I feel like starting this off like Lady Whistledown, Dearest Readers…

Every living thing sheds its skin eventually. Trees drop their bark in long curls, snakes leave theirs on warm rocks. And literary magazines, it turns out, do too.

I started Literally Literary in 2016 with a simple, stubborn belief: good writing doesn’t need permission, or a damn MFA. You need something true and authentic, and the nerve to say it. Since then, more than 800 writers have published with us. Some had never shown their work to anyone, and others had been writing for decades and just wanted a home that didn’t make them feel small.

I am proud of that, and it will never change. But the skin we are wearing is too tight, and it doesn’t fit the way it used to.

A Time to Grow

I’m not ready to tell you everything yet. These things need a little more time in the dark before they can come into the light. What I can tell you is: the work we publish is getting wilder, rawer, and more rooted, and our publication is going to catch up to that. The heart of this place stays the same. Our writers, our community, and our refusal to gatekeep all come with us. What changes is how we show up in the world, and how loudly.

Think of it as us growing into ourselves.

The Call Is Open, to Everyone

Whether you’ve been with us since the early Medium days or you found us last week, we want to feature your work. Old friends, come on home. Newcomers, the door is open and nobody’s checking credentials at it.

Here’s where we’re reading right now:

The Review (print journal, biannual)
Poetry, fiction, essays and hybrid work. Free to submit. Accepted contributors get a free digital copy. Submissions close March 1, 2027 for the Spring edition. Submissions will be accepted afterward for following editions.

Full Circle, Volume 2 (our yearly anthology, June 2027)
Our biggest collection yet, in print. $3 submission, and every accepted contributor gets a free print copy. Submissions close February 1, 2027.

Our Online Publication
We take rolling submissions year-round and publish weekly. Simultaneous submissions are welcome. We usually reply within 2–3 business days, and our editors work with you on revisions instead of handing down verdicts.

One Note: we’ll pause reading over Winter Solstice, Christmas, and New Year’s and pick back up on January 3, 2027. Send things anyway, we may work through them despite saying we wont, or they will be waiting for us and we will be glad to see them.

Why Your Submissions Matter More Than Ever

A magazine is only as alive as what people send it. Every new voice changes what we are. When you submit, you’re helping decide what this next chapter sounds like too. And in a world of AI slop, that matters.

I mean that, literally. The pieces that come in over the next few months will be the first ones published under our new skin. They’ll set the tone and show new readers who we are. If you’ve been holding back, or onto something, waiting for the right moment, this is it.

Why Donations Matter Too

Here’s the honest, unglamourous part. Print costs money. Paper, ink, shipping, proofs, and ISBNs all cost money, and so does putting a real, beautiful object into a writers , or readers, hands with their name inside. Every dollar donated through our site goes directly toward printing the review and yearly anthology. That’s all it pays for: getting your words onto the page, into a bookshop, and into readers hands.

Our editors are volunteers who pour hours into this work, and they’re supported separately through their own tip links. If an editor has helped you shape a piece, consider saying thank you that way.

On December 1 we’re also launcing our Kickstarter (if they ever approve it…), which is the biggest push we’ve made to date to fund this work properly. More on that very soon. For now, if you’ve ever loved a piece you read here, or felt seen by one, a donation of any size keeps the presses turning while we grow.

No pressure. No guilt. Submitting, reading, sharing and showing up all count too. But if you’re able, it truly makes thedifference between ‘someday in print’ and ‘here it is, in your hands’.

What I See Ahead

I see a magazine that feels like a forest floor: layered, fertile, and definitely a little untamed. It’s a place where a first time poet’s piece sits next to a seasoned essayist’s, and neither one feels out of place. It’s print issues you’ll want to keep on your shelf, an indie press that champions small, strange, wonderful books, and a community that grows because people bring each other in from the rain.

We’re building all of it in the open, together, with human hands and human hearts.

So send us your work. Tell your writer friends. Watch this space in December.

Somehting is growing, and I would love if you came to grow with it.

With ink and gratitude,
Jess
Founder, Editor, Writer, Wife, Mom, and Master ADHD Generator

Submit or ask questions: literallyliterary2.0@gmail.com
Support our print work: literallyliterarypub.com

Something is Growing Here was originally published in Literally Literary on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Eternity Within Us

In the abyss of dark cold Space
A fusion forms
That space stuff coalesces
Creating a density
A power
A light

A Star

Atoms combine
Building larger and heavier elements
Until it reaches Ferrum
Iron
That heavy metal where fusion finalizes
The space dust burns and builds up more Ferrum
Till there is nothing left to burn
And the death of a star begins
Eventually the star turns supernova
And explodes

Iron, that elemental metal
Forged by a star
Is flung across the universe
It forms veins and pockets deep in the planets
It is extracted and placed
In the strong steel of swords
In the girders that hold up skyscrapers
In the ships that sail our seas
It is also in us
The shining strength of heaven
Made from a celestial giant long dead
Has been sent to power our bodies

We are made of the stuff of stars
We carry heaven inside our blood
We are full of Stardust

Starblood was originally published in Literally Literary on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The bells echo with the day
Ringing out a new dawn with the sun
A new beginning is hidden here
Smiling at you with a hidden frown

Can you feel it?

Can you hear the bells ringing?
The flowers fading and blooming again
The water showering and rinsing within

The BELLS are ringing

Can you see the ethereal birds?
Sitting on those radiant trees
The light illuminates the sakura
In the gilded light of morning’s kiss
The petals fall, dancing in the wind
Calling to the heart to beat again

Can you hear the bells ringing?
A new day is coming
Can you hear the bells ringing?

The sound of the morning gong
Bringing forth the new day’s song

“New Day” was originally published in Literally Literary on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Thank you to every writer who has sent work to Full Circle, Volume 2. The response has been wonderful. Here’s where things stand.

Already submitted?
Everything we’ve received through November 9th will get a status update by December 1st. Keep an eye on your inbox.

Submitting from here on?
We’ll keep reading new submissions over the coming weeks. Reading pauses for Winter Solstice, Christmas Eve, Christmas and New Year’s, then picks back up on January 3rd. Updates go out by email.

Deadlines to Know

• Full Circle, Volume 2 (our 2027 anthology): submissions close in February 1st. If you’ve been sitting on a piece, this is your sign.
• Literally Literary Review (our biannual): still open and still free to submit. It follows the same reading schedule and holiday break, and submissions close in March 1st. Anything submitted after that deadline will roll into the next issue.

Submit to either one here: LINK

We read every piece with care, and we can’t wait to see what you send.

Jess Kaisk, Editor Literally Literary Pub

Full Circle Update: Reading Schedule, Holiday Break & What’s Still Open was originally published in Literally Literary on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

For sky and land, I establish a heart;
For all mankind, I secure a destiny;
For past sages, I revive their lost flames,
For ten thousand generations to come, I open the path to eternal peace.

﹉﹉﹉ Zai Zhang, 11C, Four Words at HengQu (Self-translation, revised with feedback from friends)

When that wind lands on my shoulders,
Its whispers fluttering like a butterfly,
Is it the sign of peace or more chaos?

When that wind carries the color of yesterday’s moonlight,
Will tomorrow be bright like the everlasting flame,
or pale as the emptiness of a blank canvas?

When that wind carries the message of
the river from the passing time,
Would its journey stop here, or flow beyond?

I have no answers
Nor does anyone,
But as I am walking down this trail
Eyeing the sun embracing the river,
birds kissing the leaves not yet falling,
and people passing by people.

I wondered,
Would this be what stayed in your dreams,
the wanderers before me,
the travelers I didn’t get to meet,
the pioneers I see and whisper to every single day?

I know,
When the sun falls and rain pours,
The breathing dream might be shattered,
The fragile candlelight might be snuffed off,
and our path might be cut down.

But behind you, it’s me.
Behind me, it’s we who are always resilient,
When people point their fingers,
When people speak too loudly –

Raise your arms high,
and scream your voice high,
Because the ocean never stops.

For my readers (if any), thanks for your patient waiting. For the past few months, I have been dealing with a lot of personal issues while trying my best to enjoy my life- going to many rock and metal concerts, meeting old and new friends and colleagues, spending my time in nature, and hoping to find someone on those dating apps (which are not helpful AT ALL!). I had many moments of thinking about myself, my dreams, my beliefs, and my presence and future to come. I have friends who criticized me for being too egocentric and people who said I should always be humble and always bow down to people (notably my East Asian-type parents), to which I laughed so loud and fought back so hard. Well, that was my life.

People often asked me, “So Vincent, what’s in store for you?” Now I have an answer.

“Let’s find it out together”, I said.

About this poem: believe it or not, the inspiration for this poem comes from these sentences I randomly wrote down on a piece of paper:

相顾无需言语，
回首之间，
闪过几度春秋。

Translation: No need to speak when we looked at each other,
Turning our heads back,
Unnumbered springs and falls flashed by (in our eyes)

How did the above lines get translated into this poem? That’s a mystery to resolve.

© Juncheng Vincent L 2026. All Rights Reserved.

When That Wind Lands was originally published in Literally Literary on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Chapter 8

[News] [Table of Contents] [Previous Chapter] [Chapter 9 Coming Soon!]

B y mid-morning, the heat had begun to swell. Marcus pushed through the battered door of the Raven’s Roost—the place he had once called home. The familiar sour stink of stale ale greeted him.

The previous evening’s chaos had settled into something quiet, almost peaceful. A sailor slumped in the corner of the dimly lit tavern, a woman’s head resting in his lap. She blinked awake as sunlight spilled through the open door.

Sliding off him, she drifted toward Marcus with a practiced sway. “Hair of the dog, love?” she cooed.

She traced her hand over her wrinkled bodice. “Or something… warmer?” she added with a wink.

He met her offer with a smile. “Oh, Melinda… if only I had time,” he fibbed.

She gave an exaggerated pout and sauntered back toward the sailor. On the way, she snatched a half-drunk stein from a nearby table and downed the remaining swill in one gulp.

She glanced back and met Marcus’s gaze. “Your loss.”

A string of curses drifted from behind the bar. Marcus peered over and found a short, stocky man with a receding hairline scrubbing vomit from the dull wooden floorboards—remnants from the previous night’s debauchery.

“What brings you to my fine establishment today, Colby?” the man muttered without looking up from his unpleasant chore.

“Good morning to you too, Dax.”

Some things never change, Marcus mused. He remembered Maddi in that same spot, muttering the same curses when he was a boy.

It was a mystery how Dax, of all people, had managed to inherit the Raven’s Roost after Maddi’s death. Equally odd was that nobody seemed to question why the penmanship on her will looked remarkably similar to Shayla’s handwriting.

“Cellar. Special reserve,” Marcus replied curtly.

Dax submerged his filthy rag in a filthier bucket. He eyed Marcus as he wrung it out slowly, the gray water dripping back into the pail. He squinted at Marcus for a long moment, then turned and nodded toward two broad-shouldered men guarding the cellar door. “He’s all right.”

Dax grumbled, muttering a few more curses as he went back to scrubbing.

The scent of damp oak and old yeast clung heavily in Marcus’s nostrils, dragging up memories he preferred to leave buried. Still, the cool air was a welcome relief from the city’s sweltering heat above.

As his vision began to adjust to the dim light, he noticed two glowing eyes staring at him from the shadows atop a moldy wine cask.

He took a cautious step.

In front of him, a large rat skittered across his path. He froze.

The glowing eyes narrowed, tracking the movement, then vanished. In a blur, a small shadow darted across the casks and leapt down, landing with a soft thud. Its claws flashed, then sank deep into the rat’s flesh.

Marcus exhaled slowly and pressed on, the sound of contented purring behind him as the small tabby tore its meal apart with efficient ferocity.

He moved past rows of barrels and casks toward a locked iron door marked SPECIAL RESERVE in faded red paint. The air somehow felt colder here—and more still.

He paused for a second, then rapped three times in quick succession.

“Can I help you?” came a muffled voice from behind the door.

“Lovely day for an old-vine Moscato,” Marcus replied.

A pause, then the voice returned: “She’s expecting you.”

The scrape of a heavy bar echoed through the corridor before the door creaked open.

The slim youth guarding the entrance instinctively rested his hand on the hilt of his dagger as Marcus strode past. “It’s down the hall and—”

“I know where she is,” he interrupted. Marcus knew his way around Caer Moravin’s thieves’ guild better than anyone—except Shayla, its second-in-command.

Regret tugged at Marcus as he neared the door to Shayla’s quarters—her office and her lair.

The door stood open, which was unusual. He hesitated on the threshold, wincing at the sight of the manacles hanging from chains on the far wall. A few new whips draped the display case beside the bed.

That bed. He shuddered, remembering the depraved things they once did on it. But he also recalled her tenderness as they lay in that same bed, whispering dreams of a future that would never—could never—be.

She perched on her desk—she’d been waiting for him. A wicked grin curled her lips.

Marcus felt as though he had just stepped neatly into her trap.

He had almost forgotten how strikingly beautiful Shayla was: her scarlet lips, her hair gleaming like burnished copper in the lamplight. The black leather armor clung to her slender frame, tracing every curve. She might be deadly with a blade, but Marcus knew that her true weapon was far more dangerous.

Shayla hopped from her desk and began to circle him, every step deliberate—a huntress assessing her prey.

“Arden give you any trouble at the door?” she asked, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.

Marcus stood still, calmly resisting the urge to track her movements. “He seems a bit green,” he said evenly. “You lowering your recruiting standards these days?”

It would be foolish for anyone to let Shayla out of their line of sight, he thought. But Marcus knew that it wasn’t the love they once shared that kept him safe—it was that he was still useful.

Shayla let out a low, breathy laugh behind him. “How’s soldier life?” she murmured, her voice gliding close to his ear before drifting away again.

He ignored her question. Marcus knew this game well. She wasn’t interested in the answer—only whether he would flinch.

“I heard the king’s going to raise taxes again,” she said lightly, circling back to face him.

“War is expensive, so I’ve heard,” he responded.

She tilted her head, studying him. “And how goes the war? Supplies stretched thin, are they?”

Marcus didn’t take the bait. She’d already gathered her intelligence. This was just another test of his resolve.

Shayla circled once more. Her gaze narrowed a bit as she stopped and leaned back against her desk. “How is she?”

Marcus tensed and his jaw tightened involuntarily. The question hit harder than he’d expected, and he almost missed the trace of jealousy in her voice.

“Did you ever work up the nerve to tell her?” she pressed, stepping slightly toward him.

He should have deflected. Instead, the truth stumbled out. “I can’t tell her—” Marcus stopped short, surprised by his suddenly honest admission.

Shayla’s smile widened. A flicker of surprise… then satisfaction. “If she cares about you, then your past won’t scare her off,” she said softly, savoring her advantage.

“It never scared me,” she purred, trailing a finger from his shoulder down his forearm.

Her touch felt both foreign and familiar—a reminder of what they’d been, and why it could never be again.

He steadied his breath before meeting her gaze. “You know that our relationship was poison, Shay.”

“Maybe,” she said, a slow smile tugging at her lips. “But we did have a lot of fun together. Remember that day you took me up to the old watchtower? I could see the whole valley while you were… behind me.”

Her words struck deeper than she knew—or perhaps exactly as she intended. Marcus bristled at the memory of bringing her to his most sacred place.

“I know you got my note,” she continued, her voice silky with a tinge of venom. “About how the railing bruised my breasts—and how, for the next three days, I admired those bruises as a reminder of our time up there.”

The air caught in his chest. Damn her. Even now, she knew exactly where to cut.

Marcus’s composure cracked. “And two weeks after that you asked me to help take down Maddi.”

His gaze drifted toward the bed—the very place they had been lying when she whispered the idea.

He wondered if the safety of his arms had given her the courage… or whether his vulnerability in that moment made her feel bold enough to propose something so dangerous.

His voice turned to ice. “And when I refused, you ended us.”

Shayla’s eyes flashed. “What did you expect? That we’d play house? Get married, and I’d pop out a litter for you?”

“I never asked that of you,” Marcus snapped, jaw tight. He drew a slow breath, forcing his voice even. “But you did ask me to betray my family.”

For a moment, Shayla’s expression softened. Hurt flashed behind her eyes before pride smothered it. “I was your family,” she said quietly, her voice teetering just at the edge of anger.

Then the steel returned. “You know how terrible Maddi was.”

Marcus winced. Maddi was the only family he’d had before Shayla. “But I couldn’t betray her. She gave me a home. And a life—”

“She betrayed you the moment she brought you in, Marcus,” Shayla shot back, her tone hardening. “You know it! She didn’t give you a home. She gave you indentured servitude!”

Shayla leaned in close, her voice softening to something almost tender. “You have talent, Marcus. It’s raw, untrained—but real. You could have been right there with me. When I take over the guild… it could still be you at my side.” Her tone wavered, pride and plea tangled together. “It was supposed to be us.”

Marcus turned his head slightly, breaking her gaze. “We have this same conversation every time, Shay,” he said quietly, an edge of sorrow in his tone. Then, steadying himself: “My loyalty is to the king, this city, and the army now.”

Her eyes hardened, the flicker of vulnerability vanishing as quickly as it came. She jabbed a finger hard into his chest, snapping his gaze back to hers. “Lie to yourself if you want,” she hissed. “But don’t lie to me.”

Her voice trembled just enough to betray the hurt beneath. “Your loyalty isn’t to the crown or the city—it’s to her. And you know it.”

The words hit like a blade between his ribs.

He almost broke when he spoke. “When Maddi was found dead—”

“—your contract was nullified,” Shayla cut in, her tone still smooth, though the control in it was slipping. “You were finally free.”

That word froze him. Free?

Marcus stared at her, realization dawning. Did she have Maddi killed to free him—or to claim him? He wasn’t sure which was worse.

A long silence hung between them. The air grew heavy, the tension dulling from sharp to weary. Their duel had gone on too long; both were bleeding from invisible cuts.

Shayla looked away. When she spoke again, her voice had lost its bite. “Enough of this.”

She moved around her desk, reclaiming her composure one graceful step at a time. “Tough news about Archie. He was one of our best informants.”

Marcus was grateful for the truce, fragile and temporary as it was. He was too emotionally exhausted to feign surprise that Archie Dent was playing multiple angles.

“He and an apprentice armorer were killed. Precise cuts. Execution style. Your people?”

“No.” Shayla’s answer was flat.

“Any idea why?” Marcus asked. “What could have been worth killing an informant and an apprentice?”

“You tell me.”

Marcus hated that he would have to offer more. “The shipping manifests… they were altered. Could that be related?”

He studied her face, searching for the slightest flicker. No calculation. No hint of surprise. Nothing.

And that told him everything: she had come to the same dead end—and she was just as stumped as he was.

Shayla folded her hands, her voice measured. “If something was smuggled in and we don’t know about it, it wasn’t meant for the market. Whoever brought it in didn’t intend witnesses.”

“So not contraband to sell,” he said, piecing it together.

“Not for sale,” Shayla agreed. “Private. Or meant for someone who buys secrecy.”

Someone who would buy secrecy? Marcus suspected she was holding something back. He tried a softer approach. Meeting her eyes, he began to hum a melody, low and careful, the refrain from her favorite tune.

The sound lingered in the air with a faint, unnatural resonance. Shayla’s gaze softened. Her breathing slowed. The rhythm seemed to pull at something within her.

Suddenly her eyes fluttered. Her gaze snapped into focus and her body instantly tensed.

“Don’t you ever try that on me again!” she hissed. “I have no reason to lie to you.”

Marcus swallowed hard. He knew better than to use that trick on her. It was reckless. Desperate, even.

The air between them still trembled with the echo of his mistake.

She let his blunder pass, but he knew the conversation was finished. He had come for answers and left with more questions. If the thieves’ guild was in the dark about what had been smuggled in, they were just as uneasy about it as he was.

“If you find anything,” he said, “send word.”

“I’ll send for you,” she replied coldly, watching him head for the door.

Suddenly her voice softened. “It was good to see you again, Marcus.”

He nodded and stepped into the cellar, eager to return to the oppressive midday heat above.

Shayla’s voice called after him. He paused without turning. Her parting words trailed in his head: “If you ever try that trick on me again, I will slice you open where you stand.”

Despite whatever love Shayla still held for him, he knew it was not an idle threat.

[Chapter 9 Coming Soon!]

A Ballad of Silk and Venom (Chapter 8) was originally published in Literally Literary on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

We sat with our mouths half-open, listening to an old professor. And then he said something that made us all gasp at once: "Wow."

The Lecture

The lecture was supposed to be about post-positivism. Popper, Lakatos, Feyerabend — names we had underlined in textbooks, forgotten, remembered again. The exam was in a week. We were tired. We were anxious. We were not supposed to be sitting there, mouths open, listening.

But we were.

The professor — Gene — was old. Gray-haired. A little tired around the eyes. He wrote on the blackboard with chalk, and the chalk squeaked, and Gene didn't seem to notice.

But when he spoke about the Vienna Circle — about how a group of thinkers tried to reduce philosophy to logic, to what could be verified, to what could be measured — his voice changed. It was not the voice of a man doing a job. It was the voice of a man who lived in this.

We exchanged looks. Someone whispered: "He's in love with this stuff." Someone else nodded. "Completely. Gene lives in it." We smiled. We thought we understood him. An enthusiast. A man who floated in the world of high ideas. A man who had probably never married — not because he couldn't, but because philosophy was enough. Like Socrates — but without the wife.

The Best Philosophy

He finished. We thanked him. Gene nodded, gathered his papers.

And then he stopped at the door.

"You know," he said, "all of this is wonderful. Philosophy. It's vast. It's alive. It's an ocean." He paused. "But I'm going to see my grandson now. We'll take a walk. We'll talk. And that — that is higher than all philosophy."

For a second, no one spoke. Then the room broke — not into laughter, but into a kind of collective wow. Someone whistled. Someone else said "oh" out loud. Gene smiled, a little embarrassed, as if he had said too much. And he left.

The Secret

We passed the exam.

A week later, I was talking to my supervisor — a man who had known Gene for years. I told him about the lecture. About the phrase. About how strange it seemed.

My supervisor laughed. "You want to know about Gene? Let me tell you about Gene."

The Dispatcher

Oh, yes — Gene was always in love with philosophy. He studied well, he lived by the book. He could have disappeared into that world and forgotten everything else. But then came Mary.

They were married. Mary was an earth woman — an engineer. She was the one who kept Gene on the ground. When he floated too far into Kant and Hegel, Mary pulled him back. She was his dispatcher. Without her, he would have drifted into philosophy and science space and never come back.

The Potty

Then came the daughter. Irene. And Gene tried. He really tried.

She would come to him: "Papa, I need to go."

"Go where?"

"To the potty."

"Ah. Yes. Behind the door."

And Gene would go back to his book. And Irene would come back a few minutes later: "Papa, I didn't make it. I went on the floor."

Gene would look up, startled, as if he had forgotten she existed. Then he would put down the book and pick up the cloth to clean up what she hadn't managed to bring to the potty.

The Paper

Another time, little Irene came to her father while he was deep in conversation with his colleagues — philosophers, all of them, talking excitedly about high things she couldn’t understand. She tugged at his sleeve. She wanted paper. To draw.

"In what sense?" Gene said, still half in the world of ideas.

"In white," Irene said, confused.

The Math Problem

When Irene brought home a math problem, Mary gave her one clear answer. Simple. Fast. Gene would get excited and start explaining five different ways — while Irene stood there, bewildered. That’s why she went to her mother more often.

But later, at university, she understood what her father had given her — a way of seeing.

The Grandson

Then came the grandson. Vadim. Gene went to the hospital. He took the baby in his arms. And Vadim — tiny, red, new — smiled at him. Not at the mother. Not at the father. At the grandfather.

Something happened between them. Chemistry. Gene and Vadim became friends. When they walked in the park, they looked like the closest friends in the world.

Why?

My supervisor finished. I sat there for a moment. Something flickered in me.

Why? Do grandchildren bring us down to earth? Do they give us a love we couldn't give our own children?

The Best Philosophy was originally published in Literally Literary on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.