SUBMIT TO R2: THE RICE REVIEW!!
Publication | $2,500 in Prizes | Fame | Glory
Just a quick reminder that THIS SATURDAY is the FINAL day to submit your entries to R2! We're taking written pieces in fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry, and also taking art pieces for the magazine this year, so there are plenty of chances to get published in the magazine. As if mere publication weren't enticing enough, there are also PRIZES for first and second place winners in each writing category, as well as for the winning art piece selected to be the cover of R2! So go nuts, get cranking, and submit to R2! For guidelines on how to submit your pieces, please click on the "Submissions" tab above.
We look forward to seeing everyone's entries!
Hello all! I'm proud to announce the WINNER of our November monthly contest! If you recall, the theme was WARMTH, as a little shout out to the upcoming holiday season.
Our winner is Alison Liu with her poem, The Warmest Things! Congrats, Alison!
Also, a quick reminder that we are now accepting SUBMISSIONS for the magazine to be published next spring! If you have something to submit or are interested, please check out the SUBMISSIONS tab above. We look forward to seeing and reading everyone's submissions! (:
And now, here is the winning piece:
The Warmest Things:
When we draped lights across the snow for the neighborhood boys to step on and shatter reds and greens deep into the palms of winter, white skin torn with shards of holiday—and the ice encased the trees like glass, and we poured hot chocolate on them even though we knew they would shed like snakes in the spring
As some-people are never completely free, as some-one is held together with rubber bands stretched too thin, keeping the heart unburst and blood from flowing red dirt lust—and laughs in a jar to save for rainy days, (and when is a storm enough) growing more and more overcast… we snapped them back with scissors with laughter with blood-free ouch
How we thought they were eyes, and the bumper a smile, and how we pressed up against my mother’s car when our breaths were smoke in the cold escaping (similar to—but not the kind that—escaped from your throat when you hid your uncle’s cigarettes on the roof when you found out he was dying, and smoked the whole stinking pack after the funeral, just one after the other until…) like a deer in
Because we used to read Ray Bradbury stories to each other by the creek frozen over and by July, we had written a recipe for Dandelion Wine and grew them like summer, coloring in the callouses in our feet with asphalt black to ash, fermentation warm burning on our tongues
That do not serve a story, but strung together like popcorn generalizations in order to evoke certain emotions: wishes burning rolled into a campfire, lost glasses and blurry stars on trampoline, sunburnt stone wall tightropes, warm bruises from skin friction: we grew up,