You walk into Square Books hand in hand with your husband. Your matching T-shirts read high school sweethearts. Or Soul mates. You move slowly through the display tables, fingers laced, eyes skimming titles but not settling. I know that look: the polite drift of people who want to be found before they have to ask. So I come to you.

You tell me you want a book that will make you sit with yourself. You’ve just finished one that broke you into tiny pieces. You press your palm to your chest when you say it, as if something is still splintered there. This time, you add, you want one from Mississippi. I show you the heavy, hard and sad books we have from Mississippi and tell you why they are heavy, hard, and sad. You nod as you listen.

“You know,” your husband says, stepping closer to the table, “our son writes too.”

“I didn’t know he did,” I say.

But it is you who continues. You tell me about your son—about California, about an MFA, about alcohol addiction, about agents who won’t give him a chance because he doesn’t have ten thousand followers. You smooth the corner of Men We Reaped as you talk, not looking at me. I wonder if you tell this story often.

We are at the counter now. I am scanning your books. Your husband is staring at me—or slightly above me.

“Where are you from?” he asks.

“Nigeria.”

He nods as if this confirms something. But I don’t know what it confirms. He tells me about Eudora Welty in New York, about a reporter who asked her if people down South even read.

I hand you the receipt.

You take it, and I turn my back wondering what heavy, hard and sad story passes through you two despite your clasped hands and matching t-shirts.

“He’ll carry it out for you,” the man said, gesturing to another. Both stood behind the counter. “That’ll be $79.”                       

I began rummaging in my purse as a young man, probably a student, reached for the case of Vinho Verde. It’s my official wine of summer. A quick twist and pour, cold and crisp with a little effervescence--neither the wine nor I would have to exert much energy to make this upcoming August weekend feel special.

I wanted it to feel special because our sons were coming for the start of football season. It was the first time they’d visit us in our new home; my husband and I were new to Oxford. We’d been so busy prepping for our jobs as university faculty that we hadn’t explored the local liquor stores, but now I needed wine, fast. I headed to the shop closest to our house, Star Package Store. Except for the yellow lettering and bright red star in the front window, I might have mistaken the building for someone’s two-story home. Steps flanked by a wrought iron railing led to the shop’s front-door. Inside, a familiar smell embraced me, a mix of fermented cardboard, dust, and spilled broken bottles.

But now, at the counter, I dug deeper into my purse’s front pocket, then searched again in its cavernous interior, then again in the front pocket.

Finally, I heaved a sigh and looked up from my purse. “I don’t have my wallet. I’ll have to come back later.”

The man I took to be the owner didn’t hesitate. “Don’t worry,” he shrugged. “Take the wine. You can pay next time you stop by.”

And that’s how—with a little effervescence--Star Package became my favorite.

One month after I turned 21, I packed all my possessions into two bags, waved goodbye to my crying mother, boarded a 27-hour flight away from home, set my sights on the American dream, and moved across the world to Mississippi.

I landed in Memphis exhausted, hungry, jetlagged, without so much as a cellphone in my pocket.

I recall that first year of grad school being full of painful lessons. I learned that I spoke too fast. Too loud. Shared too much. I looked too different. Stood out too much. Wore flipflops everywhere. Ate the wrong kind of food. Cooked too little. And earned even less.

One sweltering Saturday afternoon, I followed a crowd of people walking toward campus. As I got closer, one persuasive man sold me tickets to an OleMiss football game - I had supposedly scored a great deal! I wandered into this massive stadium and noisily stomped my flipflops onto some bleachers in the visitor section. I found familiarity in the chaos on the field - people sprinting in random directions only to run into each other, the crushing pressure of piles of bodies, a misshapen ball lost in huddles of purposeless confusion, and long periods of standing around interrupted by brief outbursts of catastrophic violence. Next to me was a dad sitting with his little daughter, adorned in OleMiss gear. I told him I didn't know the rules and needed help. Over the next three hours, he patiently taught me to find order in the chaos. “Keep your eyes on the quarterback.” How to score, where to look, when to cheer, when to boo and put up a fight. I never got his name. But his adorable kid gave me a high-five. And a pom-pom.

After the game, I walked home.

Finalists were chosen to read their micro memoir live on stage at the Double Decker Arts Festival on Saturday, April 25, 2026. First place winner received $750 and second place received $250.

Oxford Micro Memoir entries responded to one of three prompts as inspiration: 

• “That’s so Oxford” - Think of three characteristics or adjectives you’d use to describe Oxford. Now, pick the most interesting one and think of a memory that shows why you’d apply this characteristic to our town. Tell the story with details and images, but do not tell the reader what adjective you’re trying to evoke.

• An Oxford Encounter - Think of an unexpected conversation you had with someone in Oxford, preferably a stranger or someone you don’t know well. Where and when did the conversation take place? What did your interaction reveal about yourselves and your place? Tell your story with dialogue and gestures.

• The Oxford Time Capsule - Imagine that you were asked to curate a time capsule of items that tells the story of your life in Oxford. This time capsule will be buried and unearthed in the year 2126 by one of your descendants. These can be items you currently have or once had. What objects would you choose? Make a list. Now choose one object, the object with the most drama or charge or mystery, and tell the story behind it. 

 Who can enter the Oxford Micro Memoir Contest? 

The contest is open to writers of all experience levels and ages.

What kind of work can I submit, and can I enter more than one micro memoir?

Entries should be original work, based on one of the three prompts.  Entries are limited to 300 words, including the title. One entry per person. 

How are submissions judged?

Submissions will be reviewed by a panel selected by the organizers.

If I am selected as a finalist, what happens next?

Finalists will be invited to read their micro memoir live on stage during the Double Decker Arts Festival. If a finalist is unable to attend, the organizers will arrange for the work to be read on your behalf. 

Who is organizing the Micro Memoir Project? 

The Micro Memoir Project is developed by Greenfield Farm Writers Residency at the University of Mississippi and sponsored by Visit Oxford. 

How are entries collected?

Entries are submitted via Submittable. You will need to create a Submittable account to enter the Oxford Micro Memoir Contest. Find out how to create a Submittable account here.