I like strange fiction. Not just strange, though, ominous. That feeling you get when you're all alone and you've been thinking too much and you can all but anticipate someone creeping down the hall or opening your bedroom door. It never happens, but that premonition, that's something I enjoy. And so this Literary Magazine was created. On a basic level, it's quite selfish: get a bunch of David Lynch-loving, Season One of True Detective-watching, Kafka-munching writers and put them all in one magazine. Maybe inspire a few tattoos, make some friends, help create some completely out there (but somehow still real) works of art, and see what happens. Everyone's welcome. Let's see how things go.
Eldritch Lake is that hand waiting to grab you while you get out of bed; it's the escaped juggler hiding in the basement during Sunday dinner; the black cat that's watching you and isn't really a cat at all; the terror beneath the surface we all feel from time to time. It can be fictional or not, scary or romantic or empowering or all three at once. It's whatever works for any given issue.
Right now, for instance, I'm writing as if I have an actual audience. Is this a waste of time? Am I deluding myself? Is this a little act of defiance against my own cynicism? It is, at this moment, whatever I want to be, the albatross both flying high and chained around my neck.
All are welcome to submit their material. The stranger the better. If you can, somehow, tell a horror story while also highlighting real world issues, your chances of getting selected improve drastically. Of course, it does not have to be horror. Or any particular genre. If you want to write a utopian science fiction story as a metaphor for your early explorations of you sexuality, you can't because I already had that idea. Almost anything goes. Experiment. Take risks. Say something real. There are a million ways to explore an idea. This is a home for lost stories and forgotten voices.
With that being said, Hello, Welcome, Thank You For Coming, See You Soon.
“If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumbered here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream"
Puck, A Midsummer Night's Dream