"For over half a century, Puerto del Sol has been dedicated to provide a forum for inventive and fresh prose, poetry, reviews, criticism, and artwork. We pride ourselves in not following a standardized aesthetic—instead, we seek work that presents authenticity, sincerity, and respect."
Open:
Yes
Vibe: Send us your best but less intimidating
Response time:
3 months
Payment:
No
Simultaneous submissions:
Yes
Previously published:
No
Submission fee:
Free
Expedited submissions:
No
Available in print:
No
Examples online:
Yes

Important stuff

Active on social media

Genres

👌

Fiction

Max pieces: 1
👌

Nonfiction

Max pieces: 1
👌

Poetry

Max pieces: 5
👌

Review

No specific limitations
👌

Art

No specific limitations

Examples

'There Is a Certain Quiet in Maine' by MIKE GOOD

(excerpt)
But here, something else. Listen to the cars outside the bedroom, rolling through the stop sign. Like waves, like the refrigerator’s seal. Like red blood cells, turning blue and red, and blue and black. I wish I were in Maine. I imagine hearing Maine in the squeaking ceiling fan that will continue turning long after I am gone. I hear it at two a.m. when a woman walks past my window, threatening to call the police and then stops speaking. I hear it in the landscapers’ motors buzzing even now. A song stuck in my head.
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'Dear Make-Pretender' by ANDY SIA

(excerpt)
1. You were there all along: in the paper fortune teller’s hand, shadow while I was statue. 2. A game can be anything, you say, fashioning some thing into Something. 3. Like guests in a party the years come and go, but you remain, you who are always plotting. 4. Your invitations never stop coming; I find them in the mailbox, inside the hollows of trees, and when all feeling is gone, underneath my pillow. 5. Once I was children, I ran bright among the trees. 6. Once I was riddle; I had a tail. 7. Here is how your letter begins: “Herewith, the terms and conditions…”
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'Imposter Syndrome' by AMBROSE D. SMART

(excerpt)
I think what I’m about to tell you is pretty much accurate, but please don’t take my word for it, because I’m not sure. There’s not much I am sure of these days. About a week ago, my father apparently thought it was a good idea to consume a lethal concoction of alcohol and prescription medication. He’d been drinking for a while but never really liked to talk about it, and after a long, drawn-out hospital stay during which he was mostly unconscious and pretty much incapable of speaking and I was mostly just sitting at his bedside wondering how the hell I’d go on without him, he was finally pronounced dead.
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'Flight Delay' by BRENDAN BASHAM

(excerpt)
Vernon wakes up early, earlier than usual, to the gurgling coffee machine, radio tuned to pre-news classical. He forgot why he set the machines to go off so early. He won’t open the blinds, not yet, not until he sees a bit of light sneak in. The ache in his back is gone for the moment, but if he stays supine too long on his annoying mattress he’ll never walk again. Maybe he can lay on the floor. The floor’s been good for his back lately. He was down there yesterday stretching his hips when he noticed a ball of lint nearly big as a tabby spooled around bottle caps and those little plastic seals you peel off the tops of milk bottles. Those always satisfied him when they came off in one pull, but it was a fifty-fifty chance—sixty-forty, whatever—it was rare for him not to use his Leatherman. He went for the broom to rifle under the cabinets. Bits of lint and hair collected on the straw bristles, and when he finally got a good angle, the whole mass came out stuck to the end of the broom.
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