by Fractured Lit | May 8, 2024 | contests, publications
judged by Maurice Carlos Ruffin
May 11 to July 14, 2024
This contest is now closed. Thank you to everyone who submitted and trusted us with your writing!
Since this was one of our favorite contests last year, we had to bring it back! From May 11 to July 14, 2024, we welcome writers to submit to the Fractured Lit Flash Fiction OPEN.
We want your most creative and resonant flash and microfictions. No themes. Send us those pieces that hum with life, velocity, and intimacy. Write that story you’ve been thinking about for months, the one that needs to exist, the one that caught you in its glare of white-hot inspiration. Please don’t forget that we love stories that involve actions, reactions, and reckonings. Write and submit the stories only you can tell!
Fractured Lit publishes flash fiction with emotional resonance, with characters who come to life through their actions and responses to the world around them. We’re searching for flash that investigates the mysteries of being human, the sorrow, and the joy of connecting to a diverse population.
We’re thrilled to partner with Guest Judge Maurice Carlos Ruffin, who will choose one grand-prize winner and 15 finalists from a shortlist. The first-place winner will receive $2,000 and publication, while the 15 finalists will receive $100 and publication. All entries will be considered for general publication.
Good luck and happy writing!
Maurice Carlos Ruffin is the author of the new historical novel The American Daughters, published in February 2024 by One World Random House. He is the recipient of the 2023 Louisiana Writer Award and the Black Rock Senegal Residency. He also wrote The Ones Who Don’t Say They Love You, which was published by One World Random House in August 2021. The collection was the 2023 One Book One New Orleans Selection, a New York Times Editors’ Choice, a finalist for the Ernest J. Gaines Award for Literary Excellence, and longlisted for the Story Prize. The Ones was also selected to represent Louisiana at the 2023 National Book Festival. His first book, We Cast a Shadow, was a finalist for the PEN/Faulkner Award, the Dayton Literary Peace Prize, and the PEN America Open Book Prize. It was longlisted for the 2021 Dublin Literary Award, the Center for Fiction Prize, and the Aspen Words Literary Prize. The novel was also a New York Times Editors’ Choice. His work has appeared in The New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, the Oxford American, Garden & Gun, The Kenyon Review, and Four Hundred Souls: A Community History of African America. A New Orleans native, Ruffin is a professor of creative writing at Louisiana State University, and the 2020-2021 John and Renee Grisham Writer-in-Residence at the University of Mississippi. Find him on Twitter @MauriceRuffin.
guidelines
- Your $20 reading fee allows up to two stories of 1,000 words or fewer each per entry-if submitting two stories, please put them both in a SINGLE document.
- Writers from historically marginalized groups may submit for free until we reach a cap of 25 submissions in this category. No additional fee waivers will be granted for this contest.
- We allow multiple submissions-each set of two flash/micro stories requires a separate submission accompanied by a reading fee.
- Please send flash and microfiction only-1,000 word count maximum per story.
- We only consider unpublished work for contests-we do not review reprints, including self-published work (even on blogs and social media). Reprints will be automatically disqualified.
- Simultaneous submissions are okay-please notify us and withdraw your entry if you find another home for your writing.
- All entries will also be considered for publication in Fractured Lit.
- Double-space your submission and use Times New Roman 12 (or larger if needed).
- Please include a brief cover letter with your publication history (if applicable). In the cover letter, please include content warnings as well, to safeguard our reading staff.
- We only read work in English, though some code-switching/meshing is warmly welcomed.
- We do not read anonymous submissions. However, shortlisted stories are sent anonymously to the judge.
- Unless specifically requested, we do not accept AI-generated work. For this contest, AI-generated work will be automatically disqualified.
The deadline for entry is July 14, 2024. We will announce the shortlist within ten to twelve weeks of the contest’s close. All writers will be notified when the results are final.
Some Submittable Hot Tips:
- Please be sure to whitelist/add this email address to your contacts, so notifications do not get filtered as spam/junk: notifications@email.submittable.com.
- If you realize you sent the wrong version of your piece: It happens. Please DO NOT withdraw the piece and resubmit. Submittable collects a nonrefundable fee each time. Please DO message us from within the submission to request that we open the entry for editing, which will allow you to fix everything from typos in your cover letter to uploading a new draft. The only time we will not allow a change is if the piece is already under review by a reader.
OPTIONAL EDITORIAL FEEDBACK:
You may choose to receive editorial feedback on your piece. We will provide a global letter discussing the strengths of the writing and the recommended focus for revision. Our aim is to make our comments actionable and encouraging. These letters are written by editors and staff readers of Fractured Lit. Should your story win, no feedback will be offered, and your fee will be refunded.
by Sara Hills | May 2, 2024 | micro, publications
For only seventy-seven dollars, the TV preacher promises God will grant me a miracle. He clasps his hands in prayer, gold rings glinting, while I clasp the telephone, punching the numbers from the TV screen that casts the room in a greenish glow.
“There, there,” the woman in the phone says, shushing me, and already I feel the miracle of Mama refilling my cracks.
The woman waits while I tiptoe through our dark trailer, careful not to step on the stain, careful not to disturb the steady rasp of Daddy’s sleep-breathing or his one arm hanging off the bed. I find his jeans in the empty dent on Mama’s mattress side and slide the V-I-S-A card from his torn leather wallet.
Stretching the phone to the dawn-lit window, I whisper the bumpy numbers, which the woman makes me do twice, asking how old I am (7), asking if I have any pets (yes, a dog: Roy), asking if I ever planted seeds at school (not at school, with Mama), and did I know seeds grow miracles and more seed money helps God save the world?
I sink down against the wall, burying my fingers into the knotted fur along Roy’s ridges where the fat ticks hide, while the woman calls me honey and God’s little angel and tells me all about which money-seeds we can plant for different kinds of miracles.
Her voice hums, like bees waking in springtime or when the neighbor’s cat Carlo catches a mouse, and I can almost feel Mama kneeling there next to me, fingernails heavy with dark dirt. Only this time, Daddy’s not shouting, and Roy and me aren’t whimpering. It’s just the woman’s voice filling my belly with dollar amounts and seed names—Resurrection, Recovery, New Beginning—so soft and sure they feel like an already answered prayer.
Originally published in Reflex Fiction.
by Lori D’Angelo | May 1, 2024 | interview, news, publications
Michael Czyzniejewski, who is the interviews editor at the flash fiction magazine Smokelong Quarterly, has written four collections of short stories. His most recent is The Amnesiac in the Maze (Braddock Avenue Books, 2023), which writer Mark Polanzak describes as a collection of stories that “conjure the heady experiments of Kurt Vonnegut, Donald Barthelme, and Mark Leyner.” These are stories that make the reader think. On the surface, the stories appear to be thought puzzles, but underneath, they reveal deeper layers of human longing and desire.
Lori D’Angelo: You’ve written both flash fiction and more traditional short stories. How would you describe the stories in your most recent collection, The Amnesiac in the Maze?
Michael Czyzniejewski: There are some flash pieces in the book, but it’s more balanced with longer stories, or at least mid-length stories, often around 2,500-3,000 words. There are even a couple that are like novels for me, around 4,500 words. Those were difficult for a flash writer!
Lori D’Angelo: The stories in The Amnesiac in the Maze put your characters in a series of absurd scenarios. In one story, you have a pyromaniac who is stuck on an island surrounded by water. In another, you have a town filled with murdering monkeys. In another, you have a hemophiliac who falls in love with a glass eater. How did you come up with the ideas for these stories, and how did this collection, as a whole, come together?
Michael Czyzniejewski: This is a project I’d been working on for a while, since the late oughts, stories that came together by me writing one story, then writing another that seemed to follow the same pattern; all of a sudden, I had a project. I worked on it off and on for about ten years, finishing it and getting the manuscript out right before the pandemic—and there it froze for a couple-few years as small presses were holding back on their publication schedules.
As you point out, the stories follow a pattern, somewhat like the title of the book, The Amnesiac in the Maze. The stories all feature some stock character or archetype or trope or generality in a situation, often doing things. “The Amnesiac in the Maze.” “The Hemophiliac Engages the Glass Eater.” “The Daredevil Discovers His Doppelgänger.” “The Atheist Reconsiders.” It was a fun format to experiment in, to work with general and often nameless characters, to get into the core of who they were, how their identities shaped them. Or didn’t.
Not sure where the ideas come from, or really, how to answer that question, which I get a lot. My answer is always as straightforward as I can make it: I think a lot. Lots of things pop into my head and some of them are good ideas for stories, things that make me smile, things that excite me. It’s usually not intentional—whenever I try to start something and think, “Okay, what’s a good idea for a story?” I don’t get anything. I guess I can’t will myself to think of ideas, but they come when they come.
Lori D’Angelo: I feel like the titles such as “The Bigamist Gets Ambitious” are doing a lot of work for these stories. In a way, this collection kind of reminds me of Robert Olen Butler’s Tabloid Dreams. Can you tell me more about how the titles are working for these stories?
Michael Czyzniejewski: The titles do a lot of the work in terms of setup, a lot like poems often do—if the title wasn’t there, the reader would have no idea what was going on. Or, at the very least, it would take a lot of the story’s length to figure it out. The title sets up the protagonist, the situation, the conflict. That way, I could hit the ground running, no need for set up or backstory. It’s a neat trick.
Lori D’Angelo: In a lot of the stories in this collection, the main characters are referred to by what they are (e.g., a nudist, an inventor, a hypochondriac) rather than their names (though occasionally, in some stories, their names are referenced). Can you talk about why that is?
Michael Czyzniejewski: I think it was more interesting to try to break down the trope or type or even stereotype than to use a real character, with a real name. That’s what the stories do, pose a certain type of person against their, perhaps, worst fear. I started that way by accident and just went from there—it seemed to be working.
Eventually, as I wrote more of the stories, I wanted to shake things up, add variety, so I did write more traditional stories with names, real characters, etc. “The Bigamist Gets Ambitious” is one that does that. The bigamist, who is also not the protagonist in the story, just has a name, as do his wives, including the original wife, the protagonist, and the narrator. It just made for a more well-balanced, less repetitive book that tries different things.
Lori D’Angelo: You’ve written four short story collections, including this one. How would you say that your work has evolved from the beginning of your career until now?
Michael Czyzniejewski: I remember just trying to write a good story. Then, for a long time, I wanted to publish one of them, and that took a couple-few years. Then I wanted to do it again. Eventually, I wanted to do it consistently. I’ve always wondered if I would “make it,” if I could sustain a career in writing stories, or at the very least, have a tiny space in the universe. Eventually, after a couple of books, a job as a professor teaching short stories, I kind of figured out that, at the very least, it wasn’t an accident or a fluke. That’s a good feeling, a relief … yet I suffer from stage 4 imposter’s syndrome still.
Lori D’Angelo: I’ve noticed that you’ve published a lot of flash fiction recently. Can you talk about what draws you to the form of flash fiction and what you think makes a work of flash fiction successful?
Michael Czyzniejewski: I like getting full ideas out in one sitting. Flash allows that, while novels and even traditionally sized short stories don’t. I can start and finish a draft of a flash piece in one sitting. Once I get an idea, I can usually write it to its end. That’s empowering, plus it fits with how my brain works, how it can be ultra-focused in short bursts but get sick of ideas—especially my own—very quickly. I’ve tried writing novels and got really far into one—25 pages!—but every time I went back to it after that, I couldn’t be less bored. And if I was bored, then the reader ….
Lori D’Angelo: Which writers would you say are doing interesting work right now in the form of flash fiction?
Michael Czyzniejewski: I’ve read so many people and could fill pages upon pages here with names. I look at Kathy Fish and Pamela Painter as real trailblazers, and they’re still doing consistently great work. Sherrie Flick could be the third person if we needed a trio there. I love a lot of the authors on my press, Moon City Press, even before they were on the press, so it’s no wonder they won our book contests: Kim Magowan, Michelle Ross. Andrew Bertaina. Sarah Freligh, and our forthcoming author, Avitus Carle. Other people are so prolific and do so much great work. Melissa Llanes Brownlee. Erin Vachon. Chelsea Stickle. Kelli Short Borges. Tara Isabel Zambrano. Sudha Balagopal. Tommy Dean. Francine Witte. Mikki Aronoff. Meg Tuite. Now I feel bad because there are so many, but I can’t list every author here.
Lori D’Angelo: It seems like flash fiction has become very popular recently. Why do you think that is? And when do you feel like flash fiction really took off as a form of writing?
Michael Czyzniejewski: Yes, very popular! My guess is that it gives fiction writers the opportunity to work like a poet: Shorter, more focused works that can be written (and submitted) in bunches. I suspect a lot of writers have the same issue with longer works as I do, that they just don’t have the patience. Speaking of, I think it also helps that a lot of online flash journals—and there are a lot of them—respond to submissions in less than a month, sometimes in less than a week; flash is moving and shaking at a faster rate than more traditional lit mag operations. And there are an abundance of great flash journals out there, and a lot of print magazines, mine included, have made special spaces in their pages, or on their websites, for flash.
When did it start? Wow, hard to pinpoint. SmokeLong Quarterly has been around for a long time now, over fifteen years, and I had an early story with them. Then I wrote my second book, Chicago Stories, all micros, and published those in 2011-2012. And then I didn’t pay particular attention for a while, but all of a sudden, in the late twenty-teens, all these journals popped up. I found out about it because these great authors on Moon City Press—like Kim and Michelle—had their work from their books in these journals, journals I hadn’t, at that point, heard of.
Lori D’Angelo: Which writers would you say have had the biggest influence on you?
Michael Czyzniejewski: There’s three that are easy to name. Firstly, I went to college in the early nineties and all my professors were still absolutely obsessed with Raymond Carver and minimalism at that point. They all went to school and got hired in the seventies and eighties, and that was just what writing was: Carver. Short, declarative sentences. Minimal exposition and emotion. That iceberg metaphor. I read all of Carver and his contemporaries—Ford, Wolff, Beattie, etc.—so I wrote, and still write, in that stylistic mode.
But times changed, and people got sick of that. Carver was dead for almost ten years. His editor, Gordon Lish, was no longer in charge at Knopf. Then I ran across two authors/books right when I was in grad school: The Girl in the Flammable Skirt by Aimee Bender and CivilWarLand in Bad Decline by George Saunders. Absurdity! Humor! Magical realism! Creativity! Description and exposition! Both of these authors really spoke to me, especially with their stylized prose and their imaginations. So, Carver and Bender and Saunders.
Steve Gillis, the editor of my first book, Elephants in Our Bedoom, said my work was “magical minimalism.” That made perfect sense, Mike = Carver + (Bender + Saunders). I don’t think I’ve changed much since.
Lori D’Angelo: You’ve worked as an editor, both at Mid-American Review and now at Moon City Review and Moon City Press. Can you talk about how being an editor has shaped your writing?
Michael Czyzniejewski: I’ve learned a lot. Every time you read something, you get smarter. And reading submissions for a journal is different from reading a published work, a book or a story in a lit mag. Sometimes, you learn what to do. Sometimes, you learn what not to do. Sometimes, you get inspired. Working on a journal, as part of my job, has been a gift—any time you can say you’re going to work, and part of that is reading and discussing stories, which is time well spent. This has been true for my entire career. It’s just great to be spending time on these pursuits, as opposed to welding, lawyering, leathernecking, whatever.
Lori D’Angelo: You’re also a professor of creative writing at Missouri State University. Can you talk about how being a teacher informs your writing?
Michael Czyzniejewski: Kind of the same thing: It’s just great to be able to go to work and read and discuss stories. Students inspire me but in a different way than lit mag submissions. Your brain is in a different mode: Help/Fix, as opposed to the editing/choosing submission mode, which is Yes/No. I’m lucky to be able to earn money by talking about short stories, about writing in general. They don’t let you do that in most other jobs. And being around writing all day fuels me, inspires me.
I have writer friends who are happy to go and do _____ all day, then write when their workday is done. I don’t think it would be like that for me.
Lori D’Angelo: You’ve had a fairly successful career as a short story writer, which is a difficult thing to do. What advice do you have for newer writers who are hoping to write flash fiction and short stories?
Michael Czyzniejewski: Work on it, and don’t stop. I’m convinced the only reason—or most of the reason—I’ve had success is because I was persistent. I read, wrote, revised, and submitted my work without letting up for years—more than half my life at this point. This thing we do, it’s not a lark, not a passing hobby, not something you stumble into. Nobody is looking to publish anyone’s hobby/side hustle, or anyone’s rough drafts. There are so many talented people writing and submitting and pushing the genre of short fiction forward. To be one of those people, you have to work just as hard or harder to break in.
But if you love this, have talent, and were meant to write and publish stories and flash, this shouldn’t be a problem. Even when I was getting everything rejected—and that happened for years—I was never like, “I hate this. Writing stories is so tedious.” I was doing what I wanted to be doing, so working hard at it wasn’t an issue. What else was I going to do?
Lori D’Angelo: What are you reading now, or what have you read recently that you have particularly enjoyed?
Michael Czyzniejewski: I bought a huge stack of books at AWP that I haven’t touched yet, ten weeks later. I have gotten into the practice of seeing friends advertise their new books on social media and then writing them, asking to buy a signed copy—I’ve done that at least ten times in the last month. I am teaching the Contemporary Fiction course in the fall here at MSU and I haven’t read six of the nine books on my syllabus yet. What I’m reading now is student stories and final portfolios: As soon as that’s done, in a few weeks, I hit all that other stuff!
Lori D’Angelo: What are you currently writing, or what are you thinking of doing in terms of your next writing project?
Michael Czyzniejewski: I have two books done, pretty much. One is a mixed collection—flash and longer stories—about dads, dad-child relationships. I was really on that kick as soon as I finished Amnesiac. I finished this dad book, comparatively, pretty quickly, in less than three years, while Amnesiac took about ten. I have been writing flash exclusively for the last few years now. I’m at the point where that might be a book—I should probably count those pages up soon!
***
Michael Czyzniejewski is the author of four short story collections: The Amnesiac in the Maze (Braddock Avenue Books, 2023); I Will Love You for the Rest of My Life: Breakup Stories (Curbside Splendor, 2015); Chicago Stories: 40 Dramatic Vignettes (Curbside Splendor, 2012); and Elephants in Our Bedroom (Dzanc Books, 2009). He is the editor-in-chief of Moon City Press and Moon City Review and the interviews editor for Smokelong Quarterly. He coordinates the creative writing program at Missouri State University, where he also serves as a professor. He is a two-time Pushcart Prize winner and a 2009 recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship.
Lori D’Angelo’s debut collection of stories, The Monsters Are Here, is being published by ELJ Editions in 2024. She is an alumna of the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley and a fellow at the Hambidge Center for Creative Arts. Her fiction, non-fiction, and poetry has appeared in various literary journals including BULL, Drunken Boat, Gargoyle, Hawaii Pacific Review, Heavy Feather Review, North Dakota Quarterly, ONE ART, Potomac Review, Reed Magazine, and Rejection Letters. She is a 2012 recipient of a grant from the Elizabeth George Foundation. Find her on Twitter @sclly21 or Instagram at lori.dangelo1.
by Richie Zaborowske | Apr 25, 2024 | flash fiction, publications
For two years now, Leonard’s wife hasn’t wanted to have sex with him. He figures it might have to do with her mother passing, or maybe it’s because both their kids are in college and the house is empty. Maybe it’s biological. He has no idea. Hell, for all he knows, it could be the cat puke. Their tabby bolts her food nearly every morning, and even though Leonard tries to find the mess before his wife has to deal with it, maybe cleaning up all that chunky, mucous, slop, has finally killed off her libido. He’s not sure, and he doesn’t blame her. If anything, he blames himself. He feels culpable in a way he doesn’t understand.
To find answers, he’s read a stack of vintage Cosmo magazines that he bought at Goodwill and a shelf worth of relationship books from the library. On his phone, he cruises Reddit’s Dead Bedroom forum and tunnels through the wormhole of YouTube. There are also chat rooms. Spread out across the country are others just like him. Leonard commiserates, he swaps tales, offers what little guidance he can. He also gets invited. There are meetups. Men and women looking to comfort each other. To get from each other what they can’t get at home. There is a meeting tonight at the Texas Roadhouse just across town.
Leonard has resolved to attend. As a cover he’s told his wife that he’s joined a bowling league. Just a bunch of guys from work. Drinking beer and throwing strikes. Don’t wait up. After showering and slapping on too much aftershave, he unzips his bowling ball bag to double-check that the box of Trojans is still there. When he looks up, he sees his reflection in the bedroom mirror. He unbuttons the top button on his shirt, then realizes he looks like a creep. Hastily, with his thick fingers trembling, he buttons it back up, trying to ignore the fact that he now looks like a sleazy businessman on the prowl.
On his way out, he pauses at the patio door. Outside, wearing sweatpants and a shawl draped over her shoulders, his wife is on a wicker chair, lost in a well-worn paperback. Alright, dear, he says, trying to keep his voice even. I’m leaving, he says, just wanted to say goodnight.
You look nice, she says, putting down her book and standing. Before you go, I wanted to give you something.
You did?
You remember our honeymoon? she asks.
He does. She wore lingerie. Purchased from a boutique in Austria. A complexity of lace across her bosom, red fabric stretched taut across her backside. There were these clips that hung down and pulled up her stockings.
One moment, she says, walking past him into the house.
Would she really purchase lingerie? Anything was possible. Years ago, many years ago, on a frigid mid-February morning, she had visited his apartment unannounced. When he opened the door to the bracing cold, she was standing there on the stoop, wearing an oversized parka that went past her knees. Once inside, she unzipped the fur liner. To his surprise, she was naked underneath, her hands freezing but her body warm and welcoming.
When she comes back she’s traded the shawl for a hooded sweatshirt, the paperback for two bowls. She hands him one.
What’s this? He asks.
Gelato. Vanilla.
Gelato?
I saw it at the grocery store, a new brand, she says, sitting back down on the wicker chair. And I thought of you.
You thought of me?
Yes, she says. Remember Italy, our honeymoon? The vendor with his big booming voice? Every time we were near his cart, you had to stop and order a scoop of each flavor. You spent a small fortune.
Leonard doesn’t remember, and he holds his spoon awkwardly as if he’s never used an eating utensil before. The gelato sits in his dish, white, with specks of brown, a frozen lump that’s about as far away from sex as he can imagine.
Come on, she says, watching him, smiling at his bewilderment. You were wild about gelato.
Only one bite, he promises himself, stabbing the gelato with his spoon. The group isn’t going to stay at Texas Roadhouse all night. He didn’t splurge on the twenty-pack for nothing.
Tentatively, Leonard takes a lick. The gelato is denser than ice cream. The vanilla flavor bright and spicy, almost floral. More like the idea of vanilla than actual vanilla. The man, he remembers now, was named Giovanni. Giovanni’s Gelato. At dusk, parked on a cobblestone lane, surrounded by all those tall buildings stained Baralo red, Giovanni’s cart would be all lit up with votive candles sputtering away in little glass jars. Giovonni liked to tease Leonard. Said the reason Leonard was so hungry was because he was in love, and Leonard’s love was going to help Giovanni retire early, help him send his daughters off to college overseas.
Leonard remembers the joy he felt in the simple act of holding his wife’s hand, his new wife, as they strolled along the lanes and talked about everything and nothing, talked for the sake of talking. He remembers how each time they approached Givonni’s cart, the man would spread his arms wide in the fading light and roar, Thank God for Leonard’s love!
How could he ever forget, Leonard wonders to himself, scooping more and more gelato until his spoon is fruitlessly scraping the side of the bowl.
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