"A corner of the internet that likes to be queerer, that licks its lips, wolfish and weird. A home for the historic and histrionic, operatic and obscene, learned and yearning. A b-movie bacchanal you might stumble into and stagger out of."
Open:
Yes
Vibe: Weird / outsider / wtf even is it
Response time:
2-3 weeks
Payment:
No
Simultaneous submissions:
Yes
Previously published:
Yes
Submission fee:
Free
Expedited submissions:
No
Available in print:
No
Examples online:
Yes

Important stuff

Accept previously published: "However, you must make this clear in the body of your email, telling us where a piece has appeared before. Also note that we are less likely to accept work still freely available online."

Genres

👌

Fiction

We suggest a maximum of around 5 pages of writing
👌

Nonfiction

We suggest a maximum of around 5 pages of writing
👌

Poetry

We suggest a maximum of around 5 pages of writing
👌

Art

Max pieces: 10
👌

Photography

Max pieces: 10
👌

Video

No specific limitations
👌

Audio

No specific limitations

Examples

'desperate to glutch' by Barney Ashton-Bullock

(excerpt)
that unrailed train wreck souping in the ocean to a lifeless, flotsam broth, those dead who tasted nexus and, beyond finite, disperse to plankton feed in votive careering careen and through such upcycle slay, as limitation, ‘finality’; for life-cycle logistics are spurned by such flitting flecks of microbial sustenance, itself a kinda impulsive, impertinent headfuck flight from life to life! So, devil, angel or Jesu, take me home desirous tonight and if I am to die… just take a bite!
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'Itinerarium Curiosum 1776' by Kym Deyn

(excerpt)
For breakfast, William Stukeley eats a hard boiled egg. He’s daydreaming about mistletoe and Greek vases. William Stukeley once walked into a tailors and asked for ceremonial robes in the ſtyle of the ancientſ and does not know he’s wearing a tailor’s old curtains. He invented the druid’s cubit and half of his papers. He went mad in the way of anyone loving something deliciously irrelevant. William used to say the word “druid” with the softness of longing, a hand reaching for the past. Oh, baptize them, Druids of Sermon, Druids of the Christ-not-Born. Oh, Druids of Heaven. Mad and Pagan saints. You know, their temples, like a snake eating its tail in accordance with the moon? We are making a country that is our past: mostly imaginary. We’re going out of fashion like a Birrus Britannicus. We’re loving everything mad and Pagan and irreverent.
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'Eye Witness' by Kenneth Pobo

(excerpt)
Officer I was there, in the suburban living with an overstuffed magazine rack, a television set with SpongeBob playing, and too much furniture. I sat in the chair at the end so I saw it all. I’m just a family friend. I don’t have a stake in this. You can trust me. There’s a bit of Tiresias in me, who had lived as both a man and a woman, gender just a changing of the light that gets you in and out of the mall. I had just come from the mall. It often makes me feel that I’m on a cruise ship and we’re all coming down with some disease. The boat rocks, we puke, all in all a memorable vacation.
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