The 2021 Short Fiction Competition closed for entries October 1. Guest judge and finalist for the 2021 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction Daniel Mason will award the first prize of $1,000; the second prize of $500; and the third prize of $250; and the three prizewinners and seven honorable mentions will be considered for representation by William Morris Endeavor; ICM; the Wylie Agency; Regal Literary; Dunow, Carlson & Lerner Literary Agency; Markson Thoma Literary Agency; Inkwell Management; Sterling Lord Literistic; Aitken Alexander Associates; Barer Literary; the Gernert Company; and the Georges Borchardt Literary Agency.
T. C. Boyle
NEWS & EVENTS
The editors are thrilled to announce the release of the Fall 2021 edition, designed by the acclaimed musician, actor, and visual artist Tunde Adebimpe, with contributions from PEN/Faulkner Award winner T. C. Boyle, MacArthur Fellow Yiyun Li, and Booker Prize finalist David Means, among others.
Why did you accept the invitation to design the Fall 2021 edition of All-Story?
I’m a big fan of the publication and was really honored to be asked. I had spent a lot of the pandemic drawing and painting, just to draw and paint more, so I was in that mindset when the opportunity came up. I also hadn’t made anything to be printed in a book or art-book format for a long while and was excited to have a venue for all these new images.
FROM THE ARCHIVE
When I was a girl I had a doll that was my size. She had a wardrobe that matched my own. When I wore the rabbit-fur muff and the rabbit-fur hat and went ice-skating, she’d wear them, too, and she’d sit beside my limousine driver, watching me. Sometimes I’d tell Michel that my doll had to sit on his lap, and while I skated in circles I’d wave to her, and Michel, thinking I was waving to him, would wave back. When it grew dark, I wouldn’t want to go home. I wouldn’t want to go back to my apartment where the heat was always on high and coming out of the vent, continually making the drapes in my room shudder. Michel would appear at the railing holding my doll, and he’d call for me, telling me that it was time to leave, that Central Park was not a place for a ten-year-old girl at night.
“Your NouNou is preparing your dinner,” he’d say . . .