You Look Just Like Your Sister
RJ Lloyd
The red door to my home opened and the fresh smell of warm turkey and cranberry sauce collided with my senses the way Sticky
The Rollick Magazine Fiction Prize is valued at $1,000 and is awarded for the best piece of unpublished short fiction (2,000–6,000 words).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.
The red door to my home opened and the fresh smell of warm turkey and cranberry sauce collided with my senses the way Sticky
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,
Three walls of the room are made of tin, but on the fourth side a polished floor opens, running like fabric into curtains of lace,
That day, Ezzie didn’t fantasize about leaving her husband the way she did every other day of the week, which when calculated, amounted to five
Angie was the type of car people kept in antique store backyards ‘cause they thought she looked cool, “There ain’t nothing like a Classic Chevy.”
In our attic, among things, as it seems of past lives, lives a bitter God. When guests come to our house, we don’t mention him.
An independent literary magazine for contemporary fiction, thought, and opinion about popular culture, society, and everything on the periphery.
