Logo of Afternoon Visitor literary magazine
"We want work that investigates and divines, that searches out and wants. We’re looking for accidental visitors, harbingers, and spectres."
Vibe: Send us your best but less intimidating
Response time:
3 months / 432 days
Simultaneous submissions:
Previously published:
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Average acceptance rate:
United States
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Chill Subs Tracker Stats!

Total tracked subs
Average acceptance rate
11.11% of subs
(33.33% of people)
Average response time
432 days
Average acceptance time
3 days
Average rejection time
486 days
Fastest response time
3 days
Slowest response time
525 days

Important stuff

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Max words: 3000lyric essay, cross-genre, VISUAL POETRY


Min pieces: 3Max pieces: 83-8 poems, in one document (pdf, doc), 10 page maximum


Max pieces: 8


We currently list only main editors, more will be added later!
If you're an editor, you can edit your masthead in our admin panel :)

TR Brady


Maggie Nipps



'FLUSH LUSH KUSH' by Emily Bark Brown

mushroom headed mushroom also mario in marioland what’s it called where mario is? mario surrounded by killer flowers rick moranis surrounded by killer flowers little guys and huge flowers a fairy is a small little guy inside a flower a fairy is someone who holds a rose between teeth like a dancer like a deer eating a flower like a flower taller than people like a sunflower like a whole bunch of sunflowers seven feet tall like an abandoned house covered in dust surrounded by sunflowers the kind of house you go to have sex like the kind of house a teenage girl gang runs away to
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'Goldenrod' by Elijah Rushing Hayes

My head is silent and pink. Elm. Cedar waxwing. Kingbird. I prefer people will strong noses. Hair grazing my chest. I haven’t made a promise, and I’m still. I’m not lonely, and I don’t make rooms neat. There’s a person nearby who’s going on a date. Who’s interested in touching. Who doesn’t trust mystery, prefers plain. Five months have passed, and my boat isn’t tipping over but is stuck on the same muddy waves, and I’m bobbing up and down under a sky that doesn’t speak. How boring. Silver birch tree. If I could live in a place with monkeys and swing and bark and crow and loud with louder and loud. I don’t want to become so kind that I can only be silent. I don’t want dull air. I don’t want to trip anyone.
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'The Light Appears, It Disappears, It Passes' by Gabrielle Grace Hogan

saw a bridge become an arm, gesturing. I saw a foal fold back inside its mother. I saw the warehouse where they store streets after cars pass through them. I saw an art exhibit of four mirrors—gray paint over glass. We arrive at our reflections as the art. $10 admission fee. I saw a painting full of red, flecked with careful light, Sadak at the mountain-tilt, clung to each bone-flinch, each stone. I saw the white blades through the windowblinds, illuminating the skin in digestive patches.
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'Good Long Poem' by Tawanda Mulalu

was something I always wanted. Because something was never working inside of me. Because something is never working inside of me. I’m working now, Sabrina, at the writing like the way that you might be working, but not as well, not as frequent, not with the casual viciousness of your words. was something I always want. Because of my attraction to plants, I’d like to be buried in soil, be buried soft, be buried deep (I want to take a nap again, I always want to take a nap again), with only the minimal awareness of things such that the sun is something I might turn to, slowly. I’m a little bit vampiric. I’m into mouths. I’m into necks. I’m into singing things. I’m heavy with all sorts of muddled horns. Long, hollow, cold. Spittles flying all warm and solid. I’m aching with it. Please let me ache with the warmth. Please ache with the warmth with me. was something I will always want.
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