"Roxy Roller" by Lindsey Harrington—Our June 2022 Gold Medal Winner

Lindsey Harrington is our first place winner from the contest posted in our June 2022 issue and their story will be published in the September 2022 edition. Congratulations, Lindsey!

What the judges had to say:

“...so many great sensory details in your piece.”

“It’s beauty is in how small and specific it is. The details and peripheral characters are endearing, even the young boys were sweet and purposeful.”

“Three characters emerge from one as the main protagonist uses adjustment and transformation as a means to escape the confines of her past. By giving readers a profound look into the main character’s mindset, peppered by a remarkable mother figure and a staunch paternal antagonist, this author masterfully builds empathy, yet simultaneously builds great hope into the story. Not only is Roxy memorable but she is also likeable. With the antagonism appropriately placed on constraint and oppression, we are left wanting more; striving to imagine the characters succeeding in finding a sense of freedom.”

Meet Lindsey

Lindsey Harrington is a Nova Scotian writer with Newfoundland roots. She is currently putting the finishing touches on a short story collection about breakups called Coming Apart. Her next project will be a memoir about choosing not to have children called Free or Less. Follow her on Instagram at @lindseyharringtonwriter

Roxy Roller

an excerpt of Lindsey’s winning story

Roxy takes a drag of her cigarette—her last one. To delay the next puff, she holds the smoke in her lungs before slowly releasing it, like air hissing from a leaky tire. The smoke veils her face, coils through the wrought iron grating, and dissipates in the cool evening air.

The fire escape casts long, narrow shadows across her skin. Like stripes, she smiles. A small addition. An utter transformation.

It’s what she’s been striving for her whole life. Dying her hair blonde in junior high—it never suited her complexion. She looked just like herself, except sallower. Then, the phase with the scarves, feathers, and bangles up to her elbows—the jaunty clatter as she strutted around. It was just herself in a costume. Finally, she changed the ‘s’ in her name to an ‘x’—who was she trying to fool, her father had scoffed.

She blames him, of course. His precisely shaven face, pressed suits, and stalwart approach. The stilted routines and rigid expectations, thick in the air. The house that never changed, not even a chair or a set of keys out of place.

That is, until the day she came home to her mother painting the house bright purple. She waved to Rosy from the top of the ladder with her whole arm, the wet brush flapping back and forth like a windshield wiper. Long tendrils of paint arced and landed, spattering the grass and her mother’s clothes and skin. It was as if Rosy was returning from a long journey overseas, and not just home from school at the regular time. While her mother waved, the ladder wavered, and her father wrung his hat in his hands.

…

to read the rest of the story, order your copy of the September 2022 issue.