Posted in submission call

Submission Call: Screen Door Review – Literary Voices of the Queer South

Screen Door Review is a quarterly literary magazine that publishes all types of poetry, short stories, flash fiction, and comics authored by individuals belonging to the southern queer (lgbtq) community of the United States. We’re currently reading for our second issue. Our first issue can be read here.

sdr_firstissueThe purpose of the magazine is to provide a platform of expression to those whose identities—at least in part—derive from the complicated relationship between queer person and place. Specifically, queer person and the South. Through publication, we aim to not only express, but also validate and give value to these voices, which are oftentimes overlooked, undermined, condemned, or silenced.

The topics of your work do not have to be queer or southern in theme, but we do ask that you as a contributor belong to the queer community and also identify as southern (AL, AR, FL, GA, KY, LA, MS, NC, SC, TN, TX, VA, WV). Since we are very much trying to authentically represent lgbtq southern voices, please indicate in the cover letter where you’re from and state that you do, in fact, belong to the queer community. That way we know that you’ve read these guidelines and that you understand and support our mission. If you feel that your queerness or southernness needs explaining, please include that in the cover letter, as well. 

Also, if you would rather be published anonymously, please specify and we will be happy to keep your name private.

We accept and encourage simultaneous submissions. If your work is accepted by another publication, please let us know by leaving a note in your submission. No need to withdraw the entire submission.

Please submit only one entry for each category per reading period. Once we have an issue out, then that’s when you can apply again.

All authors retain all rights to their work throughout the publishing process. However, if your work is subsequently published elsewhere, please mention that it was first published with us at Screen Door Review. With that said, we are open to previously published work as long as you own the rights. 

We will not accept anything that promotes violence or ill-will directed toward any individual or group of people. If your work requires a trigger warning, please include it at the top of the document. 

Comics and Graphic Narratives: Please submit up to 8 pages of work. This can include multiple short comics or one longer piece.

Poetry: Please submit 3-5 poems in one document with each poem starting on a new page. No more than ten pages altogether. Single spaced.

Short Stories: Please submit one short story up to 10,000 words in length. Single spaced.

Flash Fiction: Please submit 1-3 flash fiction narratives no longer than 1000 words each in a single document. Each piece should start on a new page. Single spaced.

We welcome your submissions for issue 2, due out in June! For more information or if you’re ready to submit, click here to find our Submittable.

We look forward to reading your work!

 

 

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Posted in poetry, published, Uncategorized

The Language We Bury Them In

for Hannah Hamilton

You wrote of comfort, crawfish boils and Port Vincent – for your father
and the South and all of the things I’ve ever loved or never knew about.

I read more and I learned you: your voice, flat on a paper, but heaving
from aches, jerking from anticipation, and then rising with syllables

slapped together to represent something more full. When I found a way
to trade words with you over coffee and curry in South Mississippi,

a middle-ground place where neither of us held reputations more than
what we’d imagined, I knew you were more than a poet, more than

a culture-fed woman on her way; wild-eyed, you described yourself
a sleepy sheepdog and I’ve yet to understand why. In our first meeting,

instinctually, I suppose, we became locked in a stare-down, allowing
ourselves to learn each other’s breed: similar in the way we claw at truths

and how reliant we are on the packs we run in. Sitting with you that day,
across from your Iranian eyes and pure Louisiana rhetoric, I swear

I eyed your words while you spoke them, realizing they held breaths
of their own: graceful with grievances and with an air of atonement.

I can see now why you write them on your skin. Words deserve more
than the language we bury them in; they’ve earned the right to live.

But Hannah, no one wears declarations the way you do. Yours reach
across the table, grab my hands, and place in my palms maps to live by.

Previously published in Paper Swans’ Chronicles of Eve anthology / Spring 2016