One Year Ago, Somewhere in the Sahara Desert

Sunset was making its inevitable approach as the caravan worked its way into the opening of the wadi. Days of travel across bleak wind-blasted terrain sweltering beneath the harsh Saharan sun had left the entire expedition exhausted. Everyone was looking forward to a night sheltered from the biting sands and ruthless heat.

Tristan Beaumont stood on a rise at the rear of the column, peering into the developing gloom of the canyon ahead. Beyond the limits of his vision awaited the discovery of a lifetime. One that had the potential to rewrite the history of human civilization in the Sahara. Those implications were why Tristan had to claim it first.

The area of geological upheaval stretched over fifty-two thousand square miles, roughly three times the size of Switzerland.

Never mind the myths of ancient curses, giant guardians, and lost treasures.

Every lost city or tomb seemed to come with a requisite list of ominous names and terrifying curses that would befall those who entered and touched anything. Giant spiked filled chasms and crocodile filled moats just did not exist like they did in the movies, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any real dangers. There was a better than average chance that they could be waylaid by marauders and the entire expedition would be swallowed up by the sands, never to be heard from again.

Tristan was willing to risk the dangers, both real or fantastical, but not for a mythical treasure or world fame. He had enough money and celebrity because of his heritage. It was hard to stay out of the public eye when you were the son of a billionaire. He hated it. Acute awareness of his fortune—he had witnessed so much greed in the corporate world of his Father—was why Tristan had decided to devote himself to philanthropic pursuits. Not for personal vindication or validation, but because it seemed like the right thing to do. It was his calling, his true purpose in life. That was why he was here in the middle of the desert, thousands of miles from home, about to enter the so called ‘Canyon of Death’.

He laughed at the cliché.

Tristan saw the caravan creep to a halt before the open mouth of the waiting ravine. Progress was slow by modern standards, the remote and unyielding landscape—and the lack of service stations—did not allow for the modern convenience of vehicles. The expedition was forced to rely on the biological Land Rovers of the Sahara, dromedary camels. The temperamental beasts, with their long slender necks and regal air, helped get them this far without incident. To the people of the desert, camels were part of their lifeblood.

Shouts echoed out of the canyon as the caravan ground to a halt. Camel and man alike were bunching up against the towering rock walls ahead. Something was wrong, they were stopping too soon. Sunset was still several hours off, more than enough time to make progress into the canyon before they set camp.

Tristan watched the stocky form of Kevin Sawyer—his business partner and photographer on this expedition—charging towards their Toubou guide, Hassan. Kevin had a short fuse and was not the best person for a rational negotiation, even when things were going well. Kevin’s voluminous voice boomed back to Tristan on his overlook. Better get down there before he starts swinging.

“We can't stop here man! There's still at least two hours of good light left,” Kevin said, waving his meaty hand in the direction of the canyon.

“We stop here. Men go no further in the dark. Bad place to be at night, much worse up there,” Hassan said in broken English. He crossed his arms, standing firm, though his eyes sought the ground.

“Why? What could make it worse? No one lives here and if anything, we'll be less exposed in that canyon.”

“What's the problem gentleman? Why have we stopped so soon?” Tristan asked, unwrapping his tagelmust, a Tuareg headscarf. Life in the field was much more bearable when you followed the practices of the people native to the regions in which you found yourself. He had learned that from Tahoe, among many things. Besides, thousands of years of living in the desert had to count for something.

Kevin turned, his patience worn thin, and inclined his head at Hassan. “Ask him.”

“Sir, we go no further this night. Bad place. Very bad place. Cursed.” Hassan shook his head and stared back at the ground, apparently finding it harder to stand up to the man writing his paycheck. Tristan had paid the tribesman half upfront to take them into the mountains and withheld the other half until they were brought back.

“Explain yourself.” Tristan said. “Wouldn’t we be better off sheltered inside the canyon?”

“That's what I told him,” Kevin said. “He’s probably trying to squeeze more money out of us.” Both of them knew that superstitions and other tricks were often invoked to incur a greater salary from ignorant travelers. Tristan was not as direct as his friend in asking. If this was a negotiation then it would be better to work the truth out without a direct accusation. It was a fine line to walk between being an effective leader and keeping the porters happy enough to prevent a mutiny.

“Well then Hassan?” Tristan said, keeping his voice patient, yet firm.

Hassan looked up and met Tristan's gaze, fear flashed across his face when he replied. “This is the place of the Noso. We do not come here. Especially at night. It is cursed.”

“Bull shi--" Kevin’s outburst was cut short as Tristan held up his hand to silence him. His curiosity piqued by the unfamiliar term. “What is Noso?”

“Noso are the guardians of the old ones, they who lived here long ago and brought waters from the ground.” Hassan said, as if that sounded perfectly normal. Terrifying, but normal.

Guardians again, just like in the legends about the city. Just like the journal…

“What a load of shit.” Kevin Sawyer shook his head and muttered.

“Kev, most superstitions are seeded with a grain of truth. Even the Canyon of Death got its name somewhere.” A twinge of guilt gnawed at Tristan for not having told Kevin everything that was written about the Canyon in the journal, though he didn’t really believe it himself. In fact, there was a lot he hadn’t told Kevin. It wasn’t entirely his fault, he did have to make a rather hasty escape from his previous business partner and there was no time to note anything except for the map. “These old ones might be some ancestor to the Toubou or maybe the Garamantes. We’re getting close.”

“I know the Garamantes were known for cultivating the desert using water they brought up from aquifers, but they weren’t this far south and I’m pretty sure they didn’t have any legendary lost cities,” Kevin said, not attempting to keep the skepticism from his voice.

“Not that we know of, but who can say for sure how large of an area their civilization extended over or who preceded them. How much history has been buried beneath the sands?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Tristan was seized by the thrill of discovery and he took Hassan by the shoulders, eliciting a yelp from the desert man. “We are going into that canyon with or without you and there’s only one way you get paid. Just think of what your wife will say if you come home empty handed. Which curse is worse, huh?”

Hassan flashed a grin at the comment and nodded his head in solemn compliance. “Very well, we go. Either way I lose my head.”

“That's the spirit! Let’s push on then.” Tristan returned the grin and slapped Hassan on the back.

Hassan began shouting in Tedaga, the language of the Toubou people in the north, informing the other porters that they would proceed. They did not look pleased. They looked frightened. Tristan began to feel a hint of unease in how serious Hassan was regarding the Noso. After all, this region of the Tibesti was almost entirely uninhabited. Maybe there was a real reason behind the ominous myth.

Tristan turned to Kevin, who was staring off to the north as the wind picked up around them. “See, that wasn't so hard, was it?”

“Your father certainly would be proud,” Kevin said, enunciating each word sarcastically.

“Yeah right! His only son and heir abandoned the Beaumont family empire to pursue philanthropy with his trust fund, falling in with mercenaries, thievery, and international intrigue. What’s not to be proud of?” Tristan eyed the sandy ground and shook his head, his enthusiasm wavering at the mention of his father. “Besides, I'm practically disowned. Cassandra took my place in the family hierarchy. She can keep it.”

“Well, he should be proud. Not every man can claim his son is going to save an entire ecological region from evil industrial machinations.”

“Industrial machinations are his specialty. And don’t you think you’re over selling it, just a little? We haven’t done anything yet.”

“Not yet, but we’re not the only ones fighting for international protection of this place. That one German geologist was lobbying for the Tibesti to be recognized as a natural and cultural UNESCO World Heritage site.”

“We don’t know how long that is going to take. Plus, Chad is under a lot of international pressure to exploit their natural resources.” Tristan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to stay positive. “If we open the gates to Zerzura then they’ll have to protect it. Right?”

Kevin did not respond, his gaze remained fixed to the west on a developing cloud bank.

“Kev?”

“I think we need to get moving into that canyon,” Kevin said as he whipped around. “I mean now!”

“What? Why?” Tristan found himself slow to uptake the implications of Kevin’s panic even as his eyes laid bare the truth.

“Sandstorm!” Kevin barked as he ran forward with surprising speed for his squat frame. He gathered up his camera while donning a pair of sand goggles and began taking photos.

With alarming rapidity, the wind jumped from a gentle whisper to a roaring howl, whipping up grains of dust and sand. Tristan re-wrapped his tagelmust and risked another glance towards the west, where the sand clouds had turned into a roiling mass which began to mask the failing light.

The porters were becoming frantic, reloading the little equipment they had removed from their camels, shouting and urging one another to move faster. Toubou men understood what it meant to be caught in a sandstorm without shelter. Disorientation, blindness, suffocation, and death.

Kevin ran back with his camera in hand, snapping more photographs of the oncoming maelstrom. “Bloody good shots here! Never expected to see one so deep in the mountains.” He was forced to shout as the wind's intensity picked up.

“Thought you said we had to go,” Tristan yelled back.

“Can't miss this opportunity, I'll catch up, don't worry.” He continued to blaze away with his camera. “A sandstorm in the mountains! Spectacular!”

It was unnatural for such a large storm to strike so far from the sand seas outside of the Tibesti mountains. Tristan’s sense of unease deepened; something was off about this.

The grains began biting at their exposed skin with increasing intensity, like thousands of unrelenting flies. The porters were jogging with their mounts into the relative safety of the ravine. Their apprehensive looks made Tristan think they should do likewise. The wall of sand was bearing down on them as if the desert had risen up to overthrow the invasion of modern man and hide its secrets forever.

“Kevin!” Tristan took his heavy friend by the arm and started pulling him away. “We’ve got to move!”

A sudden furnace hot gust of wind punched into them, forcing the pair back a step beneath the assault. Kevin’s eyes widened behind his sand goggles as the precariousness of their situation dawned on him. With one more snap of his camera, he began to retreat towards the last of the porters. Tristan made to follow his friend when he caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. He paused his flight and scanned the rock outcrops high above the ravine's mouth. In the face of the deteriorating visibility he could make out the vague shape of an animal slinking between the boulders and pinncacles. Probably just a Barbary sheep, one of the few creatures to call the desolate Tibesti home, but it did not help to ease his suspicion.

Tristan again shrugged off the strange feeling and ran ahead, reaching the protective embrace of the rough sandstone walls. The enraged howl of the wind and rumble of thunder echoed between the rocks as cool darkness closed in around him. Buttresses of sheer rock stretched hundreds of feet into the darkness on either side bufferning the interior from the sandstorm’s full strength. The storm shattered the retreating sunlight and natural dusk added its weight to the supernatural gloom of the canyon.

When his eyes adjusted to low light Tristan realized he was alone.

“Kevin?” He called out, seeking a sign of his friend or their party. “Hassan!” Nothing. No response. Maybe they could not hear him over the echoing tumult, but how could they have gotten so far ahead? He had only been a few seconds behind. They should have all been waiting just within the opening as there was plenty of protection from the wind and sand. Hasan may have just been overly cautious and moved them in deeper, but Tristan thought he should have heard someone or seen some signs of their passing.

Tristan delved deeper into the canyon to seek some answers. He kept his right hand along the southern wall as a guide, pausing now and then to listen for his companions. It took several minutes before he heard a muffled yell in the void along with the panicked bleating of camels. The others must have been separated in their haste to escape the storm and were now trying to regroup. With the limited visibility they had probably just lost sight of one another and wandered up side canyons to wait for better conditions. There was some solace to be found in that simple explanation, even when his mind tried to suggest the worst. Hassan and Kevin would have attempted to keep the expedition together, unless they too had gotten lost. In which case he had better try and catch up and get them organized before more people wandered off.

When he went to step forward his foot tangled on something solid, yet yielding, sending him sprawling face first onto the sand. He spit sand out of his mouth as he rolled over onto his back to catch his breath. Massive stone walls on either side of him stretched hundreds of feet into shadow. The near stygian darkness was almost like being in a cave, so it was no wonder he did not even see what had tripped him.

In his haste to find the others, Tristan had forgotten that he had a flashlight in his bag. He laughed at his own foolishness and fished the flashlight out and clicked it on, illuminating the darkness with the crisp white LED light. He swung the beam back to where he tripped and the laughter died in his throat. Through the motes of sand and dust he saw it. A body.

The grisly ruin of a human body, the sand around churned up and soaked with blood.

“Jesus Christ!” Fear and panic rose in his gut as Tristan crawled over to see who the poor bloke was. He turned the body over revealing a series of massive lacerations extending from the tattered remnants of Hassan's throat to the grotesquery of his chest. A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him. He looked away and closed his eyes, driving down the fear, knowing he couldn’t stop now.

Tristan jumped to his feet and scanned the surrounding darkness with his light. The search yielded two more bodies, both having met the same horrible fate of Hassan. His heart was beating as if he had just run a marathon; cold sweat trickled down his back. He was on the verge of taking his chances with the sandstorm when the sharp crack of gunshots reverberated down the canyon.

Someone was alive out there.

Tristan hardened his resolve and stole forward to the other bodies. He needed a weapon if he wanted a chance in hell of saving someone, including himself. He didn’t even know what he was saving them from. Rooting through their satchels produced an old revolver with a handful of cartridges. Tristan stuffed them into his pocket and checked the revolver cylinders for ammunition. Six eyes of loaded brass stared back at him from the chambers. It was loaded.

The reassuring weight of the revolver in his hand was the final dose of courage he needed to propel him towards the gunfire. Tristan jogged ahead, holding his flashlight in his offhand and the revolver in his right. The steep rock walls of the narrow ravine slanted imperceptibly upwards and a small dry river channel ran along the northern wall. The defile stretched for a few hundred meters before giving way to a more open amphitheater of stone. The open ceiling allowed the raging winds of the sandstorm to claw their way back down below the cliffs.

Tristan entered the tempest, hunching low against the powerful wind and stinging sand. The air was alive with static electricity and jagged bolts of orange-hued lightning lit up the night. Tristan could feel the energy tingling against his skin. He only made it a couple yards when he saw a flash of movement to his right. It was quick, a deeper shadow moving within the storm, but the profile looked human. A very large one. Had anyone in their party been so large? Tristan could not be sure so he grasped the wooden handle of the revolver tighter and pushed on, head held low.

A few more yards produced the prostrated form of another porter, his throat a ragged bloody mess. Tristan stopped dead when he heard a low menacing growl from beyond the veil of flying sand. He swung his flashlight back and forth, revealing several pairs of luminous eyes. The sudden bright light made the creatures vanish back into the veil, as fast as they had appeared. Their silent retreat denied him any evidence as to their identity, but Tristan knew their purpose. They were hunting him.

Tristan broke out in another cold sweat knowing that these creatures were stalking and killing off the expedition members one by one. The camels, the porters, Hassan, and Kevin. His friend. They were probably all dead and he was next. It was all too much, the panic that had been threatening now overwhelmed him and Tristan Beaumont ran for his life.

He fled headlong into the rock amphitheater, heedless of the storm and oblivious to the secrets it held. Shadows rushed along at his left and right, trying to flank him and finish him off. Or were they herding him? Fear overwhelmed instinct and the pistol clasped in his hand remained silent.

Tristan reached the other side of the amphitheater and slowed, struggling to catch his breath through the cloth of his head scarf. He leaned against the rock wall panting, his sweat soaked clothes clinging to his skin. His eyes burned and watered from the dust, but through the obscurity of sand and dusk he saw the haunting figures of man and beast, dark giants emerging from the diminishing storm.

Tristan stood terrified, like a cornered animal ready to make a last stand knowing that escape was now impossible. Maybe he should have listened to his Father, if he had he wouldn’t be in this mess. He wasn’t ready to die, alone and lost in the desert. He had to fight.

Tristan remembered the revolver and raised it in his trembling hand, aiming from the hip for the nearest man. The figures stopped, as if responding to his threat, waiting for Tristan to make the next move.

Or so he thought.

Warm liquid droplets spattered on the back of his neck from above. Tristan reached back with his freehand, tentatively touching the spot. When he pulled it back, his fingers were smeared in crimson. As he took in the realization, something dropped to the ground with a sickening wet thud. It bounced twice and rolled through the sand before coming to rest at his feet.

Tristan looked down at the object.

Kevin Sawyer's lifeless eyes stared up from his severed head. His face was frozen in a final scream of fear.

Before Tristan could comprehend the savagery, something massive collided with him. Massive claws sank into the flesh of his back, like meat hooks into a side of beef. Tristan screamed as he was driven to the ground and fiery pain ripped across his back. A deep, feral roar resonated through the air and was answered with a primordial intensity from every direction.

Tristan was pressed to the sand beneath the enormous weight of his attacker, his pistol was beyond reach. Not that it would do him any good now. The shock and pain made his head swim and his vision waver, but he could discern the shadowed figures of men stepping into the circle of light made by his flashlight.

His last sight was of man and beast standing together. Of massive fangs and slavering jaws coming towards his head. Then pain erupted in his skull and the world went black.

Did our evolution serve to birth

All naturally, right here on earth?

Was there perhaps an interruption?

A hiccup or a repercussion?

Are we designed to look, not seeing,

Some sentient, parental being?

Homo sapiens, the thinking man,

called Cro-magon, artsy skills in hand,

Quick superseded neanderthals,

Built homes of stones, skins of animals.

This quick advance, inexplicable,

Does seem to beg, ‘was this possible?’

What started out twelve months ago, turned into twelve weeks, then twelve days, and not too long ago, twelve hours.

I am nervous, apprehensive, wondering if this is really the right thing to do.

The whole thing will take twelve minutes, and after that, what then? Will it last beyond the next twelve days, twelve weeks, twelve months? Will I be fortunate enoough to see this make the twelve year mark?

Mother told me I would have the jitters, but this is really scary, but when I say, "I do" then a new world begins. Am I really ready for this? And what do I do if I have twelve kids?

And to think, I turned down the chance to be a nun.

I don’t speak

Its been a tough week

It’s hard to speak up

So I sit here quietly, I won’t interrupt

I’m scared of what people think of me

And it gets so hard to breathe

I could be standing in a crowd, they could be saying nothing

But their presence is so loud it feels like they are judging

I can feel this fantasy rejection

And just like wifi, I’m losing connection

They blame it on society

That it is the reason I have Social Anxiety

But that’s not the matter

Because I feel as if I’m about to shatter

And that feeling of nervousness comes creeping quietly

Followed by the rest of my anxieties

I am a really nice person but whenever I think to say hello

My self-consciousness comes in, and its something I don’t think I’ll ever outgrow

And I see judgment in your eyes

My mind keeps producing these lies

And I’m on a steady decline

that I wish I could define

My voice I do not own

So I stand here alone

Choking on my words

While I watch my tiny world burn

A short while back, I listed publishers for novel submissions which pretty much covered where to submit your work.

This time around, the focus is on poetry.

First, I want to debunk a myth. Granted, you will never become wealthy writing poetry, but you can make a decent living from it. A Poet, Lyricist or Creative Writer can get an average wage ranging between $48,000 to $72,000 based on tenure—just don’t expect that kind of money right away. It takes time, perseverance, and patience, yet alone writing some of the best damn poetry on the planet.

Now, you think, wow—that’s more money than I make now, but keep in mind all the expenses, bills, rent, food, hospital bills, car and gas allowance and incidentals—well, it doesn’t last long.

My advice: self-publish.

Thankfully, self-published books have a much, much higher royalty rate than traditional publishers because you get to keep anywhere from 50—70% of your book’s profits. With a traditional publisher, they take much more, and you only end up with 10% maybe 12% after years of proving yourself as an author.

But let’s say you are ready to submit your work finally. Another bit of advice: their guidelines on what they expect. Do they want to see a completed poetry book(65—110 pages)? A chapbook (20—50 pages)? Perhaps only submit 2-3 pieces? They may have a specific agenda or a specific theme each month?

It is never and I highlight—never a good idea to submit something to a publisher you have not looked into first. To not do so first, will practically kill your chances of just not being published but also where an editor won’t even take the time to read what you submitted. Research them, find out what they like, what they print, what they want.

Later on, I will have a post on previously published work, but for now, I want to share with you a dozen of the best places to submit your work—but remember, research them, get their guidelines, ask them questions.

Keep in mind one thing: be it poetry, short story, or a novel, each time something you write goes into print, like a job, you are building a resume. The more this happens, the better off you will be, when possibly one day down the road, you strike the moment you have been waiting for to have that novel or collection of poetry listed on the New York Times Best Seller’s List.

**********

Thrush Poetry Journal is a bimonthly publication of “eclectic, moving, surprising” poetry. Named after the thrush, a bird with “the most beautiful voice in the world,” the magazine sponsors poets both new and established — just let your poems sing.

3Elements Literary Review posts a call for submissions each quarter. All poems have to involve the three elements that the journal chooses; as an example, from the Summer of 2020, the elements were “trapeze, pinprick, calico.” 3Elements publishes poems that combine these elements in effective and unusual ways, and this publication provides a great and challenging prompt.

Poetry has never been nerdier than over at FreezeRay. This journal specializes in pop culture poetry, publishing anything inspired by modern media, making it a unique place to submit poetry online. From video games to horror to modern film, let today’s media landscape prompt you into writing FreezeRay’s next great poetry feature.

Barren Magazine publishes monthly issues of literature in all genres. Their preferences lean toward poetry that is introspective, original, and participates in a larger literary conversation. Barren also puts out a fun selection of merchandise and has plans for future online poetry and fiction contests.

Ghost City Review, an offshoot of Ghost City Press, is regularly accepting poetry submissions from new and established writers. Their tastes are eclectic and embrace both the contemporary and the experimental. Ghost City also sponsors the literary community and remains active in uplifting other publications and keeping money inside the publishing world, so be sure to check out their online poetry submissions process as well as their free e-book series.

Rising Phoenix Review loves poetry that is “visceral” with “stunning, concrete imagery.” Their tastes lean toward the contemporary, sponsoring poetry that uplifts diverse voices and imagines a better world. They are an offshoot of Rising Phoenix Press, which occasionally publishes poetry chapbooks as well.

Eunoia Review may be the fastest poetry journal on the internet, as it responds to all submissions within 24 hours. Their poetry tastes range from the eclectic to the storytelling, and they are always open for online poetry submissions.

Little Death Lit puts out quarterly publications with unique themes. They enjoy poetry that is macabre and gothic, as well as poems that are unconventional and play with the quarterly prompt. This is a great journal for seeing and interacting with new and emerging voices in poetry.

Palette Poetry is among the best places to submit poetry online because it has options for everyone. For published writers seeking to highlight their already published work, Palette Poetry offers a “Previously Published Poem Prize.” Out of the poetry magazines that pay, Palette Poetry has the biggest pay-out, with first place being a whopping $2,500 cash prize plus publication; second place being a $300 cash prize plus publication; and third place being a $200 cash prize plus publication.

For experienced, unpublished writers, Palette regularly features poems online, and for those who are able to become “partner poets,” there is a $50 to $150 payout per poem. Palette also hosts a “Community Feedback Monthly Editorial” which gives new and experienced writers an opportunity to engage with—and get extremely valuable feedback from other poets.

Rattle: Poetry is another great poetry magazine that pays. The journal puts out several popular contests and publication opportunities, including a monthly ekphrastic challenge, a weekly news-writing challenge, and an annual best poem prize. Payouts range from anywhere between $50-$200; if you’re the lucky winner of the Rattle Poetry Prize, this year’s payout is $15,000.

Wildness Journal, an offshoot of Platypus Press, publishes a quarterly journal for well-crafted, mystifying poems. Their tastes lean toward the highly literary, preferring works that are inventive and well-constructed. In addition to its journal for online poetry submissions, Platypus Press also publishes poetry manuscripts of at least 35 pages in length.

The Adroit Journal’s mission is to sponsor the next generation of poets, so their resources are often dedicated to youth poets and college-age writers. They seek works that are bold, eclectic, obscure, and daring. In addition to their poetry publications, The Adroit Journal also offers scholarships and awards for young and emerging writers.

This is a late addition but was referred to me by MountCarnelPub (a Proser) but instead of an explanation, you can go right to their website to view the opportunities made available. https://www.awpwriter.org/

You will find helpful tips for just about any of your needs. Keep in mind that the best ammunition you can have is information to strengthen your dedication to writing at AWP.

Now once more, a quick review of what you need to do.

It’s good practice to read what the journal has published in the past. Though many online poetry journals accept a wide range of styles and forms, poetry editors still have preferences for what kind of poetry they like to read and publish. Examine the journal’s past publications with a critical eye, and consider whether or not your poem fits among the journal’s ranks.

When poetry magazines accept online submissions, they often include formatting guidelines alongside their submission rules. It’s best to follow these guidelines, as well as general MLA formatting rules. Use 1-inch margins, a 12-point serif font, and double space stanzas. Taking the time to properly format demonstrates a seriousness about your poetry, whereas unformatted poems may not receive proper attention.

The journal’s reader is looking for something that grabs their attention right away. A well-titled poem with a stand-out first line will be far more eye-catching than an untitled poem with a slow start. Remember, the reader goes through hundreds of submissions every month, so poetry submissions should stand out from the beginning.

The publishing world is tough, fast, and competitive. The internet has expanded poetry’s readership and writership; this is a good thing, but with so many other voices, it can be hard to know where to submit your poetry to add your voice to the conversation. You may encounter one rejection, five rejections, or fifty rejections before you find a home for your poem. Don’t let this deter you.

Often, a rejection of your poetry submission has nothing to do with the quality of your work. Rather, poetry editors have a limited amount of space per publication, and they look to publish poems that, when read together, create a bigger conversation. A rejection can simply mean your poems didn’t work for that month’s issue, for reasons completely out of your control.

Finally, poetry journals are subjective in their treatment of the poetry submissions they receive. After all, journals are run by humans, and although many humans try to be objective in their tastes and preferences, objectivity is impossible in the arts. Don’t think of a rejection letter as a “rejection.” Think of it as follows:

There are other places to submit poetry, and there is a better home for my poetry.

I do hope this helps you.

Links:

Previous post mentioned: https://theprose.com/post/400622/looking-for-a-publisher

My Creative Writing book/chapter link: https://theprose.com/post/229114/creative-writing-phase-fourteen (lists last known small print/magazine publishers)

Before reading this, you may want to read Never_more's post, as I consider it to be canon. On top of that, this is the third place entry. I bring that up here because, well, it does not make sense for the fictional me to have read this. He experienced it. Anyways, here is the link to the post https://theprose.com/post/405545/the-stylist .

Maya stumbled into the office the school that I hosted in allowed me to use. In fact, they had given it to me! "Oh, hey," I said, remembering the kiss that we had shared not long ago. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Maya said as she stood up, her face quickly becoming bright red.

I stood up and rested my arm on my new friend's shoulder. "This is Nick. I hired him to help me look through the entries and determine a winner," I said.

"Hi, Nick," Maya said, shyly pushing a strand of hair that had fallen out of place during her stumble back behind her ear.

"Hey," he said. He straightened his shoulders and walked forward. "You must be Maya," he said, sticking his hand out. "I've heard a lot about you."

Excitement followed by fear crossed Maya's face. "Oh-oh, really?" she stuttered, accepting Nick's handshake.

I checked my watch nervously. "Oh, look at the time," I said, gathering a few papers from my desk.

"Oh, yes, that's what I came in here to tell--"

"Don't you have something to tell her?" Nick said as I walked out of the small office.

"Nope, gotta run."

I walked through the hallway backstage and up to the curtains that lead to the stage. I took a deep breath, gathering courage. She likes me, why can't I tell her the feelings are mutual? I asked myself as I stepped onto stage.

The lighting in the room had been dimmed until it was nearly completely dark in the auditorium. I grabbed the microphone, and, as I did so, a spectacle of lights began flashing and zooming around the room, until one big spotlight landed on me.

"Laaaaaaaaadieeees and gentlemen… I would like to welcome you to the announcement for Pen to the Paper 5!" The second I finished, smoke erupted from the stage. Attached to strings that were hanging from the ceiling, I flew out of the center of the smoke.

Lasers shot through the smoke, and mock fireworks noises were sounded. I was gently lowered to the front of the stage as the smoke cleared.

"Let's get to the announcements, shall we?"

Cheering erupted from the crowd.

"In third, we have thatcher's story, Drastic Changes. It was very heart-warming, and the story sucked me right in.

"HelenaTherese's story Sand made second place. It was very well-written, and the detail was amazing. Her story nearly made first. It was a tough call between that and our first place winner…"

I smiled as the audience leaned forward in their seats, anticipating what I would say next. I let the silence remain just a little longer.

"In first, we have…" I shuffled through my cards, though they had been organized quite well, and I was currently looking at the name of the winner and the story. "The winner is… yummy_yning's Angels Fall!!! I found the imagery very effective, the story was interesting, and it was a little sad."

I paused as the audience clapped.

"Now, some honorable mentions. nightscribbler was one of the few I considered for third place. Self-Love was a beautiful read, with a wonderful message.

"GLD's post, Beating With Love was also great. GLD captured the mentality quite well.

"This Poem was Written by a Moth by Kacieluvara also deserves an--"

Maya ran onto stage.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"Nick told me what you said," she told me. Then she kissed me.

Hi everyone!

For a long time, I've had my website linked in my profile. But recently, I decided to switch to a different website builder and make a new website.

The link is this: whitewolfe32.wixsite.com/wolfe

A little bit complicated, but the site is miles above my old site.

If you enjoy my work and would like to see more, please check it out!

Thanks,

A.C. Wolfe

Is it cool

To change your name?

Is it cool

When you find yourself

Drowning in a new identity?

It doesn’t seem cool

To go through all that hassle.

To wait in lines and pay fees and fill out forms

Over and over,

Is it cool to change your name?

Is it a trend?

No.

I don’t think you understand.

The name change is worth the hassle.

I’ve been living, languishing, dying

Under the wrong name,

The wrong identity,

And it’s about damn time

To make myself a new one.

It’s not a trend,

It’s not cool.

It’s an awakening.

I’ve been asleep in this body

In this name that I was given

But do not own.

It’s time to give myself a new name.

In fact,

It’s long overdue.

And I need the change.

I need a new name.

My old one is a pair of shoes,

But my feet have grown to big to fit.

Or maybe they’ve shrunk,

Too small for the large shoe.

I’m not sure which.

All I know is

It’s time for a change.

It’s time to buy a new pair.

Cause I can’t keep cramming

My feet into these shoes

Or I’ll never be able to walk again.

Is it cool to change your name?

Probably not.

People might tell you that

You should stick with the one you’ve been given.

But sometimes gifts don’t fit,

And it’s time to re-gift it

To someone who will give it the use it deserves.

And I don’t care how much hassle it takes.

I don’t care how much money or time.

It’s time for a change.

“Forty meters down and counting,” the staticky voice of one of the ground team operators hissed and crackled into my earpiece.

“Copy that, Ground Unit Two, standing by,” the surveyor replied over similar static to all units. Even at forty meters down into the chasm, we were drenched in darkness, and only when the floodlights of the industrial elevator flashed on with a loud whoosh were the close stone walls of the cavern barely visible.