Zoetrope: All-Story
Historic Zoetrope Building
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    Zoetrope: All-Story is Francis Ford Coppola’s internationally acclaimed fiction and art magazine.  
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    Zoetrope: All-Story is Francis Ford Coppola’s internationally acclaimed fiction and art magazine.  
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    Zoetrope: All-Story is Francis Ford Coppola’s internationally acclaimed fiction and art magazine.  

CURRENT EDITION

Guest Designer

Juman Malouf

Contributors

Jamil Jan Kochai
Stuart Dybek
Wes Anderson
Hanan Al-Shaykh

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NEWS & EVENTS

News and Events

Short Fiction Competition

Many thanks to all who entered the 2021 Short Fiction Competition. We appreciate the opportunity to read such bright and brilliant new work.

From nearly 2,000 submissions, guest judge and 2021 Pulitzer Prize finalist Daniel Mason honored the following stories . . .

Spring 2022 Edition

The editors are thrilled to announce the release of the Spring 2022 edition, designed by the acclaimed illustrator and costume and set designer Juman Malouf, with contributions from Oscar-nominated filmmaker Wes Anderson, MacArthur fellow Stuart Dybek, and PEN/Hemingway Award finalist Jamil Jan Kochai, among others.

Five Questions with Juman Malouf

Why did you accept the invitation to design the Spring 2022 edition of All-Story?
Zoetrope: All-Story is the only magazine I still receive in the mail! I always enjoy the stories—but, also, I love seeing how the designers completely reinvent each issue, which is always unexpected and wildly different from the last. I wanted a shot at it.

FROM THE ARCHIVE

Story artwork by guest designer Autumn de Wilde

It’s Not You
Elizabeth McCracken

Hotels were different in those days. You could smoke in them. The rooms had bathtubs, where you could also smoke. You didn’t need a credit card or identification, though you might be made to sign the register, so later the private detective—just like that, we’re in a black-and-white movie, though I speak only of the long-ago days of 1993—could track you down. Maybe you anticipated the private detective, and used an assumed name.

Nobody was looking for me. I didn’t use an assumed name, though I wasn’t myself. I’d had my heart broken, or so I thought, I’d been shattered in a collision with a man, or so I thought, and I went to the fabled pink hotel just outside the Midwestern town where I lived. The Narcissus Hotel: it sat on the edge of a lake and admired its own reflection. Behind, a pantomime lake, an amoebic swimming pool, now drained, empty lounge chairs all around. January 1: cold . . .

PAST EDITIONS

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