"wildness was founded by Michelle Tudor and Peter Barnfather in 2015, and operates as an imprint of Platypus Press. wildness accepts submissions of poetry, fiction, and non-fiction and considers work in most styles, forms, or genres."
Vibe: Send us your best but less intimidating
Response time:
1 month
Payment:
No
Simultaneous submissions:
Yes
Previously published:
No
Submission fee:
Free
Expedited submissions:
No
Available in print:
No
Examples online:
Yes

Genres

👌

Fiction

Max words: 5000
👌

Nonfiction

Max words: 5000
👌

Poetry

Max pieces: 10

Masthead

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Examples

'My Sometimes Vietnamese' by An Uong

(excerpt)
i don’t think i have a personality in Vietnamese anymore, though I’m not convinced I ever did. There’s a way of sharing laughter and sadness in the language that escapes me. My Vietnamese is a limited arsenal of phrases and words communicated with fluency but not with intimacy. Speaking it is an act of contortion—one in which my body knows the shape but not how to become it. The tenderness it once held is buried deep in my childhood memories, ones of my mother telling me family stories, or of my father singing in the shower.
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'In Another Life' by Janel Pineda

(excerpt)
The war never happened but somehow you and I still exist. Like obsidian, we know only the memory of lava and not the explosion that created us. Forget the gunned-down church, the burning flesh, the cabbage soup. There is no bus. There is no border. There is no blood. There are only sweet corn fields and mango skins. The turquoise house and clotheslines. A heaping plate of pasteles and curtido waiting to be disappeared into our bellies. In this life, our people are not things of silences but whole worlds bursting into breath. Everywhere, there are children. Playing freely, clothed and clean.
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'When people say, “we have made it through worse before”' by Clint Smith

(excerpt)
all I hear is the wind slapping against the gravestones of those who did not make it, those who did not survive to see the confetti fall from the sky, those who did not live to watch the parade roll down the street. I have grown accustomed to a lifetime of aphorisms meant to assuage my fears, pithy sayings meant to convey that everything ends up fine in the end.
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'Bittermelon face / 苦瓜臉' by K-Ming Chang

(excerpt)
where i live, the land is dry as a palm. Growing up, the only thing green was the traffic light, the neighbor’s spray-dyed lawn, and the flocks of iridescent crows when light made mirrors of their wings. But still, my mother knew how to grow things in the absence of water: she yanked a chili bush out of the ground, grew daffodil seedlings between two damp paper towels in our garage, and convinced half a cherry sapling to salute the sky before it receded again. She would walk me around the neighborhood and point at abandoned lots with chain-link fences, stray dogs knotted around each other in the shade, and tell me about all the things she could plant there, plotting each unseen seed.
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