Logo of Waxwing Literary Journal literary magazine
"We strive to promote the tremendous cultural diversity of contemporary American literature, alongside international voices both in English and in translation."
Yes, till April 30, 2023
Vibe: Send us your best but less intimidating
Response time:
4 months / 13 days
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United States
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Average response time
13 days
Average acceptance time
Average rejection time
13 days
Fastest response time
3 days
Slowest response time
18 days

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Max words: 5000We don't have a world limit at this time, but we do prefer works of less than twenty double-spaced pages. Please note that novel chapters or excerpts should read well as stand alone pieces. We also love flash fictions (<1,000 words)—send up to three flash fictions in one document.


Max words: 6000We also love flash nonfictions (<1,000 words)—send up to three flash nonfictions in one document.


Max pieces: 5


Max pieces: 3


No specific limitations


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 :)

Iliana Rocha


Alyssa Jewell


Tara Isabel Zambrano


Silas Hansen



'The Fish Hums to the Night and the Night Hums to the Fish' by Amanda Turner

They say in twenty years’ time some of our cities could be underwater. Right now a major glacier in Antarctica is breaking apart from the inside out. As we do. And yet people are not screaming. They are hardly paying attention at all. The moment of happiness is here, my daughter says. We are playing a game where she begins a poem, and I finish it as we walk to school past all the winter gardens struggling in the cold. I remember a man on the radio saying, We like things that resist us.
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'Philadelphia Rooftop' by Robert Fanning

Warm summer night, the screech-call of a siren, horns bleeding down an avenue, the skyline's far diamonds glinting. I've long forgotten whose party it was or why a couple dozen of us were up there milling around under the blurred stars in pockets of two or three, beer bottles clinking, glowing baton-tips of cigarettes conducting a chorus of laughter and chatter. Behind blurred yellow squares in high-rise apartments across the alley, silhouettes scrubbed dishes or snored in recliners behind shut blinds, the facing building playing its nightly mosaic of so many human shows not worth watching.
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'Conversation with My Father' by Mark L. Keats

I hadn’t spoken to my father in over a decade. And then, there he was at my front door: an apparition. But somehow, strangely more. Hello, he says, and takes his bowler hat off. That’s the first sign. I’d never seen him with a hat, a suit, hair even. It’s as if he were some kind of salesman and now he was at my door looking as if he were no older than forty, handsome in ways, in the prime of his life, ready to make a deal. I know it’s been a long time, he says. Too long probably. I can only nod, unsure what to say to him, unsure of the last time we’d spoken. What do you say to someone you’d forgotten in so many ways?
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'Career day' by Bob Hicok

Were I a stenographer, I’d write down everything rain says. A camper, I’d set up a tent in the Rothko room at the Phillips. A heroin addict, I’d live in the ‘90s. Jesus, I’d change it to The Last Brunch. Quiche Lorraine, mimosas. I’d not take a police psychologist’s job for anything in the world, other than the world. And why do we say, Shot his brains out, when there’s just the one?
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