Logo of Slant literary magazine
"Its editorial tastes are broad, but in all cases it looks for craft in making and freshness of sensibility. Unlike many journals, SLANT looks favorably upon traditional verse forms and narrative poetry."
Open:
Yes, till March 31, 2023
Vibe: Send us your best but less intimidating
Response time:
3-4 months
Payment:
No
Simultaneous submissions:
Yes
Previously published:
No
Submission fee:
Free
Expedited submissions:
No
Available in print:
Yes
Examples online:
Yes
Average acceptance rate:
?
Country:
United States
Year founded:
1986
Has Masthead info:
Yes

Chill Subs Tracker Stats!

Total tracked subs
0
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Important stuff

Available both in print and online

Genres

đź‘Ś

Poetry

Max pieces: 5

[ugh] feed

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Masthead

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 :)

Michael Blanchard

Editor-in-Chief

Examples

'Another Sailor, Lost At Sea' by Scott Blackwell

(excerpt)
It amazes me that this body, this thing that is still supposed to be me after over half a century, breathes, eats, shits, continues to dream, function, continues not to play— but lives!—
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'Disconnected' by David Stephenson

(excerpt)
I've lost interest in a lot of things— Sports, religion, money, politics— Everything but music, basically The whole combined flea circus and boat show. Especially this new technology That keeps people connected all the time, Which is problematic for loners, but which Most people love.
Read the full piece in the magazine

'Widow' by Jean L. Kreiling

(excerpt)
She gives his sweaters to Goodwill and knows that he'd approve; she eats popcorn in bed, and knows that he wouldn't. When she sleeps instead of getting up to run, he'd say it shows her sloth; but he'd be pleased that she still goes to church (hymns heal the soul, he'd always said), and he'd assure her that God isn't dead, as this ungodly grief makes her suppose.
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'Fall' by Ruth Holzer

(excerpt)
There was a time when I, despite it all, though knowing well the vanity of grief, mourned inconsolably for one dear friend, my other self, now lost beyond recall; when I could find no confort or relief and thought the fractured world would never mend my whole life long, that pain would only end when I succumbed, a frail autumnal leaf.
Read the full piece in the magazine

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