Remarks from the Judges
“Judging the prize felt a little like getting back to my roots. It brought me back to that organic and creative place, of being exploratory and experimental. It was shocking to me not just how well written these stories were, but how powerfully the writers’ essential selves were coming through. It’s almost unbelievable that these are debut stories, because it wasn’t easy for me back when I was learning to do this.”
—NANA KWAME ADJEI-BRENYAH, 2021 judge and author of Friday Black
“One of the things I’m always looking for in literature is a compassionate imagination that portrays a worldview. All these stories were vast in what they were able to imagine and make believe on the page. I am so proud of these stories and so excited to see this book on a shelf.”
—KALI FAJARDO-ANSTINE, 2021 judge and author of Sabrina & Corina
“I loved the individual stories, and the collection as a whole is even more amazing. The book is a showcase of the many things a short story can do and be: each one drops you into a world that runs by its own rules. You can end up taking a cab ride with strangers or visiting a cemetery with family or having an experience you can’t quite assimilate. Drawing on a range of forms and diversity of voices, these stories are vivid and emotionally complex—a celebration of the short story as a form.”
—BETH PIATOTE, 2021 judge and author of The Beadworkers
“The short fiction I love best knows how to declare with beauty, ‘I prefer not to.’ It takes the page as a space to refuse what tends to be, unzipping barriers. This collection gathers stories from voices throwing rice at the moment the essential and the original meet.”
—TRACY O’NEILL, 2020 judge and author of Quotients and The Hopeful
“I love the stories we picked for this collection. I love their passion, invention, and wildness. I love that these are the artists’ first published stories. Your first published story never quite gives up its place in the mind. It was the first one chosen—hooray! And yet there is always the nagging doubt (‘Is it actually good?’) and here we are, celebrating, saying, ‘Yes, yes, it is good, so so good!’”
—DEB OLIN UNFERTH, 2020 judge and author of Barn 8 and Wait Till You See Me Dance
“The stories and writers here represent a wide range of voices at the levels of ethnicity, gender, and style. Many carry a very quiet confidence that is refreshing in our harried world, and I feel certain that we will see these authors’ names in print again soon.”
—NAFISSA THOMPSON-SPIRES, 2020 judge and author of Heads of the Colored People
“I was really inspired by what I saw here—not just the beautiful weirdness of the writers and their work, but the fact that the stories were published. It made me feel so hopeful.”
—CARMEN MARIA MACHADO, 2019 judge and author of Her Body and Other Parties
“I was so blown away by the pieces we chose for this collection—there was a wonderful array of different styles and approaches in the submissions we received, but each of the stories we ended up choosing had something startlingly alive and bracingly imaginative within it. You can tell that these are writers working with total dedication to gift these fictive worlds to their readers, to make these surprising, vivid scenarios real. I am so wildly enthusiastic about what these writers are going to do next—and in reading this anthology, you get to say you’ve followed their entire career, from the very first short story on! You can’t beat that.”
—ALEXANDRA KLEEMAN, 2018 judge and author of Intimations and You Too Can Have a Body Like Mine
“When I sit down with a short story, I’m hoping to be surprised, or unnerved, or waylaid. I want to feel that something is at stake: in the language and structure, in the emotional lives of the characters, in the consequences of their actions. The best stories are almost otherworldly in their dimensions, as if I have opened a small suitcase left on my front door, only to find three geese, a small child, a jewel thief, and her mother emerging. The stories here delighted and surprised and moved me—I’m so very, very glad that I got to read them and that now you do too.”
—KELLY LINK, 2017 judge, 2018 MacArthur Fellow, and author of Get in Trouble
“There were very well written stories that didn’t end up on the final list, edged out by the magnitude of feeling and creativity contained in the final twelve. I was particularly struck by the authors’ ability to hit it out of the park, first time up. When I read I’m always (like it or not) guessing what’s going to happen at the end of the line, the scene, on the plot level. The stories we chose were those that forced me, a relentless overthinker, to stop thinking.
“Amy Hempel’s first short story was ‘In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson Is Buried.’ That story is great, and contains many of the elements she’s famous for, but it is not like most of her stories. It’s way longer, for one, and more traditional. As if she was only able to peel her inhibitions as she wrote more and more. I’m excited for these authors to participate in that same kind of peeling that helps voice grow more substantial, and I hope this honor gives them the confidence to get weirder and weirder, stronger and stronger.”
—MARIE-HELENE BERTINO, 2017 judge and author of Parakeet and 2 A.M. at The Cat’s Pajamas
“A lot of people talk about how so many short stories are becoming too workshopped, too MFA, too a certain kind of story. And I can say, after reading all the entries here, they are wrong. There are so many stories being told that are extraordinary and unexpected. I fretted over picking only twelve. But the stories that won were all stories that astounded us all.”
—NINA McCONIGLEY, 2017 judge and author of Cowboys and East Indians
Praise for PEN America Best Debut Short Stories 2020
“While serving as a fresh, delightful collection of short fiction that looks to our literary future with promise, Best Debut Short Stories serves as a timely exploration of an array of themes that speak to our current reality.”
—CADE JOHNSON, ZYZZYVA
“Another slate of outstanding stories from emerging writers of short fiction . . . An anthology full of promise.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Praise for PEN America Best Debut Short Stories 2019
“These stories all share a sense of necessity and urgency . . . What consistently runs through all 12 entries in PEN America Best Debut Short Stories 2019 is the promise of clear new voices, powerful testimonies, and unique perspectives to assure us that even in our current dark times there will always be the short narrative to take us back into the light.”
—CHRISTOPHER JOHN STEPHENS, PopMatters
“Prominent issues of social justice and cultural strife are woven thematically throughout 12 stories. Stories of prison reform, the immigrant experience, and the aftermath of sexual assault make the book a vivid time capsule that will guide readers back into the ethos of 2019 for generations to come . . . Each story displays a mastery of the form, sure to inspire readers to seek out further writing from these adept authors and publications.”
—Booklist
Praise for PEN America Best Debut Short Stories 2018
“The PEN America contest for outstanding debut fiction returns with a second annual anthology of remarkable prose. This year’s submissions were judged by an all-star trio of fiction writers: Jodi Angel, Lesley Nneka Arimah, and Alexandra Kleeman. Once again, the gathered contest winners are uniquely gifted writers whose stories represent literature’s bright tomorrow. The pieces showcase a wide breadth of human experiences, representing numerous racial, ethnic, and cultural identities . . . Sharp, engrossing, and sure to leave readers excited about the future of the craft.”
—Booklist
“These dozen stories tend to the dark side
, with rare moments of humor in a moody fictive landscape; they’re thus just right for their time . . . A pleasure for fans of short fiction and a promise of good things to come from this year’s roster of prizewinners.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Praise for PEN America Best Debut Short Stories 2017
“Urgent fiction, from breakout talents.”
—Booklist
“A welcome addition to the run of established short story annuals, promising good work to come.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A great overview of some of the year’s most interesting fiction.”
—Vol. 1 Brooklyn
BEST DEBUT SHORT STORIES 2021
CONTENTS
Introduction
Yuka Igarashi and Sarah Lyn Rogers, series editors
GOOD GIRLS
Lindsay Ferguson
from Barrelhouse
MARIA
Amy Haejung
from Waxwing Literary Journal
TRANSIT
Khaddafina Mbabazi
from Virginia Quarterly Review
THE LIST
Stanley Patrick Stocker
from Kestrel
MANDY’S MARY SUE
Qianze Zhang
from sinθ magazine
TAXI
Pardeep Toor
from Midwest Review
SALT
Alberto Reyes Morgan
from Michigan Quarterly Review
RE: FRANKIE
Mackenzie McGee
from Porter House Review
THE STRONG-STRONG WINDS
Mathapelo Mofokeng
from adda
THE MATH OF LIVING
Nishanth Injam
from Virginia Quarterly Review
FORCE, MASS, ACCELERATION
Heather Aruffo
from The Southern Review
THE FIRST TIME I SAID IT
Isaac Hughes Green
from The Georgia Review
About the Judges
About the PEN/Robert J. Dau Short Story Prize for Emerging Writers
List of Participating Publications
Permissions
INTRODUCTION
This year’s Best Debut Short Stories, like all previous editions, is a celebration—of writers and their first-ever-published stories, of the magazine and journal editors who uplift debut voices, and of the judges who read the nominations with enthusiasm and care. This edition also celebrates the fifth anniversary of the anthology, and of the PEN/Robert J. Dau Short Story Prize for Emerging Writers.
Half a decade in, the community around the series feels both established and dynamic. The list of journals that submitted stories include familiar favorites along with new names. We’ve continued to refine our eligibility criteria and judging process, as we, the literary awards team at PEN America, and our prize donor, Fernanda Dau Fisher, reflect on how to define “debut” and consider what kinds of stories best represent the spirit of the prize. We have a beautiful new cover design, a collaboration between Catapult’s creative director, Nicole Caputo, and Catapult magazine’s in-house illustrator, Sirin Thada. After years of vital involvement with the project, we’ve officially added Sarah Lyn Rogers as a coeditor. And we’re always proud to see previous winners cheering one another on as they publish more stories and first books.
Most years, at our annual launch reading, we have the chance to meet in person with the winning writers, judges, editors, and the PEN America team who help make all of this possible. It’s a moment that seems to crystallize the idea of the anthology as a writing community. Like everyone over the past year-plus, we’ve had to make adjustments, including hosting our 2020 launch over Zoom. This was in many ways a welcome change, as we could include writers who were not based in or near New York City; plus the excited chats that came in over Zoom from far-flung family members were heartening—culminating in an evening that felt like real connection after so much isolation.
That’s the thing about being a writer. You work in isolation to make something you hope will spark some connection with another person. Maybe your first connection is with a trusted friend who serves as a first reader, or with a teacher in a writing class. Maybe it’s actually with an editor who wants to share your story with the world. That’s when the connection can become exponential, when dozens or hundreds or thousands of readers suddenly have access to a crafted thing made, if not in secret, at least in private. Then it’s back to seclusion to be able to make something new.
It’s not usually possible to find out what made a reader connect with your work. This anthology offers a rare exception through the introductory notes from editors, whose tastes and interests can often seem opaque to writers. Our hope is that these notes are instructive and encouraging to those who pick up the anthology each year.
This year, we were also delighted to gather for an informal virtual recap with judges Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah, Kali Fajardo-Anstine, and Beth Piatote. They told us how much they admired the winning stories for being unabashedly themselves—whether that means a 900-word single sentence like Lindsay Ferguson’s “Good Girls,” or Qianze Zhang’s “Mandy’s Mary Sue,” which brings us into the universe a young anime fan builds for herself from the pixels of a computer screen. Writers often contend with that question: Can I filter out other people’s expectations of what a “good story” looks or sounds like? Should I? Fajardo-Anstine spoke of the importance of writing that has a compassionate imagination—something that extends from your unique unabashedly you perspective to invite other people in. “The First Time I Said It” by Isaac Hughes Green, “The Math of Living” by Nishanth Injam, and “The Strong-Strong Winds” by Mathapelo Mofokeng are particularly apt examples of this ethos; each takes the singular form it needs to allow us to live an experience—on a basketball court, inside an eight-thousand-mile commute between two homes, in a hot and wind-battered cemetery—alongside its characters.
While the anthology shies away from any unifying theme or style, Adjei-Brenyah noted that a feeling of liminality comes through in many of the pieces. “Transit” by Khaddafina Mbabazi takes place at an airport gate; “Taxi” by Pardeep Toor drops us into a cab ride. There is a different kind of liminality in “Maria” by Amy Haejung and “Re: Frankie” by Mackenzie McGee: the worlds in these stories are left just indeterminate enough to leave room on the page for complex feelings and combinations of feelings. Piatote suggested that short stories, more than any other form, enable the proliferation of narratives—they are uniquely suited to conveying new and untold experiences into literature. This is evident in Alberto Reyes Morgan’s “Salt,” which evokes the sweat of a summer futbol game beside the dryness of the Salton Sea; in Stanley Patrick Stocker’s “The List,” which speaks into unspeakable loss; and in Heather Aruffo’s “Force, Mass, Acceleration,” which gives voice to a daughter whose story has been overshadowed by her war criminal father.
The judges also remarked on what it means to bring these stories into one anthology. As compelling as they are individually, it’s when they are placed together that they become a showcase of the infinite things short fiction can do. And the magazines that brought us these twelve debuts have radically distinct perspectives; each represents a path in. As Adjei-Brenyah said, this book is a reminder of the many different ways a writer can “arrive.”
We hope the sense of possibility extends beyond the stories and writers collected here. Fajardo-Anstine, for her part, remembered receiving hundreds of rejections before her first publication, hoping that she might be making an impression on an editor, that one might remember her name. She wants all the nominated writers to know that she will remember names—and that, in time, they will find their way in. Finally, though it is a joy to stop and honor each of these specific stories, it seems important to note that they are all part of a longer process: of returning again and again to the desk and to the blank page. Piatote put it this way: “Rejection and acceptance matter less when you just know there’
s going to be more. It’s going to rain again.” There are more stories coming, for all of us.
YUKA IGARASHI
SARAH LYN ROGERS
Series Editors
BEST DEBUT SHORT STORIES 2021
EDITOR’S NOTE
Is there such a thing as love at first sight? I think when it came to Lindsay Ferguson’s “Good Girls” that’s how it was for me. I fell in love with this piece the first time I read it. The Barrelhouse Love Issue was an attempt to explore love through the complex and enduring lens of Black womxn. “Good Girls” represented the multifaceted ways in which Black womxn show and receive love. From the beginning, the narrator is immediately concerned for Claudia; but what at first seems to be empathy for a friend shifts into romantic love in the end, and so we get the entire spectrum of care.
This beautifully queer story engages with the ways that Black womxn are encouraged, through familial admonishments given out of love and concern, to disassociate from our bodies and our desires. It is all a cycle. “Good Girls” gives us history, gives us depth, and shows the truth of the interior lives and interrelationships of Black womxn—in less than one thousand words. I am proud that I played even a small part in getting Lindsay’s voice and talent out there to the world. If this is what we get for her very first published story, then, goodness, watch out!
Tyrese Coleman, Guest Editor
Barrelhouse
GOOD GIRLS
Lindsay Ferguson
WE’RE ON A smoke break when Claudia tells me that her husband said she’s ugly when she cries, and I almost ask her, What he do, what happened this time, but then I think, Don’t be a fool, this is what you been waiting for, and I take her hands, look into her eyes, and start to give her all my best ideas on how to leave Greg—Greg who treats Claudia like a greasy rag he can pull out of his back pocket whenever there’s a mess, Greg who likes that Claudia’s ass is wide but not her nose or her waist—and it feels good to feed her these pieces I’ve been carrying in the space underneath my tongue for so long, some so bitter I thought I might choke on them, and I know she doesn’t really want to hear it but I tell her anyway, and I say things like Bleach everything in his closet, yeah even his new shoes, especially those and Throw all his shit out the window and watch it smash real ugly to the ground, and I can tell she doesn’t mean to but she finally starts to smile, her lips full and pretty as a plum, and there under the honey glow of the streetlamp I think about how Claudia has the most beautiful brown skin I’ve ever seen, like Aunt Rikki, who was still beautiful even when she shaved off all her hair, piles and piles of inky black kinks on my grandmama’s kitchen floor, Aunt Rikki who spit out a mouthful of bright red venom on cream-colored tiles when Grandaddy sent her out the door with a busted lip, warned her not to bring her dyke friends around me and my cousins, not good girls like us, and I think about how I still can’t forget that day, more than forty years later, and how I still can’t forget that morning, two months ago, when Claudia showed up for our shift with a dark purple bruise blooming at the base of her throat, how the college girls who worked with us teased her about her hickey, and how Claudia, only a few years older, laughed and let them believe it, and I remember how she wouldn’t meet my eyes but still asked to stay with me, how she said no, she wasn’t scared, but that she needed to teach Greg a lesson, and that night, sitting on my couch, dinner plates resting on our knees, everything felt right without me even trying, and I liked that Claudia didn’t ask me if I ever been married or had kids or why there weren’t any pictures of my family, and that she only wanted to talk about the kind of TV shows I watched and the things I used to like when I was young, and I remember how later, something deep inside of her burst that I couldn’t see, and I held Claudia as the sun went down, the last of its glow pouring over us, an animal kind of wail rattling from her throat and filling the space, and how I knew I shouldn’t ask but I had to know if she was like my aunt Rikki, if she was like me, and how she said she wasn’t sure but that she liked the idea of me and my golden apartment being home, and I think about how I believed her, even though nothing else happened that night, even though she left before I woke the next morning and we never talked about that moment on the couch again, and I think about how I still believe Claudia now, as I hold her hands, and I know I was right to find some small piece of her to touch because she leans in and kisses me and it’s the most glorious thing I’ve ever felt, the sting of her lips and that hot blooming down below and of course this is why my grandmama told me not to linger too long there with the washcloth when I was old enough to start taking baths on my own, and I almost laugh at the memory, at the thought that she would deny me the pleasure of knowing my own body, but then Claudia is pulling away, and I’m searching for those soft brown eyes in the shadows as she says something about forgiveness and then something else about babies, but most important vows and how she can never break those, not even for a good friend like me, not even if I take her out for breakfast every Sunday or learn all the words to her favorite songs or tell her that she’s beautiful when she’s really not, and then I’m watching Claudia stub out the cigarette with the bottom of her shoe, watching her round the corner of the alley as she smooths the back of that stupid pink uniform that they make us wear, even though it stains like hell, even when we scrub and scrub and scrub at the grease until our fingers are white and raw, even when we know that some things, once they’re set deep enough, can never be washed away.
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