Posts Tagged: Fiction Prize

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Interview with 2014 Fiction Prize Winner E. E. Lyons

 

While getting ready to submit your short fiction to our 2015 Fiction Prize, read our interview with 2014 winner, E. E. Lyons, selected by Roxane Gay. Here, she discusses her winning story “The Passeur,” the short story writers who inspire her, and advice for 2015 Fiction Prize entrants–and a fact about her story that might surprise you.

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E. E. Lyons is a fiction writer currently based in Washington, DC. She holds an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College and was a 2015 William Randolph Hearst Foundation Creative Fellow at the American Antiquarian Society. Her work has appeared in Indiana Review, Madcap Review, The Fiddleback, and Columbia Poetry Review.

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Interview with 2015 Fiction Prize Judge Laura van den Berg

Our 2015 Fiction Prize Judge is Laura van den Berg, whose story “Where We Must Be” first appeared in Indiana Review 29.1 and was republished online at Electric Literature’s Recommended Reading. In this interview, she answers questions about her short story collection, The Isle of Youth, allergies to boredom, and what she might be looking for in the prize-winning entry.

LauraAuthorPhotoLaura van den Berg is the author of the novel Find Me and the story collections What the World Will Look Like When All the Water Leaves Us and The Isle of Youth. She is the recent recipient of the Bard Fiction Prize, the Rosenthal Family Foundation Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, the Jeannette Haien Ballard Writer’s Prize, and an O. Henry Award. She currently lives in Brooklyn, where she is at work on a new collection of stories and a novel.

 

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2013 Fiction Prize Winner: “Boomerang” by Summer Wood

“Boomerang” by Summer Wood

Winner of the 2013 Fiction Prize

Dusk seeps into the back yard, collecting in the twinned canopy of the sugar maple and the cherry, pooling in the grass beneath the trees, staining the side of the two-story garage we’d dubbed the Fort, slowly, gradually, almost imperceptibly bedding the wild rhubarb below in its inky darkness. The sky is still too bright for the stars to emerge. Easton and I, both ten, stand at opposite ends of the mowed expanse and thread a Frisbee through the space between us. It sails out, solid and vivid as the moon, from his right hand to my left. Beneath it my dog Spot bounds happily, her eager bark and hoarse breath the only sounds apart from our occasional laughter or, beyond, the slam of a door or distant passing of a car. And then—this is how I remember it, though it’s been more than twenty years—darkness storms the yard in earnest and it grows too dim to see and I am the one who finally fumbles the catch, and when Spot retrieves it, grips it in her teeth, I slip to the grass to wrestle it from her. I lie back. Fireflies are brightening. In time the dark deepens enough for the first stars to show, and I shift to an elbow and push myself up.

Spot sits beside me, patiently waiting. I am her boy.

Her other boy is Easton, but he has gone home.

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