Daydream Misfit is always on the lookout for journals, literary magazines and contests where authors can submit weird fiction, speculative fiction, flash fiction, and unconventional stories. "Where to Submit Weird" is a regular feature of our blog intended to connect authors with writing markets and encourage short story submission. The information for the following list of contacts is subject to change and should be confirmed through the publications' websites.

Weirdcore’s four arms and razor claws slashed forward toward the heart of Dreamcore. Where they struck the rival’s flesh, blisters bubbled and leaked, the fluid inside winding out like purseworms. The sinewy worms wrapped around Weirdcore’s paw, and with a sucking acidic slurp, severed it at the joint. When the wriggling tentacles unclenched, Weirdcore’s wound released a golden powder which buzzed upward in a spiral. Weirdcore howled with anguish and confusion, but within

I will in fact be hanged in the morning. Or worse. They allude to it, they make bets on it in the halfway desk around the corner past the black alloy bars of the door and the thicker black bars of the gateway. They’re purposely not quiet about what’s coming to you, but purposely vague: “Permanent Conditioning.”

A long time ago, before you were a tickle between the thighs of your great-great-great-great grandfather’s mother, three apes ruled as kings on a long-lost jungle continent.

Daydream Misfit is your home for the very best fiction on Daydream Misfit. The following tales of revenge, lust, travel, and existential despair have been lovingly culled from our library of fascinating, experimental fiction. These stories truly represent the pinnacle of words.

Strange illnesses... cattle mutilations... and a pervasive change in the color of the sky. These were only preludes to the earth-shattering events of June 15th, 1971.

You're invited to investigate Daydream Misfit's Curiosity Cabinet. Unravel the mystery of how a collage of collectibles connects to strange items for sale by a hooded and menacing merchant from South America.

We approached this new series, "Sleep is No Escape" wanting to explore horror themes from the Lovecraftian tradition -- with a little HR Giger if he flesh-melded with a demon-possessed Andrew Wyeth, all slathered in chicken skin. These pieces were bounced back and forth between Ideogram and Gimp until they were moist and scabby. Some came together quickly. "The Garden of Heavenly Dismay" turned out to be massive and took several weeks!

There was a young man of the village whose mother sent him on a long journey. "This cat catches no mice. You must take the animal to my sister, who lives at the base of the mountain. She knows herbs which will coax the cat to accept its own nature as a hunter. Only a stupid son would bring home a cat that doesn't know how to be a cat."

Humans and dogs have lived in symbiosis for tens of thousands of years, each adapting to the other’s psychology. But what if that balance tipped fully toward the canine side? What if dogs, with their pack logic and clear hierarchies, became the ruling species — and humans, willingly or not, became their loyal companions?

"If you fail, it's because you weren't hungry enough, or smart, or willing to work. The formula is simple enough - sacrifice sleep, joy, time, and doubt. Replace these with measurable outcomes. Why are so many unwilling to do what is required?

In the center, on an altar, lay the sacrifice: Bad Bunny, skin mottled by the fickle light, chest rising and falling slowly. He was drugged and bound in ritual knots, hair spread like ink, moustache and goatee untamed. He smiled faintly in confusion, whispering sounds none of the other Bad Bunnys could hear.

The next thing Blue realized was that the colors had changed, and it had become very cold. He found himself gliding high above a craggy landscape, with his flippers pushing gently against a thick ether. Looking down, he saw that shadowy puddles of a dark and oily substance spotted the landscape, mirroring an orange sky.

Knock at the door. What the hell? I hate this shit. Nobody knocks on your door when you own your house because they know they get the business end of a Glock in their face. What time is it? 11 am. Who is it? I am not to be fucked with.

Glancing out the passenger side, I see a girl in a Honda Civic, angelic and orderly, looking at me through the raindrops on her window and the raindrops on mine. I grin, embarrassed. She smirks. She's beautiful.

And up high, there’s a sweatshirt tangled in the branches, flapping rhythmically. Makes a little jam with the traffic, something to rock to, back and forth. Perfectly good sweatshirt. When I get woke up, I’m going to go over and get it.

"Isabella Heresy has gone to the mountaintop and returned with visions of a paradise in decay, regenerating itself through orgasm." Paul Clark of Emergence was similarly impressed, noting "Heresy is the lifeblood of a new kind of culture. Her work is a phenomenon."

Around a goldfish pond, unwashed kids tormenting love bugs, lips powder-yellow with pollen, slathered in Bahiagrass seed. The bed of an umber Ford rusts through and green is bursting bright.

Across the gray glass stain of the sky, water droplets collect and run as if chased by the wind. They merge into rivulets. I reach out, I strain for them with my hair, and (now we’re getting somewhere) I feel the waters of the sky run up individual strands of hair to my scalp and into the veins in my temple, into the sea, and (breathe) I open myself and start to think in a language not my own.

As the game began, the black-suited and infrared-enabled foreign agents convened deep in the dank catacombs beneath the Mercedes-Benz Superdome. Opening a titanium case, they released their living weapons, a squad of four remotely mind-controlled squirrels, developed by and purchased from a Russian psychobiology team in Saransk, Mordovia. These agile drones were armed with diamond-plated teeth and nanotech ocular scanners, allowing their controllers to see through the mutat