keepgoing.org is published quarterly, on the first day of each season. In fact, we control the seasons. If we hadn't published a Spring issue this year there would never have been a thaw, and the world would now be enveloped in perpetual winter, practically another Ice Age.
Obviously, this is an awesome responsibility.
If you would like to play god with us, as well as see your original fiction, nonfiction, poetry, photography, or music published by this quarterly, there may be hope for you. We do consider unsolicited material for publication. We read every submission with varying degrees of interest and attention and publish those which seem best to us at the time. We won't publish your stuff if it sucks, unless you know someone on staff.
The submission deadline for each issue is as follows:
Spring: February 21
Summer: May 21
Fall: August 21
Winter: November 21
Submissions received after the deadline for a particular issue will not be considered for that issue. That's why they're called deadlines, dummy.
Email your submission to email@example.com. Include "submission" in the subject line of your email, and include the title of your submission and your name in the body of the email so we don't mistake it for one of the many angry emails we receive from attorneys and immediately discard it.
We ask that you send your submission as an attached file. That's not too much to ask, is it? Please do not attach files larger than 1 MB to your emaildon't even try it. For fiction, nonfiction, and poetry submissions we prefer the file to be in Microsoft Word, but we are usually clever enough to work with other word-processing programs.
If your file is not readable, we will return it to you to be resubmitted if the mood so strikes us on that particular day.
Please don't send us a deluge. Save stuff for later issues. Try to limit yourself to no more than one story or three poems. We also encourage you to submit graphics (making sure to credit the artist or site from which you blatantly stole your image) to accompany your story or poems, but remember, we don't want email attachments larger than 1 MB. If you do not send a graphic to accompany your submission, no complaints will be heard about the one we choose for you.
We don't want any trouble. We will not consider simultaneous submissions or material that has been published ANYWHERE else, not even in your crappy, semi-subversive, high-school underground newsletter. We are a non-paying publisher (unless you count all of the good karma and warm feelings your submission will undoubtedly garner you). Copyright belongs to you (the author or artist) after publication, because, quite frankly, what are we gonna do with it?
We do our best to respond to all submissions, but be aware that we are sometimes inundated and other times lazy. If you have not heard back from us after three weeks, please assume that we will not be able to use your submission. We are not responsible for the return or loss of submissions, or much else for that matter.
Permission for Use of Material
We welcome requests for reuse of keepgoing.org material. If you would like to reprint or otherwise pilfer material published in keepgoing.org, please make sure to email firstname.lastname@example.org. Please include the issue number, the name of the author or artist, and information about how you would like to use the material.
Letters to the Editor
We welcome letters from our readers and other crackpots about material published in keepgoing.org, but not from angry lawyers. Please submit mail for our Letters column to email@example.com. For your letter to be considered, you must include your phone number and postal address, but we will not publish this information. We promise.
Feedback and Queries
We welcome feedback on how lovely our web site is and how easy it is to navigate. We also welcome queries about who we are and what the hell we're doing. Please submit feedback and queries to firstname.lastname@example.org. Somebody on our staff will probably get back to you if they can tear themselves away from writing stupid bits of nonsense like this.
Joe Martinez was a gibbon in a former incarnation. Currently he is a 31-year-old ne’er-do-well with a penchant for ranting, raving, and otherwise being righteously indignant. Born property of the US Army, he has always chafed at the constraints of society and yearned to return to an arboreal life in the jungles of Southeast Asia. He is the father of a 10-year-old, who is rapidly approaching the point where she no longer wants to be seen with him. Appraisals of his character are mixed, ranging from mildly positive (“He’s OK”) to damning (“That guy’s an insufferable jerk!”). Joe is holding out that age will bring wisdom, and wisdom, peace of mind. An expert at squandering opportunity, he is available to consult on all your failure-related needs for an exorbitant fee. More by Joe Martinez
A provider of brute labor and transporter of goods in earlier ages who was left jobless and penniless by the industrial age and further rendered obsolete by the information revolution, Carter O’Brien has come into his own as a bona-fide crank journalist, a junior historian, an aspiring musician, and not lastly a jack-of-all-trades in his employment as a senior administrative assistant at the Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago. He can often be spotted mouthing various obscenities at motorists failing to use turn signals and/or doddering about Chicago and clogging its arterial streets, and likewise at rollerbladers using the bike path during rush hour. He commands a kingly online presence in the form of “Django Durango,” surfing the web with the grace of an extraterrestrial cyberoptic manta ray from music and conspiracy theory chat boards to the world's funkiest black market bazaar, eBay. More by Carter O’Brien
Denise Pace is a hairless monkey frequently and infuriatingly thwarted by everyday things, like ottomans and gravity. She communicates largely by cussing and quoting The Simpsons. Yet, possessing a high level of derring-do, she perseveres. More by Denise Pace
Born amongst the corn cousins, Elmers, and strip-mall barons of Indiana, Patrick learned early on in life that something was rotten in Denmark. After mailing many, many postcards to various addresses in the greater Copenhagen area asking after the source of the stench, and after receiving no replies to his repeated queries, he became convinced that it must be the mayonnaise. More by Patrick Russell
Geary Yonker’s deep-seeded fear of death really keeps him busy. It is not so much a fear of dying as it is a fear of dying without having accomplished anything in his life. He attributes this fear to having been told he was special too many times when he was a kid. The problem started when he began to believe it. This complex has had many manifestations. Originally it served as a defense mechanism when he was an overweight child. When he got a little older it served as great excuse for coasting through high school and college. In 1997, Year 27 of the Great Coasting, he started inviting his friends to an abandoned dairy farm that his family inherited from a great uncle. Nobody is exactly sure how or why but he is convinced that this changed his life and gave him some direction. The actual directions to “The fARM” that he gave his friends led them up interstates, up county highways, and eventually onto gravel roads. After every turn the partygoers were urged to “keepgoing” (bet you thought that we were just ripping off MoveOn.org). Since then “The fARM” has spawned an annual charity event, three mediocre bands, and this ever-evolving website. More by Geary Yonker