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
As a special online supplement to the Winter 2018/2019 issue, the editors present the prizewinning story from the 2018 Zoetrope: All-Story Short Fiction Competition, as judged by Colum McCann.
To get to work I had to cross the mouth of an alley, and as it neared me my armpits would pucker, because every day—out of the vibrating, leftmost limit of my leftmost eye—I would see a woman standing there, staring out of the alley, across the street, at a window in an opposing apartment building. The woman stared so energetically that crossing the line of her vision was like crossing the beam of a hose, and I would feel its pressure run along the length of my cheek, like a grandmother’s finger. The woman also stood, always, up to her ankles in a butter-colored puddle, and if a camera had grown out of my left ear, and if it had taken one photo of that woman each day as I passed, and if we had fanned those Polaroids out over a . . .