We are a small-but-mighty literary press starting out in the digital sphere (for now). We strive to bolster and empower the next wave of brilliant writers and wordsmiths regardless of background.

We are Roi Fainéant. Founded by 3 lazy kings living the best of their worst lives, we have spent the last year delivering you a consistent blend of brilliant words, silly antics, and a sense of community support that we are incredibly excited about and proud of. 

Tiffany M Storrs

Kellie Scott-Reed

Marianne Baretsky Peterson

Melissa Flores Anderson

François Bereaud

Margot Stillings

Roi Fainéant Press

General call

Sadee Bee (They/Them) is a queer artist and writer inspired by magic, strange dreams, and creepy vibes. Sadee is the Visual Arts Editor for Sage Cigarettes Magazine. Bee can be found on Twitter @SadeeBee, on Instagram @sadee__bee, and on the web at www.sadeebee.com  

Main Simple Bio  

Hilary Ayshford is a former science journalist and editor based in rural Kent in the UK. She writes flash fiction and short stories and has been nominated for Best Of The Net and Best Small Fictions. She likes her music in a minor key and has a penchant for the darker side of human nature.
https://hilaryayshford-writer.weebly.com
Bluesky: @hilary55.bsky.social
Threads: hilaryayshford
X: @hilary553

Author bio

Martha Hipley is a writer and filmmaker from Baltimore, Maryland who lives and works in Mexico City. Her stories have been published in Utopia Science Fiction, Maudlin House, and surely magazine, among others. When not working, she enjoys training as a triathlete and boxer.

basic bio

Martha Hipley is a writer, artist, and filmmaker from Baltimore, Maryland, who lives and works in Mexico. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in 45th Parallel, Utopia Science Fiction, and Witcraft. When not writing, she enjoys exploring the flea markets of Mexico City in search of the most cursed antiques she can find.

quirky bio

Kim lives and works in Chicago. She works for the Chicago Cubs. When she's not writing or working, she can be found cooking, reading or cross stitching. She is married and is owned by two cats. 

Kim lives and works in Chicago, IL. She works for the Chicago Cubs. She writes fiction and CNF, some of her recent stories have been published in Adelaid, Epater, Corner Bar and Academy of the Heart and Mind. She is a reader for Hippocampus Magazine. 

Kim Bio

Becs Tetley is a nonfiction writer and editor based in Te Whanganui-a-Tara. Her personal essays have appeared in The Spinoff, Turbine | Kapohau, Headland, Folly Journal, and elsewhere. She holds an MA in Creative Writing from AUT and can be found on social media: @BecsTetley.

NZ bio Aug 24

Encouraged by the special note on my last submission, I’m sending along another piece. Hopefully this one hits the mark!

For encouraging lit mags

Becs Tetley is a nonfiction writer in Wellington, New Zealand. Her personal essays have appeared in The Spinoff, Roi Fainéant, Reckon Review, Vagabond City Lit, and elsewhere. She is currently working on a memoir about living in five countries over five years in search of belonging and a sense of self. She can be found online: @BecsTetley.

USA Bio Mar 25

Crystal Taylor is a neurodivergent writer and poet from Texas. Her most recent and upcoming work lives in Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, Rust & Moth, ONE ART, and other sacred spaces. Crystal is active on most social platforms @CrystalTaylorSA

Short Multipurpose DPA, R&M, OA

Crystal Taylor is a writer, poet and birdwatcher from Texas. Her recent work lives in Rust & Moth, Anti-heroin Chic, Gargoyle, wildspace., and other sacred places. Engage with her on most social media platforms @CrystalTaylorSA.

All Purpose 

Crystal Taylor is a writer, poet and birdwatcher from Texas. Her recent work lives in Rust & Moth, Maudlin House, wildspace. Dishsoap Quarterly, and other sacred places. She has been nominated for Best of the Net for her poem, “Pearls”. Engage with her on most social media platforms @CrystalTaylorSA.

Poetry

Crystal Taylor is a writer, poet and birdwatcher from Texas. Her recent nonfiction work lives in Anti-heroin Chic, Gargoyle Magazine, Roi Finéant and other sacred places. Engage with her on most social media platforms @CrystalTaylorSA.

Crystal Taylor is a writer, poet and birdwatcher from Texas. Her words live in Maudlin House, wildspace., Gargoyle Magazine, and other sacred places. She was nominated for Best of the Net for her poem, “Pearls”. She is active on most social media @CrystalTaylorSA.

Fiction 

you sit in silence, 
ground moving beneath the soles of your shoes, beneath the tracks; cities rushing by, a blink of an eye–

(...)

to stand still and yearn to go

(...)

I’m not good for you– 
a woman gone mad 
from trying to find galaxies 
and painting the sky red with starfire 

good for you

(...)

and so hours pass in this silent calm– 
he looks on as another day dies, 
Helios climbing back into the divine;

sunlight incarnate

James, stumbling home intoxicated from a party, quickly finds a mess that sister Hazel has been trying her best to cope with. It's revealed that the Madigan family has had some entanglings in old mobster issues, and the threat is arriving quickly.

MadHouse

"You pat your hair down, put your glasses back on, and then take in the tsunami-hit wreckage of your wavy hair. 

The enormity of what you have done dawns upon you and you begin to panic."

Haircut; An Attempt At Something Significant

The Golden Nugget (Cuts)

An american football player finds himself struggling to think clearly and be who he once was.

Can't Take Everything

"I tasted summer on her lips. Cotton candy, chapstick, cherry Coke with rum. 

Her hands met the shorelines of my hips and I was done for. I would let Juliet crash into me any day, any night, whenever she liked."

Wish Upon a Satellite

Sometimes A Fire

These colors don’t run, 
which is to say 

this criss-crossed flag, 

this faux heritage, 

this emblem of pride, 

white superiority

seems to mean something ......

southern crucifix

from "Aria for Need"

The night is a parched dog and I quench it, 
skate my feet so you will not hear me 


peel my toes from the kitchen’s stained linoleum. 
Skin: the first thing to catch and caution. 

The sudden way mine reddens a perfect tell.

"4 Poems"

"I came to town thirsty for all that it had to offer. 2007 Portland electrified me: 3 am seagull screams, cobblestone streets, exquisite graffiti, DIY culture."

Seagulls Circle and Scream

A creative nonfiction piece about my childhood growing up on a farm, where the horror is all around you all the time.

Those Damned Birds

This piece is a mantra of self realization/actualization through the lens of a singer in a 'The Clash meets Idles' punk band. The title might mean something, but it also might not.

It's a poem, but sorta, kinda lyrics maybe.

Lawrence Welk Rerun

"I wanted to see an alien so I drove out to Roswell, but they didn’t realize I was looking for them until after I left town. It was three days later, in a Doubletree in Nebraska, when the lights finally flooded my vision and the creatures came out...

Roswell/Nebraska

"But no number of prayers can save the damned,
and I’ve damned myself willingly."

Published in Roi Fainéant Press Mile 13 [April 2022]

Fire & Brimstone

"The George Frederic is located on a small side street called Fishamble which no Dublin local has apparently ever heard of. Ever. I mean no one. Don’t even bother asking. You’ll have better luck finding out how to locate the lost city of Brigadoon."

5 Stops on the Road to Ruin

“If they can convince themselves to rupture the delicate membrane of civil decorum, acting so truculent and uncouth . . . you just never know. You should.”

Broadside

can you stamp / out the cinders / extinguish the spine / can you kill /


each light / jimmy the switch 	 the dead / outlet	     suspended 

The Body on Fire Inside Me 

Do not tell me to heal. I want no poems
that call the wild geese home, or command me,
behold the winter sunset, or, consider
the fox frozen in river-ice. I want no poems
that tell me how to mend, or how to mourn
all the world’s little losses...

Pearl Mussel

They asked me "What do you want to be when you grow up?" And I answered,
     (a wolf)
but I said nothing. Wolves do not speak.

Untitled

If I believed in God, I would use Him 
The way He has been used against me.
Those who have condemned me, I would condemn
From my high pulpit, and rain hellfire down
On what I deem hypocrisy.

'GOD HATES ___' (A sonnet)

Her words echoed inside me each time I picked up my tinting brush and helped the dead impersonate the living, if only for a few hours of viewing. By then, my life revolved around impersonation, ...

sweet services

An unfinished excerpt from one of my poems appears in Petites Serving 26

Petites

Uphill, Both Ways

"I wished we could trade places. In the next breath, I didn’t. I didn’t want her in mine. Standing there, tongue-tied and incapacitated by insecurity and incompetence, not knowing how to navigate this."

We Could Be Other People

Mimesis

The Summer I Got Diagnosed With Hypertension 

Lake Verna, or The Sublime Misery of Hiking 

PUNICA GRANATUM

How To Read My Poems

"...you feel that ugly beautiful energy when you look at them and it has to come out, come OUT, COME OUT, before you can go somewhere as prosaic as bed."

Experimental, 187 words.

$300 masterclass on how to get rejected by the New York Times' "Modern Love" column

in my sweating palms,
					where my fingers   connect
								to the hand
							like a cheek,
									to be grazed,     I hold
							        the gristle
							and my fat   from my joints 
							        all together & I wish 
you'd graze them.


the swallow + 4 other poems!!

France, November 1916
My dearest Elsie
I hope this letter finds you well, as it leaves me. I'm still in one piece, so I can't complain, in the circumstances.

Between The Lines

Coevolution

Systems of Navigation

The Ghost of Christmas Presents

"I’m powerless to move as my pursuer catches up and hits the brakes just before he bowls me over. He reaches out a hand to steady himself against my arm. “Ma’am, excuse me,” he says breathlessly, wiping sweat from his brow, “is this your pussy?”"

I Airdropped My Pussy to Everyone in This Airport

Grasshopper

Blind Eyes And Wandering Hands

disappearing act

Pickles

Grief of Hands Burned to Dust

Boroughs

For someone better at small talk

The red glare shines against my face,
bright in the quiet of morning. 
My eyes glaze over at the monotony,
everyone inching forward,
making the lights strobe. 

Look to the Skies

The sky and pavement 
mix together in my vision 
and the rain streaking my windshield
sets my car to warp. 

I shouldn’t drive at night

"For now, we glide through the silky umbra to a place that was once a planet. I crave ice to quench the inferno in my mind."

Banana Split Ferry

Red Madness of '21

How to Survive Christmas

Out With Lanterns

"I will never tire of this game, even though I’ll never win."

Roi Fainéant Press

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