Short Story Journal
Our Short Story Collection has evolved into a Monthly Short Story Journal!
Queer writers of color are invited to submit short stories, essays, and poems on a monthly basis to our Short Story Journal! 1-5 winners are chosen every month to receive a $50 reward and more.
The November Entry Opens October 4, 2024
Entry Fee: $5
Portal Jumping
I’m floating through portals, swimming through shared breakfasts and endless laughter and warm cuddles, until I enter my house and close the door. The sudden emptiness of this new reality cripples me to my knees. I fall onto the kitchen floor (her feet were just here!) and curl into fetal position.
Happy Fat Trans Man
My body can only exist as trans and as fat.
It cannot be one without the other.
To be trans is to be fat and to be fat is to be trans.
Weight Sharing
When the chime rings out signaling the end of the jam, I am heaped in a pile with other exhausted dancers. V’s feet crisscross mine. My head is resting on the soft pillow of the other fat woman’s stomach. Her hand is playing through my hair and she is humming quietly. People here identify her by the love she radiates, not by her size.
The River
2023 Short Story Collection Collection by Audrey Kuo - “The River”
She is simply herself, always flowing and rushing, carrying along whatever we offer her, pulling it away and down the river, to another part of herself where she takes and smashes and destroys, reminding us that everything terrible cannot last forever.
obligation
2023 Short Story Collection Collection by Joré Aaron - “obligation”
And healing, we also learn, might mean realizing that the bitterness that formed in the back of your gritted teeth during the angst of your teenage years may have been completely justified, and that your parents indeed had some answering to do.
Where Green Grass Doesn’t Grow
2023 Q26 Short Story Collection Selection by Selena Razack - “Where The Green Grass Doesn’t Grow”
I catch myself when I dream I’d be back there again, turning sticks and stones, right when I stood over you, hoping green grass would grow.
Mother
2023 Short Story Collection Selection by Scotty Escobar - “Mother”
When she said, “I’m sorry for everything,” I had an idea of what she meant. Sorry for being a smoker. Sorry for being an alcoholic. Sorry for neglecting you. Sorry for abusing you.
If I Die: A Black Trans Request
2023 Q26 Short Story Collection Selection by Codi Charles - “If I Die: A Black Trans Request”
If I die, i do not want to be memorialized. i do not want to be undesirable and despised in my living only to be lessened and capitalized off of in my death.
a banal and complex essay on coming out
If the advent of my queerness and I were in a relationship, the status would squarely be that “it’s complicated.” The non-conformist in me quite frankly feels a bit square even when I say I have a coming out tale to tell. But, when in a capitalist, patriarchal hell, do as the other hellions do…
The Coffee Shop Near The Train Tracks
That place is stained with memories of you and I love it, but it hurts. I sit here at a bar in the middle of the night across from the coffee shop by the train tracks with friends, their conversation starting to pull me back.
¿Y cuándo vuelves?
Many years ago, when I could no longer keep in what I needed to say, I came out to my grandma. After she hugged me, one of the first things she said was, “Tu tía Maira Luisa también es como tú.”
The Meaning Of Life Is That It Stops
Sticking together as siblings, as a unit, meant a greater chance of survival, my dad would tell me. Our grandparents took us in, and so did my aunts and uncles. My grandma was the first mother I ever knew and ensured our survival.
First Gen (Excerpt)
He shook his head and stared at his drink. They fell silent again, both wrapped up in their own thoughts. She wondered if he had secretly been a homophobe this whole time. He wasn’t sure how vulnerable he felt like getting right now. A waiter asked if they needed to be topped up, but they didn’t hear. The tension was unbearable.
i do not remember my roots
Mommy, I want a relaxer, you said. You did want one, your desire was genuine. You listened to their lies and deceived yourself. Later, you would learn, you just wanted the words to stop. Beauty hurts, but assimilation sears.
Safe Space Asado De Boda by Antonio Viramontes
The year was 1988, it was a particularly foggy morning in mid-late October; the kind of morning where you could smell the grass and taste the dirt simply by opening the front door. The fiestas honoring the patron saint of El Cargadero, a small rancho in the mountains of Zacatecas Mexico, were just a few days away; the crisp air had that wonderful feeling of eagerness and anxiety.
Besties
Her stitches look like letters on her mouth, and I wonder if it hurts to talk about the versions of ourselves we left in our mothers’ photo albums. I think I liked her more before the gold teeth and the fade, before we both came out and had to start fighting about the girls I’m dating who aren’t her.
A Nihilist
When I was younger, I hoped I would grow up to be someone worth talking about. Someone whose work reached hundreds of people. Now, I’m in my 20s and became none of these things. The world changes so much and so quickly and I stay the same. And maybe that’s the charm in all this.
Eve
A majority of my life, I have felt misunderstood. I’ve allowed the expectations of others to cage me in. I know that I should find a husband, have children and live happily ever after; but I’m not sure that is my purpose. I see Professor Jones and I know that more is possible.