Which means perhaps that I was being considered? What are the online-presence dealbreakers if a story is under consideration? p.s. I never publish my submissions online.
Why does every lit journal have their own very specific guidelines on how something is formatted. And why are they so strict about it?
When you’re an unknown writer and you’re submitting you have to submit to tons of places. It’s a numbers game. It just is. So why make that more time consuming than it needs to be. Submitting the work for review for publication should be the smallest part of the job in my opinion.
Would it not be so much easier if everyone used the same standard submission header and such?
I’m about to post two excerpts below, around 1,000 words total. I think that's more than enough to get a rough idea of the author's level. The first excerpt is a stylized poetic-epic piece, and the second leans into a modern urban-mystic rhythm. So, let’s try it this way: I invite anyone willing to tear the author's literary efforts to shred. Roast it into the ground if you want.
Only two requests:
I'll say it again: go hard, don't hold back. Maybe I really do need a reality check. And while I have a pretty good idea of what kind of feedback to expect—and will probably disagree with a lot of it—there might just be a few points I'll be forced to take into account. Also, if by some chance anyone finds these excerpts decent, I'd love to hear your advice on which specific magazines or outlets I should submit to.
[Epic-poetic excerpt]
The Willow
If we are to steer a course for the Shores of Truth—for let us honest be, few have a taste for idle tales and toothless fables—the gathering-in of this ancient lay must begin with the Khukhas. The high-browed wiseacres, to be sure, might well take offense and carp: why start with the Khukhas, and not with the even older Khokhas, freshly sucked from some over-refined thumb? Or why must we open with the Khukhas instead of finishing with them, or bringing them up somewhere in the middle? Why is the wind windy, and why does the elderberry grow in the garden? These restless minds could surely spin endless webs of such tangled cleverness… But a countless flock of crayfish will whistle from the mountaintops, flies will bring forth elephants, and the boundless fields of fern will ignite their bizarre blossoms upon the Moon long before any soul needs to clutter their mind with such nonsense. For it is not the custom of worthies to blacken the white or to whitewash the black. Thus it has been since the days of old, and that is an end to it. To the Khukhas belongs the Khukhas' glory, and no more words upon it!
So, let us draw a deep breath and guide this flowing tale along—not to fashion it for any man’s whim, but as they used to do in the truly glorious past: by the bidding of the heart! And we shall begin not with empty breath, but with that very parable of how these fluffy little Khukhas once dwelt in the wide world, by no means unknown to fame. Today, of course, the very headwaters of time are beyond our reach. Yet they say that when the borders between Nava, the Unseen World, and Yava, the Waking World, lay so sheer that folk rarely even noticed them, there was in those times no messenger between lovers more faithful and selfless than these comely little creatures And though nowadays, search as you might with a lantern at high noon, you could scarce find a soul who has not sipped the bitter brew steeped on the sprouts of Betrayal, the blossoms of Desolation, and the roots of Despair, the Khukhas themselves bypass lovers by the most distant paths—it was not so once. Not so at all.
Even just around a not-so-distant corner of existence—in the morning, or at high noon, let alone in the evening dusk—whose hands did not try to catch them? They caught them in those brief moments when a careless Khukha, spun around in endless games, forgot to make herself invisible. And they caught them not merely for mischief—no! To send word of the restless beating of their hearts, entrusting their very fate to a speck of down—that was the hope of those who reached out.
“Fly, fly, little Khukha, to my lover’s ear,
Speak of his maiden, soothe her heavy heart…”
So chirped the girls to their weightless accomplice. And, brimming with hope, they gently blew her from their palms.
“Come, oh come, my lady-love,
I shall build a footbridge for thee…”
With no less longing did the lads who had lost their sleep call upon their desired maidens, baring their chests to the spring wind.
Yet it was not only girls and lads—anyone with strength left would quite often chant their spells to the Khukhas, lagging only a step or two behind the youth in this merry chase. And in springtime, the life of the Khukhas turned into something of a downright curse, so often did folk turn to them for help. True, it never happened that a Khukha refused anyone the first, second, or even the third time, for to aid lovers stood above all else for them. But when the exact same restless hands caught them without end, the thread of patience would snap even for the most long-suffering of Khukhas!
Then, waiting for the dead of night, the fluffy conspirators would quietly creep out of their soft little nests and flock to the homesteads of the biggest nuisances, bringing to their unbridled passion a grim but only possible reckoning. Settling on a chest or right by the ear, they would whisper their witchcraft charms in shifting voices over Those Who Had Lost All Measure. And it was a blessing if the spell of indifference they cast lost its power within a few months.
Furthermore, in a fleeting hope for peace, flocks of the Khukhas tried to change the places of their revels. Yet it was like drawing water with a sieve. For when some Khukhas, weary of the clinging, smoky world of mortals, fled the hearths for the Unseen Realm—others always returned from it to take their place, driven to their wits' end by the Navia, thus closing the enchanted circle.
And all because the Khukhas could not imagine their own selves outside of existence. A mere day or two of quiet, carefree rest was enough for them to grow thoroughly bored, turn their vexation into mercy, and, forgetting all grievances, return to the wide world. And most of all in that wide world, the little hearts of the Khukhas leaned toward the slender-legged nyavkas of the woods and the fair-tressed rusalkas of the waters. Why, they say that it was none other than the sleepless protection of the Khukhas that kept the forest, meadow, and water beauties beyond the reach of any signs of sorrow, despair, or hopelessness in those days. And no force existed that could make the restless, weightless things change their ways. Thus, unconditionally, did their tiny yet no less devoted hearts belong to the doe-eyed beauties. And no matter what trials that undeclared covenant had to endure—for a long time, so it went!
So it went, but only for a time! For is it within anyone's power, let alone that of tiny, fluffy creatures, to endlessly stave off the inevitable?
[Modern urban mystic-thriller excerpt]
Punishment
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Murky yellow beams of light swept erratically over the nocturnal assembly. Yet even such an uncertain glow was enough to make out that the small group, pressed up against the edge of the cliff, posed no danger at all. And still, the frenzied crowd drove them forward with sticks like wild beasts—drunkenly hiccuping, and at the same time instantly flinching back from their slightest unexpected movement. Youths, everyday people of middle and advanced age. Even children. Despite the late hour, the mob swallowed up people of all ages.
“Punish! Punish! Punish! Punish!” The savage chant suddenly erupted from within the crowd, growing stronger with each repetition.
What do they want, these lost souls? If not for the glints in empty eyes, if not for the shoves toward the precipice, if not for that ominous cry, the whole scene might almost have resembled a festive pageant. What was even happening here? Other than them being driven into the abyss? As far as Eg could tell in the wavering light, the cliff did not seem very deep; if one tried to slide down while clinging to the wall, one could hope not to break one's neck.
A slender dark-haired woman from their group, yielding beneath the hail of shoves, stumbled into his shoulder and sent him staggering to the very edge. Only a step remained to the drop. It was now or never. Eg bared his teeth at the crowd… and, unexpectedly even to himself, froze mid-turn, extending his hand to the stranger. But she didn’t even move toward him, and the last thing he made out before the ground gave way was her terror-stricken eyes, lit by the twin glare of the spotlights—and then a sharp clap, like a dry crack of thunder, catching up with him already in total darkness.
He slammed into ledges on the wall several times, scraped against some roots, flew feet-first into a mound, and painfully smashed his back and head, so that for certain moments he distinguished nothing but sparks before his eyes—until at last, he felt the sand collapsing onto him. If only to keep a little room beneath himself... To rake the sand away—at least from his chest and head … Yet the loose sand immediately poured back into every hollow he managed to carve out, only making things worse. He needed help. If no one helped him, this was the end. One more shift and he would suffocate. Yet who would help him? Not those glass-eyed ones. So who could?…
A shallow inhale—exhale. Shallow inhale—exhale. Shallow inhale—exhale… Suddenly it dawned on Eg that he was occupied only with counting these inhale-exhales. One, two, three, four. And again—one, two, three, four. No understanding why, it had appeared to him that exactly four inhale-exhales remained until the end. Not some vague number, but for some reason, precisely four. And it seemed completely simple—to count to four, and just like that, be done with everything. Both with what had been. And with what would never be again.
Instead, after every fourth inhale-exhale, from somewhere deep inside, he received a renewed understanding—he still had those same four beats of existence. It seemed an obvious destruction of the escape schematics, yet the count reset with wondrous ease, and once more he counted—one, two, three, four. And no other aspiration. Only the counting of inhales and exhales. One, two, three, four. At some point, he was even struck by a revelation—he was not so much helplessly doomed as he was happy. Happy to count just like this. To dissolve into a perfect sequence of four beats, beyond which nothing existed, and nothing more was given to exist…
And here, already at the brink of no return, everything around trembled, and both he and the layer of sand beneath him were carried somewhere downward, and indifferently spat out into the open.
Heavy drops of thick rain on his face…
The suffocating four-beat pattern vanished without a trace at once in the saving freshness, yet the mere ability to breathe did not return even half his strength to Eg. It barely sufficed for him to dig himself out and clumsily crawl somewhere—not knowing where.
After that, there was only the roar of the downpour and some bushes.
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Visions of the artless existence of the sand-dwellers, intermingled with scenes of the destruction of the mission’s retreating column, forced their way into Eg’s dreams all too often. Usually, though, that vision would regurgitate him, soaked in sweat, into the night. Or, at least, into the morning gray. At any rate, certainly not like now—at midday. Waking up always early, he never slept during the day even when ill. Only now did it dawn on him why. He no longer remembered the last time he had slept in daylight—precisely because of his unwillingness to let additional horrors pass through him. And though the assembly-cliff dream stood out from his usual nightmares, such an expansion of the repertoire was hardly comforting—for in this new delirium, too, he had been on the brink of death.
The nocturnal delusion had almost flown from his head, leaving behind little more than a meaningless heaviness, when suddenly sand ground against his teeth. Brushing away, like a fly, the wild thought of the glassy-eyed assembly, Eg deliberately, unhurriedly threw off the bedcover—and… could not believe his own eyes: beneath it, he lay in torn, filthy, and damp trousers and shirt.
Perhaps he needed to close his eyelids and try opening them again?
Yet even after several blinks, his eyes kept relentlessly testifying—he lay under the blanket in the ragged, dirty remnants of what only yesterday had been called his clothes.
Dear forum members, I want to describe a situation I personally encountered and ask for your advice.
I submitted a few of my texts to almost all sci-fi and fantasy magazines and open-submission contests that Google could find for me.
Here is the situation: only from the Writers of the Future contest did I receive a message from the editor stating that I made it to the second stage of consideration. A few other times there were rejections saying something like, "your unique world is very cool, but it doesn't fit our magazine and lacks the pacing/dynamics we need," etc. In all other cases, it was either an automated rejection like "unfortunately, your text is not a fit," or no response at all.
Of course, the question arises: maybe I am worth nothing as an author, and the magazines are right to ignore me? This is a completely valid question, but even from the few seemingly non-automated replies, I formed a well-founded impression that the editors didn't read past pages 1–2. And not because they are poorly written—on the contrary, they have too much poetic tone and unusual elements, while they publish for the 100700th time stories about guilds and mages that everyone is sick of. And despite all that, they are the ones asking for new, unique stories—which, apparently, they don't even read if there are no mages and guilds on the first page.
Have you encountered such a situation, and what advice can you share?
Maybe there are still some resources where one can get at least normal feedback, let alone publication?
So I just got a rejection slip for a flash fiction horror piece. They were kind enough to attach the votes and comments of the voters on the email so I could see what they thought. There were three votes from what I could see. 2 voted yes and 1 voted maybe. There were no no’s so I’m assuming someone else must have gotten 3 straight yes’s.
The person who left the maybe was confused by a detail I included in the story. Now the detail was there for a reason (as everything has to be in flash) but they didn’t get what I was trying to convey. If you think a story is close would you tweak something to please editors to get published? Especially if it’s a small detail? Or would you hold on on your vision, try others and risk further rejection.
Submissions for Issue 01 are now open. The Violet Index is seeking writers and visual artists for our inaugural quarterly zine.
đź‘˝ Theme: Strange
We're looking for work that explores the unusual, the uncanny, the overlooked, and the beautifully inexplicable.
✨ No submission fees.
If this theme speaks to you, we'd love to see your work.
đź”— Read the Submission Guidelines on our website. https://thevioletindex.carrd.co
The 29th is a new literature and arts magazine that recognizes that the mundane and the unbearable are usually the same size. We're looking for work that sits with quiet things, interior landscapes, and unresolved endings.
No great narrative arcs required. No lessons learned. Just honest reporting from the body.
Genres Accepted:
- Creative Nonfiction (1,000 - 8,000 words, soft limits)
- Short Fiction (1,000 - 8,000 words, soft limits)
- One-Act Plays (up to 20/25 pages)
- Photography & Art (documentation of art in any medium, up to five images per artist).
Priority: Marginalized voices, women, experimental work
Submission Window: August 1 – October 1, 2026
Compensation: Not currently compensated; future payment planned as the magazine grows.
Rights Requested: First serial rights; all rights revert upon publication.
Reading Fee: None
Turnaround Time: Up to 8 weeks after close of reading period (by approximately December 1, 2026)
About the Journal
The 29th exists at the intersection of observation and experience. We publish work that begins in the body, accepts the indifference of the world, and refuses easy resolution.
Learn more about our mission and aesthetic:
đź“– Website: here
Submit here:
đź“ť Submission Portal: here
Thank you for reading!
Have you people noticed that the submission guidelines are cutting down on size?
Allow me to explain, I made a large query hunting down places to publish about a dozen or so stories I have written in the past 6–8 months.
These stories are anything from 4 to 20 thousand words, with the average of 7-8 thousand, and I don't really find an 8 thousand-word story a long one. This is precisely what we have always called "a short story".
Yet try finding a submission slot open with anything more than 2,000 words for a fiction submission and I'll congratulate you. More often than not, this limit would be 1,500 words. Limits like 250 words are also popular.
What has happened?
I do understand that it take a good deal of skill to write a concise story and a good one, but… A story is a story, not a surgically executed punchline. Sure, Hemingway did it, but none of us is the new Hemingway, and even he did it as a curiosity, an exception, as his typical stories were around 4-5 K words and his longer ones – up to 15 thousand words.
What is the reason? I tried asking some editors, but typically, they had no real answers. The closes I got to a real thing was "We have not workforce to read all that and assess".
As an editor myself, I don't follow this kind of approach. I read the first page, if the first page sucks, then I'm sorry, but I'm not reading this. It's like watching a series that only starts to be good with season three. I'm not doing it. Why? Because if the very first page sucks, it means, the author lacks some skill. And they will not improve it, cutting this down to 100 words.
Someone else said that had limited number of pages. For years, I have published printed zines and magazines and I would cut down the margins and make the type smaller to stuff in more stories into those 64 puny pages of A5. Did it look poor occasionally? It did. Did it read great, when I had several meaty, juicy stories? It did.
My current limit for submission to my literary annual is 40,000 characters for competitive submissions and no limit for invited guests. For Polish, it's about 6 thousand words (would be more for English, as our words are rarely three letters). I have 18 (eighteen) stories in the 2026 issue, plus 4 critical fandom-oriented articles, plus 2 comics. This is out of around 70 submitted text I had to read all by myself this year. If I didn't like the heat, I'd have left this kitchen.
Can I write ridiculously short stories? I can. Do I want to? Absolutely not. Do I enjoy reading stories that get their punchline before they unwind at all? Not at all again.
Am I happy with this strange and more and more prevailing trend? Fuck no. Is this because the shortest of my recent stories is three thousand words?
Sure thing.
Why do we do it? Why do we cut down on submission limits? Is this because people cannot read any more and just get distracted around the first 500 words?
Hey everyone! I'm u/hafsah_meow, a founding moderator of r/islamicwriting.
This is our new home for all things related to Islamic stories — books, movies, films, animated stuff, interest in help in learning to write better or interest in better books to read or questions about Islamicate history for your own stories, you can also post about myths in muslim-majority countries, basically anything about fiction and stories that involves Islam. This is a safe zone for muslims wanting to read halal/Islamic fiction or write such themselves.
We're excited to have you join us!
What to Post?
Post anything that you think the community would find interesting, helpful, or inspiring. Feel free to share your thoughts, photos, or questions about Islam (yes, questions and posts about Islamic Jurisprudence, belief, creed, art, history, fiction, literature and culture, Islamic philosophy, psychology and especially Islamic and Muslim-people’s psychology, etc are allowed, delightful and beautiful and connecting! )
Community Vibe
We're all about being friendly, constructive, and inclusive. Let's build a space where everyone feels comfortable sharing and connecting.
How to Get Started
Stories should not be smut (however may be bloody and dark in their own right still), if you post smutty content you get banned.
No Islamophobia, this is a subreddit specifically catering towards Muslims and Islam. If you act Islamophobically, and do not repent, you get banned.
No encouraging of homosexual acts or transsexuality, we can be understanding to the waswasa the people go through but no encouraging said acts, if you encourage them you get banned.
No encouraging apostasy for muslims who struggle.
Posts dedicated to anime and Japanese history, Western media and history, etc with no connection whatsoever with Islam or muslim people get banned. (If the post is about a Buddhist interacting with Muslim, and stuff like that, then no it does not get banned. However, again, this is a subreddit for Islam and Muslim so whatever you post and comment has to be related to Islam and muslims in someway and form)
Non-muslims may (though not as moderators) post and comment in this subreddit.
Be kind, be civil, be humble, be respectful, we
Thanks for being part of the very first wave. Together, let's make r/islamicwriting amazing.
Thank you for submitting to Ploughshares. We have decided not to include your submission in an upcoming issue, but please be assured that [POEM NAME] was carefully read.
Editorial decisions at Ploughshares are often informed by our vision for future issues, and as a result, we unfortunately must reject quality submissions more often than we'd like. Thank you again for the opportunity to consider your work.
For future submission opportunities, please note that our Emerging Writers' Contest is open each year from February 1-March 31 and our Regular Reading Period is open from June 1-November 15.
Sincerely,
The Ploughshares Editors
Organization: Harbour Works
Deadline: November 30
Entry fee: None
Prize/s: None
Link to submission page/official rules:
https://www.harbourworks.org
Other information:
About:
Harbour Works is a Canadian literary magazine — and we are building it to a standard that does not exist yet in student publishing. We are not a course project. We are not a club newsletter. We are working, deliberately and seriously, toward becoming a fully peer-reviewed journal: the most rigorous, most prestigious student-run literary publication in the country.
Every submission enters a multi-stage blind review process. A minimum of three editors read each piece independently before any discussion begins. Decisions are made by argument and consensus, not by majority vote. Work is accepted because it earns it — not because there are pages to fill.
We publish fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, visual art, photography, and hybrid work. We are drawn to writing that takes risks — formally, politically, emotionally — and to writers who understand the page is not a safe place.
We are open to high school and university students worldwide. We believe the most vital creative work is happening in student hands right now — not after graduation, not once someone decides it's ready. The only question we ask of a piece is whether it is alive.
Submissions Guidelines:
Fiction — Up to 7,000 words. Short fiction and flash welcome. We read all lengths with equal care.
Poetry — Up to 5 poems per submission. No minimum length. Sequences welcome.
Creative Non-fiction — Up to 6,000 words. Essays, memoir, lyric essays, hybrid nonfiction.
Visual Art — Up to 8 images. Minimum 300 DPI. JPEG, PNG, or PDF. Include a brief artist's statement.
Photography — Up to 10 images. Series preferred. Minimum 300 DPI. Captions welcome.
Hybrid / Experimental — No formal constraints. If it resists categorisation, it may belong here.
Join the Team:
Harbour Works is entirely volunteer-run. We are not looking for resumes. We are looking for people who care about writing — who have strong opinions about what they read, who take the page seriously, and who want to be part of making something that matters.
We are open to high school and university students at all stages. If you have never worked on a magazine before, that is not a disadvantage. If you have, bring what you know. The only requirement is that you show up and take the work seriously.
All positions are open. We are building the editorial board from scratch, and every role is a founding role. That means the decisions you make will shape what this magazine becomes.
For additional information, feel free to visit our website, where you will be able to submit your work or apply to join our team.
we just launched a magazine based in berlin and are looking for artists who work with text and/or image and experiment with form. this includes experimental fiction, prose, screenwriting, essays, and interviews; concrete and visual poetry; geometric abstraction; text-image works; layout-based works; typographic compositions; abstract photography, paintings, and collages; as well as hybrid and non-linear forms.
if that interests you, please submit your work through this link: https://linktr.ee/toctocmagazin