"A web-based literary journal seeking to showcase the very best creative work of emerging and established writers and artists in the Midwest."
Open:
Yes, till June 30, 2023
Vibe: Send us your best but less intimidating
Response time:
4-5 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
Helpful: reposting other opportunities on their Twitter:)
Work from writers and artists in the Midwest

Genres

👌

Fiction

Max words: 4000We welcome more than one piece if the total submission is under 4,000 words.
👌

Nonfiction

Max words: 4000We welcome more than one piece if the total submission is under 4,000 words.
👌

Poetry

Min pieces: 3Max pieces: 610 pages max
👌

Art

Max pieces: 5
👌

Photography

Max pieces: 5

Examples

'GRANDMOTHER, I' by ALISHA WONG

(excerpt)
know you stretched your back last week, made it an earthen husk to magpie nests for us. afterward, you reached out for my wrist, cast blunt words about my bird-boned limbs. cantonese was a wooden sword I could never quite wield and mine was in a chest belonging to bygone openings. when I was twelve, your son told me stories of the sparrows calling you out by name, watching your spine furl like telephone wire, lips sunken by taoist prayers.
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'LETTER FOR TAMIR RICE’S 17TH BIRTHDAY' by MARLIN M. JENKINS

(excerpt)
I’ll be honest: when I learn it is your seventeenth birthday the first thing I want is to be where you are. Instead I go to teach a dozen teens who you could have been among. I wish you here at the teen center, picking out a slice of pizza while Kyndall and Noran sing “Un-break my Heart” in the kitchen; you here kicking my ass in Smash Bros. while Ciatta stops in on her lunch break from her summer job; you here crouched at the woo-woo-ass altar Molly set for us to add to, you reach into your pocket to place something between a crystal and the photo of Frida Kahlo, your hand lifts from your pocket and no one flinches
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'AS IT LIES' by ANN ZHANG

(excerpt)
Most people, hearing the story of your first hole-in-one, assume you were playing from the kiddie tees. Or the women’s tees, at least. When they ask you to confirm their suspicions and you answer in the negative, they force a face of admiration, although you can tell that deeper down they’re pouting, jealous of you, second-guessing their own abilities. No, you were seven years old on the seventh hole of Greenhaven Country Club—the men’s tee, you’ll emphasize. Swinging your driver with all four feet of you. The seventh green sits at the top of a steep hill, so you can’t watch the ball land. You’ve played this course every weekend since you could hold a club, and this is always your least favorite part: the upward trek, the sweat in your eyes and the ache in your calves. Your dad, whose ball sits five feet from the pin, is searching in the grass for yours when you make it to the top. When he asks you to check the cup, you laugh. And then you do, and there it is, your pink Callaway wedged against the flagstick.
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'LAKES, NOT OCEANS' by NITYA GUPTA

(excerpt)
It started with a bang. Rishi had just moved into the apartment three weeks ago. There was a dishwasher, washing machine, dryer, and the first month’s rent was free, so he signed the lease immediately and carried in his cardboard boxes to the empty living room. The apartment was much more spacious than what Rishi had imagined for his first place out of college, and after unpacking, he often found himself staring at the blank walls and solitary tan couch in the corner of the living room when he came back from work. Then, the third Friday after he’d moved in, Rishi heard a noise reverberate through his wall. His bed frame shook, and his reading glasses almost fell off the bedside table. Rishi pressed his ear against the white wall in hopes of figuring out what’d happened, but it was silent. On occasion since he’d moved in, Rishi had heard the faint beats of an indiscernible song playing or the murmurs of deep voice and a soft feminine voice talking, yet that was it. He didn’t know anything about the person who lived next door.
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