Submitting to Conjunctions


From October 25 – November 10, 2022, we will accept submissions for our spring 2023 issue, Conjunctions:80, The Ways of Water. You can submit your work via Submittable: Please read below for our submission call and guidelines!
Submission Call
Conjunctions: 80, The Ways of Water

Water abides at the heart of life. Oceans, lakes, ponds, springs, rivers, creeks, clouds, rain, snow, ice. And through evaporation, the cycle from sea to sky to storm evolves anew. A story begins when water breaks and parents rush to the hospital. Floods and avalanches, tsunamis and hurricanes, not to mention droughts, famine, and fire, are capable of bringing that story to an end. Water is, or ought to be, as revered as any god. After all, it hosted the birthplace of our ancestors—think sand-sized Saccorhytus, think Tiktaaliks, think tetrapods—and continues to sustain all creatures that reside on land, fly through air, or still swim or float along.

Consider the transcendent nature of a glass of water. How crucial water is to myth, literature, religion, science, commerce, recreation, to all manner of cultural activity. Yet—due in part to human neglect and greed and destructiveness—lakes are drying up, icecaps are melting, rivers are falling, oceans are rising, rains are so compromised with toxins we dare not drink from cisterns.

If our relationship with water has always been crucial, it has never been more critical than now. We sometimes find ourselves at sea, bewildered and uncertain. We sometimes put to sea, embarking on adventure. We dive, sail, and surf, drop our line at a fishing hole. We sit with a book on the beach, watch the tides by moonlight. Some pray beside still waters while others frolic in the waves. We row, row, row down the stream thinking life’s but a dream. We are known to go off the deep end.

Conjunctions:80, The Ways of Water will explore the nature of water in our lives and those of our fellow beings. Through fiction and poetry, ecological and climate writing, in a multitude of genres, this issue will bring together a wide community of writers to plumb this most essential matter so basic to the survival of all flora, all fauna on this fragile water-blue planet.


Submissions are open for our weekly online magazine, which we read for year-round and is not subject to thematic restrictions.


Submissions are open year-round by postal mail. To submit via mail, please send your manuscript to our editorial office (address below) with a brief cover letter including your name, address, and email. In order to receive a response, you must include a self-addressed envelope stamped with sufficient postage for our reply and for return of your manuscript (if requested). Do not send submissions by any delivery method that requires a signature. 
Address mail submissions to:       Bradford Morrow, Editor
21 E 10th Street, #3E
New York, NY 10003

While we can’t predict exactly when an issue will close to new work, we typically read into August for our fall issues and into February for our spring issues.

Submissions will also be accepted electronically via Submittable twice a year, during our fall and winter reading periods. Our fall period has now closed; please check back for exact dates for our spring submissions window. Follow us on Facebook and Twitter or subscribe to our newsletter for the earliest information about our reading periods for each issue. If you'd like to submit to Conjunctions outside of our fall and spring Submittable periods, please submit via postal mail. 


Conjunctions publishes short- and long-form fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, and hybrid texts. We do not publish academic essays or book reviews.

All submissions must be in English and previously unpublished. We will consider works in translation for which the translator has secured the rights.

Although we have no official restrictions regarding word count, most of the manuscripts we select for publication are under eight thousand words long. For poetry submissions, we suggest sending half a dozen poems, depending on length.

We strongly suggest that writers new to Conjunctions read our recent issues to acquaint themselves with our publications. Subscriptions are available here.


Are you familiar with our work? Sign up for our newsletter to read new writing in our online magazine every week, subscribe to our print biannual, or order a back issue.

If a disability prevents you from using Submittable, please call 845-758-7054 or email [email protected]

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In Print

Vol. 79
Fall 2022
Edited by Bradford Morrow


November 30, 2022
Alice was actually a labeler and not a pickler. Still, she knew what Mr. H’s picklers did was nothing like her grandmother’s pickling, sweaty and stained and clouded by hot vinegar steam, shoveling already rotting vegetables into their boiling bath like some kind of unbelieving prayer. Everyone winced when eating what came out of her grandmother’s pickle jars. Mr. H’s were made of faceted clear glass, and the bobbing pickles inside were a bright, inviting candy-green. To look at one was to feel it snip crisply between your teeth, to set your mouth watering. Alice was midwife to that salivary burst. That was what she dressed up for. Today it mattered even more than usual.
November 23, 2022

I saw it in this very particular slide of swell’s,
the sylphspun silk of the sylph, she sideways,
her garage is paradise in masque, her sweep
is saturn, szturn im sturm & string, install’d
in the area’s traverse. he follows that lucky
old sun, the gesture of her lining and loose
knot, and pulls herself through burns and a
dry wash and some soft lead. in discorporate
minerals, or in the sharing of the black sleek
sharing with the wild man in her soft shoes,
all over the panes of the various sworld and
out into the superhighway of bywater, hard
by marigny. to flow through one to another
indetermination, the posture of their brush
must be immaculate fray, all them, all they.
November 16, 2022
Day Book

One wants to grasp a latch.
The broken star, the cellophane.
One suffers if untethered from
the pain that brought a lock.
Across the way the husband tends his teeth.
The wife redresses, parted from her paper.
To emblemize, to separate the word
grief reaches. Grief reaches, unseduced.