MicroFiction

Lowlife Lit Press—Microfiction Submission Guidelines

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Short. Sharp. Hits like a punch to the gut. Give us the rawest 400 words you’ve got.

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• 400 words or less. No fluff. No wasted lines.

• Stories that hit hard—gritty, unfiltered, and unforgettable.

• Any genre, as long as it fits the Lowlife Lit Press vibe. Noir, crime, desperation, fleeting joy, barroom confessions—we want stories that feel like a cigarette burning down to the filter.

• A complete story in 400 words—something that punches fast and leaves a mark.

   

• Last-call conversations, split-second decisions, roadside revelations, cigarette-stained regrets.

• Think Hemingway’s six-word story, but with a shot of whiskey and a busted neon light.

Got something sharp, dirty, and unforgettable? Send it.

Flash Fiction

Lowlife Lit Press—Flash Fiction Submission Guidelines

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Quick burn, long aftertaste. Tell us a full story in 400-1500 words—no fluff, no filler, just raw, unfiltered storytelling.

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• Word Count: 400-1500 words. Keep it tight, keep it sharp.

• Tone: Gritty, real, and unforgettable. We want noir, crime, desperation, fleeting joy, brutal truths, late-night confessions, and moments that change everything.

• Any genre, as long as it hits like a gut punch and belongs in the world of Lowlife Lit Press.

• Think Denis Johnson, Charles Bukowski, Lucia Berlin, Raymond Carver. Short, sharp, and loaded with impact.

• A complete story in under 1500 words—characters that bleed, moments that matter, endings that slap.

• Barroom whispers, midnight getaways, wrong turns, last chances, stolen cigarettes, motel room confessions.

Short Story

Lowlife Lit Press—Short Fiction Submission Guidelines

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Stories that hit like a sucker punch. We want the dirt, the grit, the truth—the ones that don’t leave you when the page ends.

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• Word Count: 1,500–5,000 words. Keep it lean; keep it mean.

• Tone: Gritty, raw, and unapologetically real. We want bar fights, bad decisions, lost souls, wild nights, desperate mornings, and the moments people don’t talk about.

• Any genre, as long as it fits the Lowlife Lit Press vibe—noir, crime, working-class grit, dark humor, existential dread, outlaw romance, or just some dirty realism that bleeds.

• Broken love, back-alley deals, dead-end jobs, roadside motels, broken-down cars, cigarette-lit confessions.

• Think Thompson, Bukowski, Denis Johnson, Flannery O’Connor, Kerouac, Carver, Selby Jr.—that raw, unfiltered kind of storytelling.

Poetry

A note from the Editor of Lowlife Lit Press

Listen, I’ve read some damn good poetry ruined by a godawful mess of formatting—random tabs like landmines, lines zigzagging like a drunk on payday, words spiraling into some artsy disasterpiece that looks more like a tornado than a poem. Don’t do that for this publication.

If your words are powerful, let them punch. Let them hit me right in my ugly face. Let them be the art. You don’t need gimmicks. You don’t need to dress your lines up in a clown suit of unnecessary indentations and jagged nonsense. Trust the weight of your words.

Poetry, at its core, is about rhythm, voice, and truth—not who can make their stanzas look like a pretentious ransom note. You got something raw? Something real? Then put it on the page and let it breathe.

No formatting acrobatics. No visual tornadoes. Just let the words carry the fucking weight. Now review the damn submission guidelines below. XOXO

Lowlife Lit Press—Poetry Submission Guidelines

We want poetry with teeth—verses that bleed, burn, and leave a scar. No fluff, no filler, just raw, unfiltered truth.

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• Send 1-5 poems per submission. Keep them tight, keep them sharp.

• Tone: Gritty, visceral, unapologetic. Street-corner wisdom, drunken confessions, last-call prayers, motel-room regrets, smoke-filled dreams.

• Any style—free verse, prose poetry, spoken word transcriptions, haikus that hit like a punch to the gut. Just make us feel something.

• Poems that hit like cheap whiskey and cut like broken glass.

• Barstool elegies, late-night breakdowns, back-alley whispers, cigarettes smoked down to the filter, jukebox memories, last-chance love.

• Think Bukowski, Wanda Coleman, Pablo Neruda after five drinks, Anne Sexton on a bender, Leonard Cohen scribbling on a napkin.

Got verses that burn? Send them.