[ 3 / biz / cgl / ck / diy / fa / ic / jp / lit / sci / vr / vt ] [ index / top / reports ] [ become a patron ] [ status ]
2023-11: Warosu is now out of extended maintenance.

/lit/ - Literature

View post   
File: 329 KB, 480x359, leonard.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
6123674 No.6123674 [Reply] [Original]

Does anyone know of some good sci-fi or horror lit mags? Preferably a little more literary and thoughtful.

>> No.6123687

http://www.strangehorizons.com/

>> No.6123933

Weird Tales is currently very good for this

>> No.6123974

>>6123674
Old soviet "Kosmos" was based as fuck.

>> No.6123979

>good
>horror

>> No.6123983

>>6123979
>>>/h/ighschool

>> No.6124036

>>6123974
Thanks, but I'm looking for places to submit stories to.

>> No.6125386

>>6123674
Cemetery Dance. Post a paragraph of your work so we can check it out.

>>6123979

Poe, Lovecraft, and Stoker were pretty terrible. Fucking moron.

>> No.6125513

>>6125386
All three of those are extremely overrated

>> No.6125704

>>6125386
Hope you don't mind if it's a paragraph of non sci-fi/horror, since that's the stuff I'm trying to sell. Someone googles it and finds it on here and I'll get severely buttwrassled. This is something that will probably never see the light of day, but that I'm still fairly happy with.

Anyway:

20 years old. He is an angular boy with sharp ridges angling up his face. Hollow cheeks. Hollow eyes. A ghost in the crowd. Two years out of school and working at the gas station. One day, he decides on a purpose in life. The boy goes to war a grunt and comes back with two holes in his gut and a purple heart pinned on his chest. Not long after arriving home, where he is babied by his mother and interrogated by his father, a letter comes: recruitment for clandestine service. He fills it out and sends it to the return address. Three months later, an answer arrives.

23 years old. After almost a year of training his superiors release him into a small, terminal African country, where he is tasked with destabilizing a militant regime. He accomplishes this in three months. Working his way from the foot soldiers to the lieutenants to the bosses to the big, dark man they worship, he kills sixteen men. One of them is a child who draws on him. The spy kills this child without remorse. Later, he feels nothing, and does not cry for or regret the act. His superiors award him with a bonus and one month of rest. In this month he locks himself in a room and speaks to no one. Whenever he receives the newspaper, he flips first to whatever international conflict has arisen, and imagines himself there. The resting period makes him antsy, and he is glad to return to the field.

30 years old. His mother and father are dead now of age and illness. The spy knows that he is at the peak of his life. More capable than he ever has been, ever will be. His kill count has risen to fifty-five. Looking in the mirror, he sees that he has become muscular but is still hollow. Some women and men try to flirt with him, but he tells them that he is too busy for a relationship. Work comes first. In Germany he is involved in a car crash at sixty miles per hour. He is hospitalized, unconscious for days. Left arm broken, right leg broken, fractured ribs, torn muscles in his neck and chest. The spy recovers, but after examining the contents of his briefcase, the Germans discover who he is. He is held in prison for six months, recovers, and escapes. In the process, his kill count rises to fifty-seven. After weeks of travel by moonlight and rest by daylight, he is extracted by boat. Upon returning home he is given another medal to put on the wall of his seldom-occupied room beside his Purple Heart and letters of commendation.

>> No.6125788

>>6125386
That's actually pretty sparse for how I normally am. Here's a second sample, a little more indicative of my normal style. Private property, donut steal:

The kids were made of light, and the sky was snakes. Sylvia must have had unholy reflexes to take the picture at a moment like that, such a freak occasion of light and motion and circumstance. The physical world aligning itself before the lens to create a thing of such beauty. And she'd captured it like the poacher Eddie never could be. He remembered her as a quiet type, but she could have been anything. Maybe the noise was all in her head, or maybe she could redirect it, deflect it, rather than give in. Eddie realized, looking back, that he'd never been capable of doing any more than giving in.
His was the only smoker's diner left. The cops in Bloom overlooked it, since they knew Eddie from school, and he knew they liked a cigarette with their coffee. That night, he sat alone in the diner with Sylvia's photos before him and a cigarette of his own smoldering in his hand. The customers had long departed, as had the cashier and cook and waitress. The place could be so quiet at times. Eddie was accompanied only by the refrigerator's buzz, and the radiator crackling in its fight to warm the air, and something else that he could not identify. It was a low tone, almost impossible to hear, but Eddie could just barely perceive it. Whenever he tried to find the source, the noise disappeared, only to return when he looked back down at the photographs.

>> No.6125808

>>6125788
>Private property, donut steal:
Too late, already saved to my notepad document. Gonna make a million off this. How are you going to prove that I'm NOT the original poster of this work... After all, anyone could be anon.

>> No.6125813

>>6123674
Came to this thread from yhe catalogue for twin peaks. I'm dissipointed.

>> No.6125818

>>6125808
Anon kun, you wouldn't really do that, would you?

>> No.6127536

>>6125813
Dude I was watching last night. When Ed proposed to Norma I stood up and fucking cheered

>> No.6129682

D-does anyone have tips? Or more magazines?