He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the window. “It’s better not to sleep at all,” he decided. There was a cold damp draught from the window, however; without getting up he drew the blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of anything and did not want to think. But one image rose after another, incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. He sank into drowsiness. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind that howled under the window and tossed the trees roused a sort of persistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwelling on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday—Trinity day. A fine, sumptuous country cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He noticed particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He was reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs and came into a large, high drawing-room and again everywhere—at the windows, the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itself—were flowers. The floors were strewn with freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. The birds were chirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table covered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill; wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers lay a girl in a white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, as though carved out of marble. But her loose fair hair was wet; there was a wreath of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid profile of her face looked as though chiselled of marble too, and the smile on her pale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery and sorrowful appeal. Svidrigaïlov knew that girl; there was no holy image, no burning candle beside the coffin; no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself. She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. And she had destroyed herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and amazed that childish soul, had smirched that angel purity with unmerited disgrace and torn from her a last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally disregarded, on a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled

44 Publishers Looking for Short Story Collections

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This is a list of publishers seeking short story collections, and it’s the most comprehensive list on the internet.

I’ve read short story collections from most of the publishers on this list and altogether they are publishing some of the best short fiction on the planet.

Despite all the doom and gloom surrounding the publishing of short story collections (and it’s true — agents almost always only want that novel), there are still a number of solid markets and contests for that short story collection of yours.

For the publishers who offer short story collection contests, I’ve tried to list the name of the contest afterwards.

If you enjoy this list, I also hope you enjoy some of the other lists I’ve created here at Bookfox.

I’ve broken up the places to submit your short story collection into three parts: The Independent publishers, the Big Houses, and the Academic/University Presses.

I don’t mean to imply any kind of hierarchy with this, because I think there are advantages to going with each. The Big House will get you more potential readers, the Independents will fight for you with independent bookstores and champion your book, and the University Presses often offer a home for the most innovative and exciting work being published.

The best place to submit your short story collection is with the press that has published your favorite collections.

I know that sounds obvious, but if you dislike some of the short stories that a press has published, they are not waiting for you to convert them by your brilliant (but different) kind of writing. No, they love what they’re publishing, and respect that taste rather than trying to change it.

Go for it: submit your best short story collection now.

Independent:

Big Houses:

Academic:

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