"Literature magazine celebrating the weird, the other, imaginary worlds, horror, uncanny, monsters, folklore & more"
Vibe: Send us your best but less intimidating
Response time:
3-4 months
Simultaneous submissions:
Previously published:
Submission fee:
Expedited submissions:
Available in print:
Examples online:
Average acceptance rate:
United Kingdom
Year founded:
Has Masthead info:

Important stuff

Make you feel at home: cozy, meme-friendly, a sense of community, all that stuff
Active on social media




Max words: 3000Max pieces: 1

[ugh] feed

[ugh] is our new Twitter knock-off where writers and magazines can post updates. Check it out!
This magazine hasn't posted anything yet. If you're the editor, claim your page here, or start posting here!


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 :)

Ariell Cacciola



'Game' by Ellie Broughton

At a little bookshop off a market road in Hackney, golden lights glowed against the deepening blue night. It was here that I first met her, last summer, at a book launch (where else?). She was Twitter-famous, and I had already browsed her socials once or twice. In particular I liked her Instagram Stories, every pic warm and expensive. I would lie in my hand-me-down sheets on Saturday mornings and tap, tap, tap through them until I heard the rolling boil of the kettle in the shared kitchen. She wrote about food, but not the food I ate. She wrote long, sprawling essays that conjured smells, memories, and phrases to be savoured. Her prose simmered, her incantations of antique and unfamiliar words an ancient English too refined for me. I envied her freedom: when I wrote like that it usually came back soggy and raw in the middle, dry or burned at the edges. She had flair. She had taste.
Read the full piece in the magazine

'Ghost Story' by Mandy Shunnarah

Camille fluttered awake with a shiver, a common occurrence when you’re homeless and spend more nights sleeping outdoors than in. “I’ll be damned, I thought it would never happen!” a woman’s voice squealed. Camille wasn’t expecting company. The whole point of sleeping in a graveyard is to avoid people––and avoid the possibility of being robbed. Or worse. She bolted upright, feeling the dampness from her period between her legs. She’d run out of tampons again and old socks rarely stayed in place. “Shit,” she grimaced, looking down to see if her pants were stained. “Oh my,” the other woman said. “That’s awfully unfortunate. I’d offer you a rag, but––”
Read the full piece in the magazine

'I Remain Yours' by Elinor Abbott

Dear Walt, The snow’s almost melted now. The bones of the earth are showing again, the mesa to the west sheds its white coat for the last time, I hope. The fence is busted, wire came down from the weight of the snow. I worried the cow might wander off but she stays put, I guess even she knows there’s nowhere to go. Eli came out and looked at the fence with me yesterday, thinks we could patch it up with twine to keep the cow in. I was out working on it just now, but my fingers went numb from cold and I couldn’t tie the knots. I came in to warm my hands, but felt the urge to write you. I suppose I can’t stop wondering. The question of you takes up more room in my mind than scripture, though that will come as no surprise to you. I can’t pretend I was ever the holiest of women. I wish I could blow these words off the paper and send them out looking for you, like clouds or dust.
Read the full piece in the magazine

'I Remain Yours' by Helen McClory

They killed the hare when the mist was on the early morning river. They had come upon her in an abutting field, while crossing it silently out on a hunt. She lay in her form, resting, eyebright and whiskers quivering. Dew on the long and parted grass. One man whistled through his teeth. She did not move. Her nose moved. Someone cocked their gun. The youngest held her body by the ears. Long creature, with great elegant legs and feet, fur the colour of clay. They tied her to the grouse pole, and brought her back with a double brace. The house was empty of the womenfolk when they returned. Outside, the trumpets of daffodils blared bright against an encroaching bank of smoke-white fog. Most of them thought nothing of it.
Read the full piece in the magazine

Contributors on Chill Subs (0)

No one has added their publication in this magazine yet :) Be the first!

All contributors

Contributors are coming :)

(or not, maybe it's too many of them)