Call for Help


I need your help people! I’m in The Writer’s Arena this week, and I need votes. Go here: Read, (My story is unfortunately under the name Lu Whitney) and vote at the bottom there if you think my story is the best. Comments there help too!

Please share away!

Thanks in advance!


Call It Slush: SFLR call for submissions

Putting this here for safe-keeping.

Miriam's Well: Poetry, Land Art, and Beyond

We’re reading!
Staff Lydia Gonzales, Baro Shalizi, Veronica Clark, Kate McCahill, Sudasi Clement, and Meg Tuite are busy looking for publishable poetry, fiction, and memoir.
Submit to:
Miriam Sagan
6401 Richards Avenue
Santa Fe, NM 87508

Deadline: December 1, 2014

Send black & white art via jp file to: SFLRARTSUBMISSIONS@GMAIL.COM


Tip: we’re looking for the unexpected–comics, graphic novels, mixed genre, screenplays, and bilingual work.

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Dry Heat – Short Fiction

It’s the dry heat that flattens your shirt to the back of your neck. Leaves you breathless, like you just sucked down a pack of Marlboro’s. All at once. No filters.

Out here, the desert sands scour over the invading blacktop, waiting for the chance to regain that lost piece of ground. The sun slowly melts my cheap, plastic sunglasses to the bridge of my nose.

I gotta catch a break soon, or I just might lose it here. Better men have become buzzard food out in the endless dunes. My black heart might just turn their stomachs.

I’d taken position behind the only piece of junk large enough to hide a man of my size: a rusted out dumpster that was once blue, judging by the flakes of lead paint that flutter around every time I draw a searing breath. I shift positions for probably the fiftieth time. My 6’4” frame just does not do scrunched up well. Wonder why. But I’d wait here ten years, if I had to, for a shot like this.

Evan Tyrell: small-time crook, big-time thorn in my side.

What seems like a lifetime ago, Roy Ambrose, my idiot brother, had been working a high profile undercover case that quickly became not quite so undercover. A rookie mistake. One he paid for with his life. Big boss man, Cordova ordered a hit, and Tyrell cordially introduced my brother to the business end of his silenced Beretta.

Now, don’t get me wrong, my brother wasn’t going to be up for any sibling of the year awards any time soon, but, for the most part, he was a good cop. And good cops are a dying breed. So for two years, I’ve been itching for a crack at Tyrell.

He was good. I had to give it to him. I’d been hot on the bastard’s heels, but always a step behind. He faked me out at every turn. That would all end today. Here and now. Continue reading