Pins
Robert Eric Shoemaker
Crying, I recall my father shudders, remembering tall thin men at the foot of the bed apparitions at night, faceless heads like pins, mostly arms,
The Rollick Magazine Fiction Prize is valued at $1,000 and is awarded for the best piece of unpublished short fiction (2,000–6,000 words).
Rollick’s mandate is to attract cutting-edge, quality stories that inspire real engagement. We will consider work that express unique and original thought. Ideally, we want you to share stories that let us explore the world through your eyes.
The Prize is open to writers of any nationality writing in English aged 16 and over at the time of the closing date.
Entries must be entirely your own work. Any evidence to the contrary will result in immediate disqualification.
Entries must not have been published, self-published, published on any website, blog or online forum, broadcast, have won or been placed (2nd, 3rd, runner up etc) in any other competition.
If your entry has been long-listed or shortlisted in other competitions, and provided it has not won a prize or been published, it is eligible.
Simultaneous submissions are allowed but will become ineligible should they win a prize elsewhere or be published prior to the date of prize giving. Entry fees will not be refunded.
You must inform us immediately should your entry be published or win a prize elsewhere.
Entries submitted posthumously are not eligible.
You can send in a range of writing that aligns to the broader category of fiction: Short stories, poetry, memoirs, confessionals, experimental writing, and anything else in between.
We accept simultaneous entries, meaning that your work can be offered elsewhere during the judging of the Rollick Prize.
However, if any entry is selected for our longlist, the entrant will have 24 hours to decide if they wish to withdraw their story or remain in contention for the Rollick Prize.
In order to be eligible to progress to our shortlist, all works must remain exclusive to the Rollick Prize.
Crying, I recall my father shudders, remembering tall thin men at the foot of the bed apparitions at night, faceless heads like pins, mostly arms,
Mister Pope stood in line at the Bank D’Amemzionne, where he’d come to make his regular cash withdrawal to cover the upcoming week’s expenses. Getting
he swears that the desert is laughing, mocking him with the distant wail of the wind, the hoot of an owl. each spray of dry
I. I see a video of women cycling in short dresses talking of how not to flash. They wide-angled their legs, pull the back of
I dreamed of the day, In the dead of winter, A dreary day, When I’d step off the train And see you there- The day
There were times when it seemed like all the beauty was sucked out of my life. This was one of them. It was cold and
An independent literary magazine for contemporary fiction, thought, and opinion about popular culture, society, and everything on the periphery.
