by Moustapha Mbacke Diop | May 27, 2021 | micro
Each night, my soul flutters out of its husk and wanders between the stars. Through sheets of laterite and palm leaves, my people dance and clap along with the rhythm of ebony drums. They twirl, dusty feet hovering above the ground as mothers sing. The masquerades burst from the Rainforest, they chase giggling children, their whips crack on the spines of men who have forgotten themselves. When they see me, shrouded in arcane, they call me into their dance. Wrinkled eyes carved in ochre-dyed wood and sacred fabric embalm my soul. I am free.
by Fractured Lit | May 24, 2021 | contests
fractured lit revision workshop
CLOSES October 31, 2022
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Workshop Details
Need a close read and expert advice about your flash and/or micro fiction? This time we’re focusing on revision techniques! This workshop is all about the follow-through.
The first round of feedback will be on 3 pieces of your choice. You’ll then send us one of those pieces after your revision for further notes. This second round of notes can be on your favorite piece, or one that’s really been thorny. Up to you!
All participants will also join our editor, Tommy Dean, for an exclusive generative zoom workshop on revision. This will be recorded as well for all who register.
This workshop is open to all writers and is an excellent way to get your flash or micros ready to submit and find readers. Please keep submissions to no more than 3 flashes or 5 micros (3,000 words total or less) and include a cover letter describing your piece.
Your cover letter should include a brief introduction to your story, where you have submitted or hope to submit in the future, and any specific feedback you’re looking for, as well as challenges you’re having with the piece. When your submission is uploaded you will receive registration confirmation. Stories will be processed in the order they are received.
- an editorial letter from your instructor with specific suggestions and developmental edits that will help elevate your flash to the next level
- a chance to revise 1 flash/micro based on your instructor’s feedback and submit it to the Fractured Editorial team for possible acceptance or an additional feedback letter
- PDF of materials including craft essays from our Editor in Chief, advice and inspiration from editors across the community, editorial notes on what we see from the slush pile, information on submission strategies, and additional advice on submitting
- a free submission in a forthcoming Fractured Lit contest
- suggestions on literary magazines and contests that would be a good fit for your work, along with reading recommendations from your instructor
- an exclusive generative zoom class led by Editor Tommy Dean using stories published in Fractured Lit as inspiration! This class will provide participants with an opportunity to read and learn craft moves from several model texts followed by 4-5 writing prompts.
- the opportunity to join a workshop group with your peers in the program
- Writers will receive their final feedback no later than February 28, 2023. Early submissions may yield earlier feedback.
2022 Guest Editors:
Andrew Porter is the author of three books, including the forthcoming short story collection, The Disappeared (Knopf, 2022), the short story collection, The Theory of Light and Matter (Vintage/Penguin Random House), which won the Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction, and the novel, In Between Days (Knopf), which was a Barnes & Noble “Discover Great New Writers” selection. Porter’s books have been published in foreign editions in the UK and Australia and translated into numerous languages, including French, Spanish, Dutch, Bulgarian, and Korean. His individual stories have appeared in such publications as The Pushcart Prize anthology, Ploughshares, One Story, The Southern Review, The Missouri Review, and The Threepenny Review, and currently, he teaches fiction writing and directs the Creative Writing Program at Trinity University in San Antonio.
Shasta Grant is the author of the chapbook Gather Us Up and Bring Us Home (Split Lip Press, 2017). Ann Patchett selected her story, “Most Likely To,” as the winner of the 2015 Kenyon Review Short Fiction Contest. She was a 2020 Aspen Words Emerging Writer Fellow and the 2016 Kathy Fish Fellow at SmokeLong Quarterly, where she is now an editor. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and The Best Small Fictions and long-listed for the Wigleaf Top 50. Her stories and essays have appeared in The Kenyon Review, Epiphany, Gargoyle, cream city review, Hobart, MonkeyBicycle, Wigleaf, and elsewhere. Shasta is represented by Saba Sulaiman at Talcott Notch Literary.
Anthony Varallo is the author of a novel, The Lines (University of Iowa Press), as well as four short story collections: This Day in History, winner of the John Simmons Short Fiction Award; Out Loud, winner of the Drue Heinz Literature Prize; Think of Me and I’ll Know (Northwestern University Press/TriQuarterly Books); and Everyone Was There, winner of the Elixir Press Fiction Award. He is a professor of English at the College of Charleston in Charleston, SC, where he is the fiction editor of Crazyhorse (now swamp pink). Find him online at @TheLines1979.
Sherrie Flick is the author of the novel Reconsidering Happiness and two short story collections, Whiskey, Etc. and Thank Your Lucky Stars. Her fiction has appeared in many anthologies and journals, including Flash Fiction Forward, New Sudden Fiction, and New Micro, as well as Ploughshares, Wigleaf, and New World Writing. She served as series editor for The Best Small Fictions 2018, is a senior editor at SmokeLong Quarterly, and co-editor for Flash Fiction America (Norton, 2022).
Tara Campbell is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, fiction co-editor at Barrelhouse, and graduate of American University’s MFA in Creative Writing. She’s the recipient of the following awards from the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities: the Larry Neal Writers’ Award, the Mayor’s Arts Award for Outstanding New Artist, and annual Arts and Humanities Fellowships from 2018 – 2022. Campbell’s publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Masters Review, Wigleaf, Booth, Strange Horizons, Electric Literature’s Commuter, and CRAFT Literary. She’s the author of a novel and four multi-genre collections including her newest, Cabinet of Wrath: A Doll Collection. She teaches creative writing with American University, Johns Hopkins University, The Writer’s Center, Politics and Prose, Catapult, Clarion West, and the National Gallery of Art.
Exodus Oktavia Brownlow is a Blackhawk, Ms native. She is a graduate of Mississippi Valley State University with a BA in English, and Mississippi University for Women with an MFA in Creative Writing. Exodus has been published or has forthcoming work with ElectricLit, Hobart, Booth, Barren Magazine, Jellyfish Review, Chicken Soup for The Soul, Louisiana Literature, F(r)fiction, and more. She has been nominated for Best of The Net, Best MicroFiction and a Pushcart Prize. Her piece “It’s 5am-ish, And My Father Tells Me A Story From His Time in Singapore” will be included in the anthology Best MicroFiction 2021.
Tommy Dean is the author of two flash fiction chapbooks Special Like the People on TV (Redbird Chapbooks, 2014) and Covenants (ELJ Editions, 2021). Hollows, A collection of flash fiction was published by Alternating Current Press in 2022. He lives in Indiana where he currently is the Editor at Fractured Lit and Uncharted Magazine. A recipient of the 2019 Lascaux Prize in Short Fiction, his writing can be found in Best Microfiction 2019 and 2020, Best Small Fiction 2019, Monkeybicycle, and numerous litmags. Find him at tommydeanwriter.com and on Twitter @TommyDeanWriter.
guidelines
- We accept works of 3 flashes or 5 micros or fewer (No more than 3,000 words total). All genres and all styles are welcome.
- Please submit no more than 3 flash or 5 micros per submission. Submissions are accepted on a rolling basis.
- Editors with limited spots will be given on a first-come, first-served basis. The editor reserves the right to assign each submission to the editor of their choice as necessary.
- If you submit your manuscript after reserving your spot, you will need to request to open your submission by e-mailing us at contact [at] fracturedlit.com. We’ll grant you access, and then you can upload your pieces.* This should be completed before the deadline of June 30, 2022.
*PDF of materials may not be ready at the time of submission but will be provided no later than August 1, 2022*
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by Edie Meade | May 21, 2021 | micro
Shrapnel bores out of Daddy when he chops too much wood. They float to a place near his spine and Momma fishes them out with tweezers and a needle.
Shrapnel bits don’t look like bullets. Sometimes they look like hominy, sometimes like baby teeth. They’ve been coated with scar tissue, given their own skin.
I think it’s strange how Daddy can go on, chopping wood far away from the war with its metal still ripping through his body. Momma says the war never really stops; it just becomes a part of a man and destroys him from the inside out.
by Bayveen O'Connell | May 20, 2021 | micro
Just as the Greeks hypothesised, my uterus traversed my whole body, and yet in an absence of hysteria, she squeezed herself calmly out from between my legs. I set her free and she rose like a glowing New Year’s lantern. Getting caught in bare branches, she fluttered from bud to bud: a bright pink robin with fallopian wings.
My brother called wombs man-traps, my best friend grieved ’till hers was filled. But no squatters, no prisoners, tenants nor tears for me: I just watched her joy, serene and sisterly, as my uterus floated away, augmenting us both.
by Laura Besley | May 19, 2021 | interview
We Love in Small Moments: a Collection on Love is the debut chapbook by Melissa Boles published by Emerge Literary Journal as part of their Magpies Series. In these 14 stories, Boles looks at many different aspects of love – the main two themes being romantic love and parental love – and the myriad ways this can be experienced.
Many of the stories in the collection are about characters leaving. In the opening story, ‘Wishing’, a couple makes love, but the ending is a little melancholy, with the impression that he wants more than she can give. “Ana is the most intriguing woman he’s ever dated, though he wishes that, just once, she would still be in his arms when he wakes up.”
‘Left in Valdosta’ encompasses two different types of leaving. There is the immediate leaving in the story: a man and his daughter are visiting the man’s dad and their visit is nearing its end. Neither the young girl nor the granddad want the visit to end, both calling out from the garden to “[s]tay a while longer” or “[f]or five more minutes!” The man, watching his dad and daughter play, is washing up at the end of the visit. He’s scrubbing tobacco spit out of a Valdosta state mug which until his wife left “was just as crisp and white as the day they bought it.” Resigned at the state of the mug or the length of the visit, or both, he sits with a whisky and waits.
“It’s hot out and I’m sweating and I don’t want to be here, but his son is playing.” This opening sentence of ‘Home Plate’ is pitch-perfect and Boles deftly portrays the situation. The new girlfriend looks at the other people sitting on the bleachers and makes the observation that: “[a]ll the moms have matching handbags and matching up-dos and I am out of place but still here, clapping and cheering when he does and not actually caring what is happening.” There seems to be a deep sadness in this line; the feeling of being out of place, but trying to fit in, however only on the surface as deep down you know you never will.
In contrast to some of the grittier pieces about couples, ‘Hormones’ and ‘Toe Shoes’ are soft and sentimental stories about babies yet to be born. The interaction between the parents and the child in ‘Hormones’ is very realistic, the young girl puffing out her stomach to be like her mother, waiting for her father’s affection. In ‘Toe Shoes’ “[h]is wife finds the necklace while pulling out Christmas decor, the sterling silver toe shoes glistening in the sunlight as she runs her thumb over their outline, remembering how they used to feel on her feet.” Instead of suspected infidelity, the necklace is not for another woman, but their future daughter.
We Love in Small Moments: a Collection on Love is striking and unflinching in language and exploration, containing stories that will stay with you long after you’ve finished reading them. More importantly, maybe, reading this chapbook will make you breathe a little easier, your belief in love restored.
Melissa Boles (she/her) is a writer, storyteller, and impatient optimist. Originally from the Pacific Northwest, she is currently residing in East Tennessee with her two friends and their four dogs. Her writing focuses on art, mental health, love, and human connection, and she believes that storytelling is humanity’s most incredible miracle. Melissa has been published in multiple literary journals and on several websites and is in the Pages Penned in Pandemic Collective (published January 2021). If she’s not writing, she is reading or helping people tell their stories through her day job in marketing and communications. You can find her online at melissaboles.com.
by Grant Faulkner | May 16, 2021 | micro
I’ve always thought life is more about what is unsaid than what is said. We live in odd gaps of silence, irremediable interstices that sometimes last forever. A lingering glance averted. The lover who slams the door and runs away. Unsent letters. We all carry so many strange little moments within us. Memory shuffles through random snapshots. Sometimes they seem insignificant, yet they stay with us for some reason, weaving the fabrics of our beings. In the end, we don’t seize the day so much as it seizes us.
The idea of capturing such small but telling moments of life is what drew me to 100-word stories (or “drabbles” as they’re sometimes referred to). I’d previously written novels and longer short stories, forms that demanded an accumulation of words—to sew connections, to explain, to build an entire world with text. I wondered, what if I did the opposite? What if instead of relying on the words of a story, I relied on the spectral spaces around those words? What if I privileged excision over any notion of comprehensiveness, and formed narratives around caesuras and crevices?
We live as foragers in many ways, after all, sniffing at hints, interpreting the tones of a person’s voice, scrutinizing expressions, and then trying to put it all together into a collage of what we like to call truth. Whether it’s the gulf between a loved one, the natural world, or God, we exist in lacunae. I wanted to write with an aesthetic that captured these “fissures,” as I began to think about them.
Perhaps I could have accomplished such an aesthetic of writing in a longer form, but the hard borders of a 100- word story put a necessary pressure on each word, each sentence. In my initial forays into 100-word stories, my stories veered toward 150 words or more. I didn’t see ways to cut or compress. I didn’t see ways to make the nuances and gestures of language invite the reader in to create the story. But writing within the fixed lens of 100 words required me to discipline myself stringently. I had to question each word, to reckon with Flaubert’s “mot juste” in a way that even most flash fiction doesn’t. As a result, I discovered those mysterious, telling gaps that words tend to cover up.
We all have a literal blind spot in our eyes where the optic nerve connects to the retina and there are no light-detecting cells. None of us will ever know the whole story, in other words. We can only collect a bag full of shards and try to piece them together. This collection is my bag full of shards.
Castings
A resistance to spontaneous modes of imagination. A disdain for sultriness. Tattered underwear. Every marriage has its own legalities, and these were Anthony’s claims for divorce. Sometime, long ago, they’d believed in something that rhymed with galactic. Now, if gossip columns about ordinary people existed, they would have reported him howling at the moon. In one last attempt to save their romance, he asked her to get high and lay on the grass. She held a grocery list, stared at him with a survivalist’s determination. He saw teddy bears, grasshoppers in the clouds. The worms beneath him abandoned their selves.
Originally published in Fissures: One Hundred 100-Word Stories from Press 53
by Kyra Kondis | May 14, 2021 | flash fiction
There was a man—there is always a man. There was the crush of gray wave. The cold bite of late fall.
She’s been down here for so long, she can’t remember things she once would never have thought important enough to forget. What the ground feels like. What smoke smells like. What clocks sound like. She doesn’t know how many years have passed, how many times the sun has sunken to a rind on the horizon and then risen again.
But she remembers everything else. The boats are different these days. Blocky cargo freighters. Small yachts that sit lightly on the water’s surface. Long white ships she’s learned are called cruises, their underbellies casting dark shadows on the seafloor. They jostle the water, fill the air above with noise: the whir of engines, shrieks of laughter, jazz music.
She has been down here for so, so long.
A little-known fact about Davy Jones: there is no locker, but there is a trench. No matter where you are at the bottom of the ocean, there is just about always a trench. The locker is a figure of speech, more of a concept than a place. This is how things are in general now, for Davy: intangible, just like herself, her skin.
And she used to get lonely by herself in a vortex of ocean. She used to wonder, why her? Why had the universe one day decided that she would end up down here, like this?
It wasn’t the universe that decided this, of course. It was, of course, a man.
She is close to the beach today, whatever day it is, in the shallower water that’s more of a brackish brown. There is a boat she has her eye on, a small white yacht. She has been watching. She is always watching.
Here is another little-known fact about Davy Jones: there are scarier things than Davy Jones across the miles of unexplored seafloor, sure. But there are definitely scarier things than Davy Jones on land.
When she lived, she wore panniers and corsets that only slightly squeezed the air from her lungs. She worked as a seamstress. She learned to read, then to write, in looping script that looked like strands of curly hair. She did needlepoint. She created things. She didn’t always just destroy.
The men on the boat are young. Their shirts are button-up and short-sleeved and printed with bright tropical flowers. They are having trouble with their boat. The caterwaul of the engine echoes across the water. They are unconcerned. Beer cans fly like lures off the side of the yacht, which is emblazoned with the words The Casanova, and, next to that, Sigma Chi Seniors in a blocky, red paint.
The man who pressed his cold hands into Davy’s collarbones was young, too. He flashed a silver knife as if to tell her: obey. His eyes, the color of storm clouds. She made sure to get a good look at his eyes; if you want to recognize someone later, always look at their eyes.
Sometime before now, when Davy was up here at the surface, watching the Casanova, a young woman was brought aboard, slouched over the arm of one of the men. Her dress glittered like fish scales, slipped a little off a shoulder. The men on the deck hooted and cackled after she disappeared inside the boat’s cabin.
Davy did a double take.
It’s silly, but at first, looking at the woman, Davy thought that she was looking at herself.
When she sank the ship of the man with the storm-cloud eyes and cold hands, she was messy, angry. It was her first time doing such a thing. She was adjusting to her own death and what came after. She enveloped the boat in walls of water until it split with a deafening crack. She watched the pieces float to the seafloor, slowly, like flakes of snow.
Now her form is measured, perfected. The Casanova’s engine starts and the men cheer. They putter forward into deeper waters, not knowing the ways in which they will sink.
Davy Jones watches, ready. She is always ready. She has this down to a science. She is not who you think she is.
by K-Ming Chang | May 12, 2021 | interview
by Veronica Montes | May 11, 2021 | interview
Fractured: What excites you about writing flash fiction/ Are there any limitations to the form?
Montes: For me, flash is often about exploring life’s small moments, times when not much seems to be happening, and yet…everything is happening. And so I’m excited by the challenge of trying to give these moments the attention they deserve. By this I mean a beginning, middle, and end, a sense of before and after, whole characters, and a touch of lyricism. The challenge of trying to achieve all of this in under 1,000 words is what I find exciting about writing flash.
As for limitations…what are those?! My fellow flash writers are dazzling me with their experiments and derring-do. While I have yet to push the limits in my own work, they’re providing plenty of inspiration.
Fractured: What normally comes first in your writing process? Image, language, a voice? Titles or a first line?
Montes: My process almost always starts with a snapshot-like image. And then I try to puzzle out why the image came to me or sticks with me. Why these deer feeding from an apple tree? Who is this woman sitting in the dirt? Where is this little boy going, all alone, with that look on his face? Despite my mother hissing, “Veronica stop staring,” into my ear while growing up I have remained, like most writers, extraordinarily nosey (though perhaps more discreet now). One of my favorite things is to observe someone while my train is pulling away, and they’re waiting on the platform. Once on a snowy day in Virginia, I saw a man in a work jumpsuit sitting on the ground with his lunch box beside him, and he was just so weary. This was probably twenty-five years ago, and I’m still waiting to put him in a story. Said story will also feature…soup. I think.
Fractured: I’m in love with cover art/ How do you think it helps contribute to the themes of the book? What was the process like working with Black Lawrence press?
Montes: I love my chapbook cover art, too! Black Lawrence Press was very open to input, so I did what I did for my full-length collection: turned to the Filipino/American Artist Directory. As soon as I saw Mary Jhun’s work, I knew I’d found the right artist. I felt like this painting, “The Young House,” spoke to the rich interior lives of my characters, of their attempts to speak and be heard, of both triumph and failure. Black Lawrence Press is terrific: they have an author handbook to walk you through the entire publication process, and they offer a pre-sale incentive program, plus plenty of support for readings, reviews, etc.
Fractured: How did you decide which stories made it into the chapbook?
Montes: I wanted to create a timeline of sorts, so I chose pieces that told the story of a woman at eight different points in her life (alternately, they can be read as stories about eight different women), from adolescence to elder status. The stories are similar in tone, and they’re all flash, so I wanted to include one piece that was longer (in this case, just under 1,000 words) and had—to me, at least—a completely different feel while still keeping with the themes. I placed that one in the middle and called it an interlude.
Fractured: A lot of these stories feel like allegories. Is that something you focus on when writing/ Is allegory another way of conceiving fairy tales? How did you make these stories so personal, so active?
Montes: I’m asked this question a lot, and I’ve never answered it to my satisfaction. So once more unto the breach: I wish I could be the kind of writer who understands what they’re doing while they’re doing it, but I’m just not. I’ve only consciously written a fairytale once (it’s not even finished; I’ve been writing it for years!), yet many of my stories end up, more or less, in that space. I just write what comes to me without trying to force anything, which is how I think I often end up in a dreamy kind of place. When editing, I look for the point in the story that makes me the most scared or uncomfortable, and then I drill down a little. It’s kind of like pressing on a bruise. Maybe this is what you’re sensing as personal?
Fractured: I love how evocative your titles are, how they are rarely one word! Do titles come naturally to you?
Montes: Thank you! As flash writers we’re hyper-aware of every word, image, and a bit of dialogue; most of it has to do double-duty. So I think flash titles should work just as hard! I find that my titles are often a piece of information that I wasn’t able to include in the text itself or, more generally, an attempt at additional clarification. For example, I wrote a flash that was a little confusing because it featured four characters, but was only 240 words. It received a few good rejections before I realized that the title was contributing nothing—less than nothing, to be honest—to the piece. I changed it to clarify the cast of characters, and it was picked up the next time out by a publication I’d never been brave enough to submit to before. If anyone is curious: “The Alchemist, His Daughter, Their Two Servants” in Wigleaf.
Fractured: What are you waiting for? What would end your waiting?
Montes: There are so many ways to answer this question in these fraught times, but I’m going with the eradication of margins. I’m waiting for zero margins, and I think the end of white supremacy will be the beginning of the end of my waiting.
by Fractured Lit | May 10, 2021 | contests
fractured lit anthology 1 prize
judged by Kathy Fish
CLOSED April 19, 2021
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2021 Winners:
Night Vision by Anna Gates Ha
(Don’t) Remember Me Like This by Cyn Nooney
Girl on the Bike, Boy in Dayton by John Bensink
Girl in the Snow by Wendy Oleson
I Chose the Pencil by Richard Schwarzenberger
Sweets from Strangers by Tian Yi
We Don’t Boil Babies by Alicia Dekker
Salt City Runaway by Gillian O’Shaughnessy
In Andromeda by Jonathan Cardew
Evening Clay by Josh Wagner
As Solid as an Ashtray and Emits More Smoke by Edie Meade
Grandma Kim at Forty-Five by Chloe Seim
Muscle and Might by Bob Thurber
Mi Porvenir by A.J. Rodriguez
Rabbit, Rabbit by Sally Toner
Account for What You Have by Alexandra Blogier
Marriage Market by Susan Wigmore
If This Were Tracy Island by Marissa Hoffmann
Oil Drills by Lauren Weber
Thursday Night at Lucky’s Liquor Store by Shareen Murayama
Shortlist:
Henrietta by Kim Magowan
Wild Jill’s Bangin’ Karaoke Bar by Kayla Upadhyaya
Animals by Catherine Bush
Love, Exactly by Nikki HoSang
Buen Provecho by Amina Gautier
Waste Meadow by Greg Schutz
Harvest Moon by Kristin Saetveit
Little Tin Box by Jessica Daugherty
Make Dust Our Paper by Bill Merklee
Rustic Haircuts for Returning Ghosts by Nicole Tsuno
Almost Like a Heart by Jason Jackson
Freshman by Allison Renner
Blueberries by Adrienne Barrios
Lace in Your Hands by Lydia Copeland Gwyn
We invite writers to submit to the Fractured Lit Anthology 1 Prize from February 19 to April 19, 2021. Guest judge Kathy Fish will choose 20 prize winners from a shortlist. We’re excited to offer the 20 winners of this prize $250, publication, and 5 contributor copies of the printed anthology. All entries will be considered for publication.
Kathy Fish has published five collections of short fiction, most recently Wild Life: Collected Works from 2003-2018. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Ploughshares, Copper Nickel, Washington Square Review, and numerous other journals, textbooks, and anthologies. Fish’s “Collective Nouns for Humans in the Wild,” was selected for Best American Nonrequired Reading 2018 and the current edition of The Norton Reader. Her newsletter, The Art of Flash Fiction, provides monthly craft articles and writing prompts and is free to all. Subscribe here: https://artofflashfiction.substack.com.
Fractured Lit is looking for flash fiction that lingers long past the first reading. We’re searching for flash that investigates the mysteries of being human, the sorrow, and the joy of connecting to the diverse population around us. We want the stories that explode vertically, the flash that leaves the conventional and the clichéd far behind. Fractured Lit is a flash fiction–centered place for all writers of any background and experience.
Good luck and happy writing!
- Your $20 reading fee allows up to two stories of 1,000 words or fewer each per entry. If submitting two stories, please put them both in a SINGLE document.
- We allow multiple submissions. Each set of two flash stories should have a separate submission accompanied by a reading fee.
- Flash Fiction only. 1,000 word count per individual story is the maximum amount of words.
- We only consider unpublished work for contests. We do not review reprints, including self-published work.
- Simultaneous submissions are okay. Please notify us and withdraw your entry if you find another home for your writing.
- All entries will also be considered for publication in Fractured Lit.
- Double-space your submission and use Times New Roman 12 pt font.
- Please include a brief cover letter with your publication history (if applicable).
- International submissions are welcome, but we only read work in English.
- We do not read blind. The judge will read anonymously from the shortlist.
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