Ships of Hagoth is a digital-first literary magazine featuring creative nonfiction and theoretical essays by members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Where other LDS-centric publications often look inward at the LDS tradition, we seek literary works that look outward through the curious, charitable lens of faith.
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Numbers don't lie. Here’s a quick look at the "metadata" from this period: [Number] [Metric 2, e.g., New Members]: [Number] [Metric 3, e.g., Coffee Consumed]: [Infinite] ⏭️ What’s Next? (The ReadMe.txt)
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A CALL FOR
We are hoping—for “one must needs hope”—for creative nonfiction, theoretical essays, and craft essays that seek radical new ways to explore and express theological ideas; that are, like Hagoth, “exceedingly curious.”
We favor creative nonfiction that can trace its lineage back to Michel de Montaigne. Whether narrative, analytical, or devotional, these essays lean ruminative, conversational, meandering, impressionistic, and are reluctant to wax didactic.
As for theoretical essays: we welcome work that playfully and charitably explores the wide world of arts & letters—especially works created from differing religious, non-religious, and even irreligious perspectives—through the peculiar lens of a Latter-day Saint.
We read and publish submissions as quickly as possible, and accept simultaneous submissions.
[Describe a photo that captures the mood].
Numbers don't lie. Here’s a quick look at the "metadata" from this period: [Number] [Metric 2, e.g., New Members]: [Number] [Metric 3, e.g., Coffee Consumed]: [Infinite] ⏭️ What’s Next? (The ReadMe.txt) recap.rar
[Show a behind-the-scenes shot of a project]. [Describe a photo that captures the mood]
But what a rumor!
“My Favorite Things” was not originally a Christmas song, and John Coltrane proves it.
With some notes on Michelle Pfeiffer’s righteously angry Catwoman.
It’s coming on Christmas, they’re cutting down trees…
Whose land is this according to the Book of Mormon?
Another species of uncreative nonfiction.
The same skills that made D. Michael Quinn such a ferocious historian did not similarly serve him as a memoirist.
A cold and wet November dawn…
On a physically embodied poetry and gospel.
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