"Tahoma Literary Review is based in the Pacific Northwest, but we are international in scope. TLR offers both professional payment and exposure to our contributors by using a substantial portion of our total income to support our authors."
Vibe: Top-tier stuff. Not Paris Review, but ok
Response time:
3 months
Payment:
Yes
Simultaneous submissions:
Yes
Previously published:
No
Submission fee:
$4-$5
Expedited submissions:
Yes
Available in print:
Yes
Examples online:
Yes
Average acceptance rate:
?
Country:
United States
Year founded:
?
Has Masthead info:
Yes

Important stuff

Active on social media
Offer expedited response: $3 for a response within two weeks
Pays! $55 for poetry and flash (up to 1,500 words), $135 for fiction & nonfiction up to 6,000 words.
Available in print
Promote writers even after publication - hype hype hype
Submission fee

Genres

👌

Fiction

Max words: 10000
👌

Nonfiction

Max words: 6000
👌

Poetry

Max pieces: 3

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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 :)

Jim Gearhart

Editor-in-Chief

Ann Beman

Editor
nonfiction

Jessica Cuello

Editor
poetry

Leanne Dunic

Editor
fiction

Examples

'Rerock' by David Simmons

(excerpt)
His earliest memory was of caramel, not of actual caramel, but of an imagined caramel that materialized out of thin air and hovered above his father’s head. The kitchen of their Lexington Terrace tenth floor apartment smelled like rat shit and water damage. A wood-tip Black and Mild smoldered in a coffee mug. The boy flicked the light switch and watched the roaches scatter, some of them big enough for him to hear the sound of their thorax rubbing against the linoleum countertops. “This shit is in your blood.” The boy’s father leaned against the stove. He wore a crisp, white v-neck tucked into burgundy, rayon slacks. Water boiled in a large pot behind him.
Read the full piece in the magazine

'There Will Be More Sunrises' by Susan L. Leary

(excerpt)
My twelve-year-old brother wants to show me three quarters now superglued outside the entranceway to the 7-Eleven, so on a day in June, he walks me through the yard and into a fragrant admixture of honeysuckle and gasoline. As I look to where he points, the silver of the coins gleams in the sun, an automated bell dinging with each swift swing of the door. It’s an experiment, he says. Whose fate is it to crouch to the ground and scrape their fingers against the cement? Whose fate is it to be fooled? Though I do not know if the gesture is more imagined or true, I have seen my brother’s face like this before: awash in sunrise, cleverness brimming inside his cheeks.
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'Mechanophilia' by Cynthia White

(excerpt)
It’s summer, and I am not in love with horses Like my best friend, her bedroom a temple, Storybooks and figurines, days pledged To the stables. I ride a Huffy, royal blue. If she’s any kind of animal, she’s kept it secret, The way I don’t tell my mother where I’m going. I pedal toward the river, Hoping for minnows, my small mound Snug in the saddle.
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'A Sunday at Sukh Niwas' by Aliya Haer

(excerpt)
Punjab, India 1982 Today is Sunday. Yesterday, I was unaware of it being Saturday. Tomorrow, it won’t matter that it’s Monday. Only today, being Sunday, does it mean anything. Everyday we have breakfast, lunch, teatime, and dinner. Life passes in a series of breakfasts, lunches, teatimes, and dinners; visits and visitors; and the comings and goings of servants and dogs. My elder brother didn’t go to school this morning. I didn’t hear him half-asleep, offering his resistance in wooden movements; nor the sound of my grandmother herding him into the bathroom, and later scolding him to sit still, while she combs the knots out of his long hair, and arranges it in a joorhi on top of his head.
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