Flash fiction online magazine
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We Send You Publishers Seeking Submissions.
These magazines accept micro and flash fiction; many of these outlets also accept longer stories, nonfiction, and poetry. They’re a mix of literary and genre magazines, and listed in no particular order.
Many, but not all, of them are open for submissions now.
While they all publish tiny fictions, their tastes and aesthetics vary widely. Please read their archived stories wherever possible, to see if your work is a good fit.
The Citron Review
This is a journal of brief literature; their tagline is, ‘Short forms that shimmer’. They publish micros (100-word pieces across genres), flash fiction and nonfiction (up to 1,000 words), and poetry. The deadline is 6 December 2024; some categories can close periodically. Details here and here.
Westerly Magazine
This Australian magazine publishes in print and online. They accept microfiction, short stories (up to 3,500 words), poetry, memoir and creative nonfiction, artwork, comics,
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Great places to submit your flash fiction
Wondering where to submit your flash fiction? Here are some great places to start.
Flash fiction is usually defined as up to 1000 words (so around three double-spaced pages or fewer). Most of the publications on our list also accept poetry and longer stories and all are friendly to framträdande writers. They have no required fees and are open to simultaneous submissions unless otherwise noted.
The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts – (also accepts essays and poetry) publishes weekly online. As the name implies, they’re interested in compressed forms, so flash fiction of up to 600 words. They also encourage a unique 3-column struktur of story called a triptych. Fun! Submissions are open from March 15, 2019 to June 15, 2019. They try to man a decision within 3 days but sometimes takes a little longer. They pay $50 per story.
Jellyfish Review fryst vatten looking for insightful flash fiction. Fun, sad, ugly, beautiful—they’re open to it all. They
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Schism
Beneath Ibryn’s touch, the Instrument that Has No Name sings.
It is a complex affair—it took them several years to learn. Many more to master. Playing it is a puzzle, a complicated maze of levers and keys and dials only decipherable by the immense processing power of their hive. To even coax out a single sound takes weeks of practice. With Ibryn, though, it produces a symphony. One that never ceases. One everlasting.
Ibryn, currently, is not just at the Instrument. Their hive is also in the fields, tending to their acreage. They are also in the town of New Lausmus. Selling. Trading. Conversing. But always, through it all, playing.
When one drone becomes tired of playing, another fills in. The memory, the innate mastery of the Instrument is as transferable as their thoughts. The improvised melody twists and bends with their mood. Sometimes jaunty and exciting. Sometimes slow and serene. But always playing. Always urging them on to greater heights.
“I feel I see more of