Mary, a literary magazine published quarterly, is currently seeking submissions for both our print and web publications. Submissions are welcomed in prose, poetry, or essay format. Our mission is to showcase Queer/Gay writings of artistic merit. Submissions should not be any longer than 5,000 words, and can be submitted electronically at maryliterary@gmail.com . Writers whose work is accepted will be awarded a small honorarium.

Mary is seeking to capture and examine queer moments; to offer a surfeit of gay writings of artistic value and give them the showcase they deserve. Mary’s goal is to highlight writings that strive to reveal a perfect homosexual moment without any rationalization other than to skillfully reflect: this is the gay world or this is the gay world as we imagine it to be.

In Mary there might be political and social commentary, and maybe an indoctrinating manifesto or two; but none of these things will come before a beautiful phrase or a lyrical stanza that lay bare the lives of the seemingly disparate communities of queers, sissies, activists, “straight-acting”/appearing men who have sex with men, daddies, punks, tops, cubs, pigs, bangee queens, twinks, romantics and head cases. Mary is dedicated to gay writing that is not simply art for art’s sake, but art as a demonstration of life.

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COMMENTS / 4 COMMENTS

[...] Submission guidelines here. [...]

Call for Submissions: Mary, a Literary Quarterly | the St. Sebastian Review added these pithy words on Oct 01 13 at 6:27 am

Before Ellen

Back before Ellen and gay marriage being a dyke really meant something. We were a menace to society and took to the streets, flaunting our politics with a swagger, wearing dyke cuts not mullets exactly but you get the gist. It was1970 and we dressed like
it, flannel shirts and work boots, wife beaters and t-shirts with sayings
like ‘If you can send one man to the moon why not all of them?’
Drinking 75 cent beers in bars and dancing to Sylvester’s You Make Me Feel
Mighty Real until closing. After wards hanging around outside with the sweat dripping cold down the backs of
our necks watching the cops circle not wanting to say goodnight to each other. We’d stay up and spray graffiti on city walls and write manifestos, volley insults right back at men on the street. And they did insult us in broad day light as we’d make out with each other just to raise their ire
and sleep together at night like a brood of pups teaching ourselves
how to get laid, cause we didn’t know what to do with our mouths
or our hands as if we were wearing mittens covering everything
but our shyness. We were revolutionaries and barely eighteen.

On Saturday nights we’d go to the bar, not the one with the fags and the hetero tourists but to Ruby’s on Broadway, past the boarded up store fronts and the corner liquor store where every other street light was busted out and the mist off the river hid the potholes. Ruby’s didn’t
advertise, no Bud sign, not even a street number. Yet you’d find it if you wanted it bad enough like us, hungry to be held and horny, oh yeah, that too, for a place of our own away from straight women who flirted with us,
gay men who hated us and straight men
who wanted to jack off fantasizing about us.

The three of us were a tribe: Moxie a runaway from downstate whose kin, she said,would never miss her, being one of 13. And Josie from a south side Italian family trying to marry her off to a second cousin once removed
who had a good job with the city, Water
and Sewer. Was she too high-falutin ‘Miss Pretty Pants’ for him?
they wanted to know. And they did want to know everything except what there was to know: We were baby butch amazons. Outlaws in training.

Josie drove the three of us jammed into the front seat of her Daddy’s rusty Impala, christened ‘the White Whale,’ with Chic’s Dance, Dance, Dance pounding from the eight track. We stopped at White Castle for twenty five
cent burgers and Moxie slapped her hair back with gorilla grease in the rear view mirror while we sang ‘Yowsah, Yowsah, Yowsah I wanna boogie wit’choo’
out the window. In the parking lot a low rider pulled up and blew us a kiss and in a beat we gave him the finger while Moxie lunged out the window with a
‘Suck my dick,’ and Josie screeching the Whale into reverse floored it over the curb and onto the street.
With the guy on our tail, I peed my pants, Miss Pretty Pretty Pants, while Moxie gripped the dash with a howl.
An army of lover would not be defeated.
Yowsah. Yowsah. Yowsah.
We beeline’d it to Ruby’s.

Before Ellen

Back before Ellen and gay marriage being a dyke
really meant something. We were a menace
to society and took to the streets, flaunting our politics with
a swagger, wearing dyke cuts not mullets exactly
but you get the gist. It was1970 and we dressed like
it, flannel shirts and work boots, wife beaters and t-shirts with sayings
like ‘If you can send one man to the moon why not all of them?’
Drinking 75 cent beers in bars and dancing to Sylvester’s You Make Me Feel
Mighty Real until closing. Afterwards hanging around
outside with the sweat dripping cold down the backs of
our necks watching the cops circle not wanting to say
goodnight to each other. We’d stay up and spray graffiti on city walls
and write manifestos, volley insults right back at men on the street. And they did
insult us in broad day light as we’d make out with each other just to raise their ire
and sleep together at night like a brood of pups teaching ourselves
how to get laid, cause we didn’t know what to do with our mouths
or our hands as if we were wearing mittens covering everything
but our shyness. We were revolutionaries and barely eighteen.

On Saturday nights we’d go to the bar, not the one with the fags and the hetero
tourists but to Ruby’s on Broadway, past the boarded up store fronts
and the corner liquor store where every other street light was busted
out and the mist off the river hid the potholes. Ruby’s didn’t
advertise, no Bud sign, not even a street number. Yet you’d find it if you wanted it
bad enough like us, hungry to be held and horny, oh yeah, that too, for a place
of our own away from straight women who flirted with us,
gay men who hated us and straight men
who wanted to jack off fantasizing about us.

The three of us a tribe: Moxie a runaway from downstate whose kin, she said,
would never miss her, being one of 13. And Josie from a south side Italian family
trying to marry her off to a second cousin once removed
who had a good job with the city, Water
and Sewer. Was she too high-falutin ‘Miss Pretty Pants’ for him?
they wanted to know. And they did want to know
everything except what there was to know:
We were baby butch amazons. Outlaws in training.

Josie drove the three of us jammed into the front seat
of her Daddy’s rusty Impala, christened
‘the White Whale,’ with Chic’s Dance, Dance, Dance pounding
from the eight track. We stopped at White Castle for twenty five
cent burgers and Moxie slapped her hair back with gorilla grease in
the rear view mirror while we sang ‘Yowsah, Yowsah, Yowsah I wanna boogie wit’choo’
out the window. In the parking lot a low rider pulled up
and blew us a kiss and in a beat we
gave him the finger while Moxie lunged out the window with a
‘Suck my dick,’ and Josie screeching the Whale
into reverse floored it over the curb and onto the street.
With the guy on our tail, I peed my pants,
Miss Pretty Pretty Pants, while Moxie gripped the dash with a howl.
An army of lover would not be defeated.
Yowsah. Yowsah. Yowsah. We beeline’d it to Ruby’s.

m.k.metz added these pithy words on Mar 30 11 at 9:31 am

I want to submit but some tells me that submitted and never heard from you please let us know what is going on. thanks much and much brotherly love david

david e. patton added these pithy words on Feb 26 12 at 9:29 am

Hundreds or thousands of entrepreneurs are “doing their own thing” with little fanfare.
This suggests that these jobs are among the most secure and
among the best paying. While farming in Birmingham, Alabama,
he was granted two patents for agricultural plow improvements
that he subsequently sold to finance a successful real
estate business.

http://www.dipity.com/richturaskyjr/ added these pithy words on Aug 24 16 at 7:43 pm

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