Tint Journal writers’ locales:

(click on the colored countries to learn more)

Issue Fall '26

"Potato" by Hana Nekrep

Short Story

POTATO POTATO

by Jay C. Alexander

Nancy knew we’d been growing in her pantry for weeks. It was the perfect home for us: damp, warm, and full of strange bacteria that helped us thrive ...read the full piece 
"The Thing We Buried" by Monika Gustevičiūtė

Short Story

The Thing We Buried

by Ethel Maqeda

Only Tabonga still remembered their bush. Even after all these years, it remained clear to her. But when she tried to remember it with her friends, ...read the full piece 
"Show Me Your Eyes Let Me Read Your Soul" by Tuana Burçak Kahraman

Flash Fiction

The Party

by Elodie A. Roy

Every year before Christmas, Bill has a party. He invites the lonely hearts, the widowers and the dreamers of Moston. The haunted people he meets at ...read the full piece 
"I'm Flying Through the Daytime City in the Clouds" by Nasta Martyn

Flash Nonfiction

The Ballet Dancer

by Andie Z Chen

One of my aunties — her child had died of cerebrovascular disease. When her son was sick, blood kept coming out of his nose, and she would hold a ...read the full piece 
Skiing: my mother and I, 1963. © N. Lvovich

Essay

The Morozov Mansion

by Natasha Lvovich

Dyrka[1] We lived, all eight of us, together with the grandparents and my aunt Ilia’s family, in the apartment on Podsosensky Street in the former ...read the full piece 
"Monarchs" by Atzin Garcia

Flash Nonfiction

In the Time of the Caterpillars

by Jean-Luke Swanepoel

There were four of the caterpillars the first time I noticed them. The milkweed had been growing throughout the summer but still wasn’t of remarkable ...read the full piece 
"The Seed" by Vanesa Erjavec

Poetry

The Bomb Calls Itself a Gardener

by Punyasloka Mohapatra

The guard asked whether she carried anything alive. In the hem of her dress lay coriander seeds,a loose thread, dust gathered from three bus ...read the full piece 
"Self Portrait" by Stasia Fisher

Poetry

bodhidharma

by Ajay Kumar

the color of the room is a shade of bluecalled sleep. i’m waiting beside youlike an oversoaked shirt losing color. the doctor’s rounds lynchpin the ...read the full piece