the seed of doubt has taken root again, so I don't hold out much hope for either of them. Rejection brings you down, makes you doubt yourself and your abilities.
     Please let me know what you think of my flash fiction, until next time, happy scribbling and I hope you have more luck than me.