A new home for the short story

Not just another literary prize.

Let’s imagine that you have aspirations to write fiction and have never written before. You decide to write a short story, because writing a novel straight away is too daunting, and you write and write and write and work hard at it and revise your work and write some more, and once you have arrived at something that you feel confident is finished you feel ready to send it out into the world.

Then things get difficult. Who do you send your story to? You are not involved in the literary scene (if indeed there even is such a thing). You do not work in publishing. You are not a journalist. You do not personally know any published writers, let alone editors. You are very definitely outside the circle of people in the know about these things, and you are almost certainly on your own. Your options, you will soon realise, are limited.

Aspiring non-fiction writers (critics, journalists, etc.) can submit their work to many different publications – from newspapers to magazines to trade publications – in the hope of being published and developing their talents. Writers of fiction cannot.

In the US, (literally) hundreds of "little" magazines sandwiched between the Paris Review and n+1 in New York and McSweeney’s and the Believer in San Francisco are flourishing. New writers are given more of a chance than ever before as competition among magazines to publish the best fiction has intensified (or mollified, depending on who you're talking to about this) since the beginning of the "Era of the MFA". Your submission options, for better or for worse, are wide-ranging.

In Britain, where to submit? Granta, the "magazine of new writing", is an obvious choice and an excellent publication, by far the most professional operation this side of the Atlantic. But a closer look at back issues will quickly reveal that while Granta is indeed the home of new writing, it is largely that of established writers. Dig a little deeper and you’ll find Craig Raine’s Areté, the venerable Ambit (where J G Ballard was Fiction Editor many years ago) and Litro in the print sections, and the likes of 3:AM Magazine and Untitled Books online, where limits are often placed on word counts.

In Ireland, the situation is (proportionally) better. Brendan Barrington’s Dublin Review and Declan Meade’s Stinging Fly stand out amidst a host of others, not least in giving new writers and writing a chance.  

Not much choice, is there? And it might well be that you, freshly-blooded writer of fiction, might sift out some of the options mentioned above on aesthetic or ideological grounds. (Which is to say: you might realise that some of these publications may, to some degree or other, favour certain styles of writing that you do not align yourself with.)

It is time to disclose that I am an editor at a (London-based!) literary magazine called The White Review. We publish fiction, among other things, in print and online, on a quarterly and monthly basis respectively. And we always, in every print and online issue, publish new writers alongside more established ones.

And now, thanks to a generous grant from the Jerwood Charitable Foundation, we are launching the imaginatively titled "White Review Short Story Prize", awarding £2,500 to the best short story by an unpublished writer each year. The first prize is open to submissions until 1 March 2013. It will be judged by the Booker-shortlisted writer Deborah Levy, literary agent Karolina Sutton and Alex Bowler, editorial director at Jonathan Cape, and Tom McCarthy, author of Men in Space, Remainder and C, will award the prize at a party in April 2013.

Even more exciting, the winning entry will be published in a print edition of the White Review, and all shortlisted writers will be published online.

This isn’t simply about demonstrating the vitality of a form – the short story – which is too often neglected in Britain and Ireland. We would also like to encourage writing appropriate to our times. (None of that "readibility" business.) The judges will be looking for short stories that explore and expand the possibilities of the form. We encourage submissions from all literary genres, and there are no restrictions on theme or subject matter. The only emphasis is on ambitious, imaginative and innovative approaches to creative writing.

Aspiring writers: pick up your pens! Send us your stories! Our culture needs new writers, new writers need exposure. We need writing for our times. 

For more details, visit www.thewhitereview.org
"Little magazines" have traditionally been the home of the short story (Photo: Getty Images)

Jacques Testard is co-founder and editor of The White Review.

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Inside Syria's unending siege, civilians, not soldiers, are the victims

In Aleppo, civilian strife is just another tool of war.

Maria is a young mother who lives in Aleppo. She missed her opportunity to flee when the Syrian-Turkish border was closed to all but the seriously injured in early 2015. With her two children – Fadi, aged five, and Sama, aged nine – she stayed in the city.

Maria’s husband was killed by a barrel bomb that fell on their neighbourhood in 2014. After that, she took the children and moved in with her husband’s family. Her married brother-in-law asked her to be his second wife. She accepted the offer for the sake of security. This year he, too, was killed when a bomb fell on his shop.

Speaking to her on Skype, I referred to Aleppo as a city under siege and she quickly corrected me. “The city is not under siege,” she said. “We are human beings under siege.” Maria clearly felt offended by my words. She moved the conversation on to the images of a young Syrian boy, sitting in an ambulance, which have appeared on newspaper front pages around the world – a symbol of the human suffering in Aleppo. “What can I say? His silence and shock reflected all the pain of Syrians.”

Tearfully, she described her living conditions. “There are two widows, with three children, who live all together with our old mother-in-law. The good people around us try to give us food and clothing.”

She added: “Before, I used to cook a big meal for me and my family-in-law every day. My late husband was well off.” The children don’t go to school but they get some lessons at home – Maria used to work as an Arabic language teacher at a high school in the city.

The household’s other widow, Safaa, joined our conversation. “Since the first day of Eid ul-Fitr [the festival that marks the end of Ramadan, this year on 6 July], the siege began in Aleppo. There was no food or water. Children cried and could not sleep because of hunger.”

Safaa made food from pulses that she had managed to save, particularly lentils. As the area around the city is rich in olives and well known for producing za’atar herbs, the extended family depended on reserves of these for nutrition. “Al-za’atar al-akhdar [a dish of the herb, olive oil and a few other basic ingredients] has saved the reputation of Aleppo and its people,” Safaa joked, and both women laughed.

Then, suddenly, the Skype connection was lost and they both disappeared.

Another Aleppo native to whom I spoke, Ayham, described his desperation as he finished his engineering degree before fleeing Syria. “I am my mother’s only son, so I didn’t want to do military service, and I left, as I felt so insecure,” he told me. He had been living in Shahbaa, a neighbourhood controlled by Bashar al-Assad’s regime, while completing one application after another to study abroad. Eventually he was successful and he has now made it to a university in Europe.

Ayham’s parents were pushing him to leave because they knew that he was part of an underground anti-Assad protest movement. “There are two Aleppos,” he explained. “One is free and the other is controlled by Assad’s regime. Both are very unsafe . . . Living hungry was easier than living under threat.”

There are roughly two million people in the city, most of them women and children. Since the second day of the siege, there have been no fruit or vegetables available and only a few bakeries are producing bread. Compounding the starvation, the bombing has been intense, hitting hospitals, ambulances, blood banks and the Syrian Civil Defence base. Assad’s regime is targeting vital resources for civilians.
Even after rebel forces, in co-operation with the Islamist faction Jaish al-Fateh, managed partly to break the siege and open a new road into the south of the city through the Ramoussa area, they could not bring in enough food. The little that made it inside immediately sent prices soaring. Civilians could not use this road to escape – jets were targeting the routes in and out.

The eastern areas of Aleppo, which are still under the opposition’s control, are also still without aid, because of how risky it is to get there. All the talk coming out of the city today is about decisive battles between Assad’s forces and the rebels in the southern quarters. Civilians put the recent air strikes down to these conflicts – it has long been believed that when the regime loses ground, it intensifies its bombing as revenge, and to send a message to those who continue to resist.

People in Aleppo and the north-eastern territories of Syria are suffering and dying. They have no other choice. It seems that both Isis and the Assad regime are trying as hard as they can to destroy Syrian civilians, whether through direct attacks or by gradual starvation.

There is little information available, as both sides attempt to prevent the media from documenting life under siege. Isis accuses journalists of being agents of Assad, while the regime portrays reporters as terrorists. Pro-Assad social media accounts have alleged that Mahmoud Raslan, who took the footage of the boy in the ambulance, has links with terrorism. The same channels have yet to say much about Raslan’s subject – Omran Daqneesh, the five-year-old whom he showed, bloodied and stunned, after the boy was pulled from the rubble caused by multiple air strikes. Omran’s ten-year-old brother, Ali, has since died from injuries sustained in another attack.

After four hours, I heard back from Maria. She apologised for losing the connection and asked me not to worry about her. “All of us are fine. We did not die yet,” she said. Her daughter, Sama, has not been to school since last year, she told me, and now studies only Arabic poetry. They have no books, so she depends on the verses that Maria knows by heart. Sama misses her school and her friends, and though she remembers their faces she has forgotten their names.

Maria has made a doll for her out of scraps of fabric and they call it Salwa. Together, they sing Syrian folk songs for the doll, in particular one that goes: “Hey Salwa, why are you crying? I need a friend.” Maria is resigned. As she says, “We are back in the Stone Age.” 

K S is a Syrian journalist, based in Sweden since 2014

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser