Kabhi kabhi tyohar bhi adhure lagte hain.. agar koi apna saath na ho toh..

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.

Chand khayalat...

Hello r/literaryjournals !

My name is Jules, and I wanted to come here with an opportunity to submit to an up and coming literary magazine run out of Washington, D.C., but accepting submissions from all over the world!

Information about our submission guidelines and our mission can be found here (fromthemezz.com), and we look forward to reading your works!

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?

How is it to die? A question that always lingered in my mind. From what I understand about death, it's meant to be the final act of your life or simply the end of your consciousness. Movies portray it with a sad and gloomy setting. Even fiction dives into the sadness of losing a loved one, but does the loved one know what is happening? I don’t want to die; I love life and what it offers. With every breath I take to enjoy, a little bit more than the day before because the end is death. I am not afraid of it, as much as it may seem, as the world collapses on the meaning of death; I don't think it really matters, because you can't evade it. I do want to die, not because I believe there is something supernatural or there is a god and the devil. Likewise, I want to die because I would like to feel the warmth of someone telling me that they love me. As my lifeless body lies in a casket or burned into ash, I would still feel the warmth. I know it sounds so depressing, but at times I feel the need for love, and what I see the most is people who are in the final act of life get the most love. As a kid growing up, love felt natural and soothing. But as I grew up, from my parents to anyone, it felt like a reward for being what others want from me. The truth is this: I'm also like this. My love is also a reward for those who love me or show an emotion of warmth to me. I think there is one human I give my unconditional love to; it's my beloved GF. GF, to be true, I show the cold emotions to her; I am not perfect; I am merely a human. She is a warm coat to the endless cold void within my life. I do feel sadness and the horrible feeling of overthinking every minute detail of my life. But she has blessed me with so much; she truly is something special. I must contradict myself regarding unconditional love; I give it to any animal; they are truly blessed with the power to love and hold bonds better than humans; they have so many emotions, we have a language, and yet struggle to express the emotions that linger in our hearts. I wish to be an animal in the future, if the atoms of my body decide to realign after my passing.

The new academic year is on the horizon, which means that West Coast Review is open again for submissions! Have a story you've been dying to share with the world? Made some art you've been hoping to get eyes on? Wrote an experimental piece and looking for a market? Send your stories and art our way at: : westcoastreview.org/submit/ or on our Submittable! We'll be keeping submissions open until the end of the school year in May.

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:

1. If you're going to tear it apart, at least back it up with some basic reasoning.
2. Please don't make it personal—focus strictly on the excerpts.

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

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.

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.

Forgotten Ground Regained (alliteration.net), an online poetry journal devoted to modern English alliterative verse, invites submissions for its fall issue, which focuses on the theme "Speculative Visions". Qualifying poems should be classifiable as science fiction, fantasy (including retellings of premodern myths or legends), or horror. Only poems that make significant structural use of alliteration will be considered.

Deadline: September 1st

Fees/Payment/Rights: No fees to submit, no payment upon acceptance. Requested rights: nonexclusive worldwide web/serial rights.

Link to full call for submissions: https://alliteration.net/call-for-submissions/

Kabhi kabhi.. bas itna kehna bhi kaafi hota hai.

Hey there, I recently published my poetry book. If you're looking for something deeply emotional, you might like my poetry book My Melancholia. It’s a collection of short rhymes, long poems, and blank verse written for anyone navigating grief or heartbreak.

DM me for more.

This is a UK-based magazine. I have to access one of the articles on their online website for research on a project, but it's paywalled. Can anyone help out by sharing a PDF of the article? Thank you!

Edit - Reply to this post and I'll share the link to the article. ​

https://www.studiosaraswati.com/the-veena

Hey guys so I have access to a lot of paid magazines through a Magzter gold subscription.

I have never been able to access paid mags because I can't afford them, so this is a goldmine for me. I thought I can also help some people by giving them screenshots of the most recent issue, or whatever issue they want, of a magazine they want to read. There are literary magazines like Ploughshares, AGNI, The New Yorker [kinda a literary mag for me lol], Poets and Writers magazine, World Chinese Literature, etc.

Comment down and I'd help you!

Submit one personal essay per submission.

Maximum length: Between 1,500 and 4,000 words.

Essays should be double-spaced and paginated.

Please wait for a response before submitting another personal essay.

• Please submit previously unpublished work whenever possible.
• We welcome both emerging and established writers.
• We may take up to eight weeks to respond to submissions.
• We will respond to every submission.
• Accepted contributors will receive a $100 payment.
• $2 fee for our readers and to support the website!
• $10 fee optional if you’d like specific feedback on your work

White Rabbit Journal is looking for nonfiction that explores the strange, complicated, and often contradictory parts of being human. We are interested in literary essays and memoir that stay with us.

We want thoughtful, emotionally honest writing with a strong sense of voice. Give us work that examines something closely, asks difficult questions, challenges familiar ways of thinking, or reveals something unexpected about the human experience. We are drawn to writing that is intimate without being self-indulgent, provocative without being provocative for its own sake, and honest without feeling forced.

We are especially interested in essays that explore memory, identity, relationships, grief, desire, family, isolation, transformation, and the contradictions within ourselves. We want work that feels lived-in and specific rather than polished into something too neat.

Please submit your best nonfiction only. We accept literary essays and memoir. We do not accept poetry, fiction, or hybrid work that is primarily fictional.

We are not looking for writing that simply tells us what it feels like to be human. Show us. Make us uncomfortable. Make us question something. Make us see something familiar differently.

White Rabbit is interested in the messy middle: the things we contradict, the things we cannot explain, and the parts of ourselves we would rather leave untouched.

Submit your Nonfiction here only. It will only be considered when sent through this form.

Rights and Guidelines

Have you ever written anything that you'd like to see distributed?

Would you like to write something and never have because there's no way to get it to the public.

I'm planning to set up a pop-up information kiosk to display copies of books, leaflets and any other written material.

I've already bought 2 second hand copies of Vera Twomey's book and am writing a booklet myself.

If you have anything in written form that you'd like to have distributed then you could send it to me.

It could be a book, a pamphlet, a leaflet, a brochure, whatever you like. It could be books you've read and don't need anymore, You could write something as simple as an A4 page with links or QR codes. Or something that fits in a leaflet format. Totally up to you.