Creative Writing Contests
Our free writing contests are based either on the Fertile Material prompts from Fear of Writing or selected writing challenges set by editors Jennifer Turner or Milli Thornton in the Fear of Writing Gazette.
Winning entries can be short stories or poems.
Winners receive a prize and the winning story is published on this Web page. Winners are also featured in the Fear of Writing Gazette.
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“I’m excited to have won the contest (my first!) and even more thrilled to be the recipient of your book. I look forward to reading it and growing as a writer as I use more of your writing exercises.”
—Dena Harris, Madison, North Carolina
YAHOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Can you hear my scream of joy? I'm looking forward to receiving my signed prize and TREASURING it for the rest of my days.
—Giselle Hurley, Boerne, Texas
Page Contents
Current Writing Contest
The next contest will be announced in the Fear of Writing Gazette
Some of Our Previous Winners
Killer Rain by Giselle Hurley
Passing Flames by Tom Ribe
Don't Poach the Roach by Dena Harris
April Showers by Sharon L. Montag
An Unfortunate Career Choice by Margaret B. Davidson
More Contest Winners Can be Found in the Gazette Archives
It's Raining Cats & Dogs!
Killer Rain by Giselle Hurley
Giselle was the winner of "It's Raining Cats and Dogs" with her short story, “Killer Rain” in a contest featured in the Fear of Writing Gazette, Vol. 3, Issue 19, 9/29/07.
Her story was based on the Fertile Material prompt, “Only the Wise.” Giselle won a signed copy of Lessons in Stalking . . . Adjusting to Life With Cats by Dena Harris (see end of story for more details about the prize).
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ONLY THE WISE You’re a Siamese named Miniver* living in a genteel household of intellectuals. Your household is the epitome of elegance, fine breeding, and superlative taste. The only discordant note—at least, as far as you're concerned—is Zeus, that lower class mutt who rampages through the house causing havoc wherever he goes. You cannot understand how your beloved humans could suffer such an uncharacteristic lapse in good taste.
* miniver n., a white fur used for trimming garments, especially ceremonial robes, as of royalty
Excerpted from 112 Fertile Material writing prompts, Fear of Writing: for writers & closet writers - Copyright © 1999 Milli Thornton
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EVER SINCE MY loving human parents brought home that four-legged fleabag, my pristine existence—in our formerly impeccable living quarters—changed abruptly for the worst.
What used to be a dust-free, noise-free, exquisitely decorated palatial setting, changed into a mud-spotted and smelly place relentlessly covered by dog hairs the color of charcoal.
And the barking!
“What’s wrong with that dog?! Is he nuts?!” Miniver thought incredulously. “The slightest noise outside the house and he will transform into a non-stop barking machine, ready to scare everyone out of their wit! What were they thinking when they decided to adopt such a monster? Didn’t they have enough silky fur coat to caress on moi? Wasn’t my purring enough as a demonstration of love and gratitude to them? Why did they have to choose that half-blood, wagging-tail hybrid?”
“I swear . . . one of these days I’m going to figure out how to get rid of that dreadful wild thing!” Miniver said out loud, without realizing that the enemy was close by.
“Talking about me, you flimsy cross-eyed creature? And how are we doing today princess Miniver? Is your PMS over or are you still in your usual bitchy mood?”
“My moods are none of your business, you brute! And by the way . . . the eyes happen to be like this only in the purest of us Siamese cats, so buzz off and let me finish cleaning my coat in peace you tawdry beast.”
Dark clouds where starting to build up outside the window, while Mr. and Mrs. Simpson kept hectically preparing themselves for that night’s gala at the Royal Academy. They had received a very exclusive invitation to which only the most influential and well known were going to attend.
In their excitement, they were so focused in not missing out any details about their attire, that they left the house without remembering to lock the door, nor did they realize that Miniver had not come back inside after roaming around earlier in the yard.
Zeus on the other hand was tucked warmly on his bed by the fireplace, dreaming of gnawing on a greasy bone the size of an arm, and then licking his private parts for a good cleanup.
Despite the thick black clouds and threatening thunder, the roaming around outdoors had started as an invigorating walk on the lush green lawn of the Simpsons, so the last thing Miniver ever thought, was that this outing would become a soaking nightmare of cold sleet and scary darkness.
She was gently smelling some plants at the opposite end of the house when the Simpsons had left, so at the time when it suddenly started to rain cats and dogs, she wasn’t aware that she had been left outdoors by herself, with only Zeus indoors to guard the house.
It started to pour buckets of water from the sky and the temperature had suddenly dropped to the point where Miniver—who had not been born to withstand such dreadful conditions—started to panic.
“One thing is to venture outside even when a storm is developing, and another thing is to be left locked out under this tsunami! Help! Please! I’m freezing my butt out here!”
Her hair was by now flat as a board from the shower she was being forced to take, and when she approached the window -from which she had gone out- while shaking like a leaf, she found with horror that her parents had tightly closed it to prevent the sudden colder air from coming in.
Despite the stressful circumstances, it didn’t take her long to realize that they were gone and that the only possible help—if she could ever hope for one—would have to come from. . . .
“Oh no! Not from him pleeease! I don’t want to have to ask that smelly, second-rate mutt for help.”
Suddenly, a lightning bolt struck a few yards away from where Miniver was standing. She interpreted it as a clear sign that the gods of the universe wanted to teach her a lesson. A lesson on the negative subject of being a disdainfully haughty jerk.
The lightening bolt left her frightened stiff and if that weren’t enough, she felt as if a second bucket of water came pouring down right on top of her.
By then, her limbs seemed to have given up on her and she could barely keep her eyelids opened under the weight of the pouring rain.
Miniver never thought of herself as capable of screaming so loudly, but even if she had wanted to sound more ladylike, the howling screams came rrrroaring out.
“Miaaaaaaaaaauuu! Miaaaaaaaaaauuu!"
“What? What’s going on? Who’s sssscreeeeming like that? Is that. . . . ? Miniver! Where are you?!” Zeus said out loud while frantically searching the exact location of the screams.
Suddenly, he stopped on his tracks. Outside the window was the wettest cat he’d ever seen, with a desperate look on her face and zero arrogance left on her demeanor.
“Hey Mini! What in the hell are you doing out there girl?” Zeus screamed through the window.
“Zeus! Thank God you heard me! I’m freezing out here pal. I need your help. Please!”
“What . . . what can I do?! Our parents are gone and there’s no one in the house but meee!”
“I know, I know my friend, but. . . . ”
“My friend? Am I hearing right??” Zeus shouted cynically. “What happened to you brute and tawdry beast of a few hours ago??”
“Look Zeus, I realize I’ve been somewhat of a . . . ”
“Pain in the butt,” he said interrupting her.
“ . . . and for that I owe you a sincere apology from here to eternity, but now buddy you need to put your gut and your skills to work fast or I’ll . . . ”
Zeus didn’t stay to hear the rest. He was suddenly so taken with her apology and the prospect of a change of venue with her feline friend, that he turned around like a shot, headed towards the main door.
He knew that every time his new adoptive parents left in the night, that door was always locked without exception, but at that time he could not figure out any other way from which to go out to rescue his newly made friend, so he felt as if he was just left with only the hope for a miracle.
“After all, I have always believed in miracles, so why wouldn’t I get to witness one at this time?” Zeus said, with an intensely calculating look at the metallic door handle.
A second later, after commanding the magic words “Open Sesame!” he launched ahead and after taking a long leap up in the air, one of his frontal paws landed right on the flat surface of the handle.
Voilà! Miraculously, the imposing door opened, leaving Zeus speechless.
He ran around the corner to where Miniver was at the time and found her lying on her side taking on loads of water and sleet, as if she were resigned to accepting a personal punishment.
He licked her face and pushed her body gently to encourage her to stand up and run indoors with him, before the wind would slam shut the door and leave them both locked out.
Opening her eyes with effort, she looked at him as if he were the most perfect looking dog in the world and while feeling as if she had been redeemed, she smiled at him gratefully while they both ran inside as if propelled by a tornado.
Several hours passed and by the time the Simpsons came back, they couldn’t believe what they found: Lying on the dog bed by the fire was their beloved black hair mutt, sweetly cuddling next to their crossed-blue-eyed princess.
Giselle Hurley Copyright © 2007 - Based on the writing prompt “Only the Wise” from Fear of Writing: for writers & closet writers
CONTEST PRIZE
Giselle Hurley won a signed copy of Lessons in Stalking . . . Adjusting to Life With Cats by Dena Harris
Dena is a Gazette contest winner herself, from May 2002. See her photo and read her winning entry: Don't Poach the Roach.
Dena also has her own freelance writing business, Dena Harris: Write For You, where she excels at magazine writing, ghostwriting, speech writing and lots more.
Find out more about the Fertile Material Writing Prompts
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Road Rage
by Rachiel Soliz
Rachiel won first place in the Road Rage Writing Contest featured in Fear of Writing Gazette, Vol. 3, Issue 8, 12/07/05. She won a Road Rage Release Pillow and chose the chile pepper design.
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Two teenager girls rode in a car on a Friday afternoon. In the nature of teenage girls, especially when one recently obtained her license, they bounced up and down to a man whining about his broken heart. Laughing and giggling and so caught up in their fun, the girls failed to notice a stop sign and rammed into a mini van.
As the two girls got out of their now totaled car, the teenager kept exclaiming, “My mother is going to kill me,” and as the police questioned her, she was unable to remember her phone number and looked to her friend, who provided the rest of the digits. As one officer questioned the girls, another tried to obtain an account of the events from the driver of the mini van, who called the girls witches, only with a different letter. Ranting and raving, she yelled one not so nice word after another. That is, until the officer asked for her driver’s license. At this question, the lady said softly, “ I don’t have one.”
Her voice was much quieter after that.
Rachiel Soliz Copyright © 2005
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Passing Flames
by Tom Ribe
Tom won first place with his short story, “Passing Flames” in a contest featured in the Fear of Writing Gazette, Vol. 3, Issue 6, 10/30/05. His story was based on the Fertile Material prompt, “Flood or Fire.” Tom won three copies of Fear of Writing: for writers & closet writers plus written guidelines to help him start a writing circle in his local area.
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FLOOD OR FIRE You are standing in the carcass of your home (which has either just been put out by the firemen or the flood has just receded). What do you see around you? What will you do next?
Excerpted from “Fertile Material for Your Serious Moods”
Son of Fear of Writing - Copyright © 2002 Milli Thornton
Passing Flames
by Tom Ribe
For five decades, the rattletrap wooden “quads” had stood in close ranks against the pine forest that furred the sleeping volcano that stood just above the town. Those old houses built for the designers of atomic bombs, the ultimate fire, had been lucky until the forth big forest fire south of town in twenty years coincided with the biggest winds anyone could remember. Swirling off the backdrop hills, the fire reduced the forest to black sticks and swirled around the near ridge, beginning a domino collapse of houses up and down the streets as fire fighters fled the searing orange roar in fire trucks, dragging bouncing hoses behind them.
Saturday two weeks later the national guard let owners of charred homes board buses and we rode up through the mesas, past the old adobe Pueblo and across the drought parched river. Silent, gaunt of emotion, riders of the bus I drove stared out the window until we passed the first police check-point at the entrance to the evacuated city, populated only by fire fighters and police from all over New Mexico. Driving, I recalled photos of the Manhattan Project guard stations that closed the town until 1957. In those days the smell of smoke was half a world away as Hiroshima cooled down from atomic warfare born here. Today smoke is a canyon away, or a ridge away, as Los Alamos cools down from a fire only partly of its own making.
These people behind me… I remembered them from growing up here… flower shop owners, good athletes in school, citizens in the North Community, the worst burned area where the fire fed on fifty year old homes built beside woods chocked with logs, sticks and thickets that people ignored in their day to day human world of work and school and tidy lawns. I knew because I preferred the forest to the contradictions of American life…I saw the fire lying in wait in those untended woods for years before it found its chance to run free across the plateau.
We came to the florist’s home, the shell, a tangle of melted metal and scattered bricks in front of their left-behind car, still parked on the driveway overhung by a burned pine tree. The family matriarch was old, helped to the edge of her ruin by a soldier. Her husband, the flower man stared out helpless, homeless, listless with defeat. His son took a picture perhaps to have a purpose before the soldiers gently herd them back on the bus and we departed, a thicker silence from those who knew that it really is all gone. They had no choice but to leave and go back to the evacuee program, join the others who have been reminded that things burn, things mean nothing in the end, or near the end, and we are all naked of anything but our hearts and those that know them even in the best of times.
Back we went down the road that winds through astonishing scenery. Los Alamos behind, its surviving houses dark and quiet again. Town of plutonium blast, high technology physics projects behind big fences. Fences and guards don’t stop forest fire, wild fire from wood and soil, wind and antiquity. The town seemed safe, sheltered by its importance. Who could believe that the woods could burn so hot or so fast or that someone wouldn’t protect such an important place from so mundane a nuisance, common as a cowboy campfire, common as a flock of birds unseen, passing from tree to tree as we hide from nature in our human day to day.
Florist quiet in his seat, his loss rattles in his heart like twisted sheet metal in the wind, ash swirling faded memories away.
Tom Ribe Copyright © 2005 - Based on the writing prompt“Flood or Fire” from Fear of Writing: for writers & closet writers
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Don't Poach the Roach
by Dena Harris
Dena won first place with her short story, “Don't Poach the Roach” in a Fertile Material contest at WriterGazette.com in May 2002. Her story was based on the Fertile Material prompt, “Roach Lover.” Dena won a copy of Fear of Writing.
“I’m excited to have won the contest (my first!) and even more thrilled to be the recipient of your book. I look forward to reading it and growing as a writer as I use more of your writing exercises.”
—Dena Harris, Madison, North Carolina, author of Lessons In Stalking . . . Adjusting to Life With Cats
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ROACH LOVER You are a cockroach sympathizer giving a speech at a rally for animal rights.
Excerpted from Fear of Writing - Copyright © 1999 Milli Thornton
Don't Poach The Roach
by Dena Harris
The crowd cheered and roared under the blazing July sun. Vendors quickly sold out of ice-cream and cold drinks and resorted to charging for water. Parents boosted sweaty children onto their shoulders for a better view of the podium. The T-shirts they wore quickly identified people’s passions. “I Love Manatees!” proclaimed one. “Save The Snakes and Kill The Lawyers,” begged another.
The Don’t Poach the Roach group stood off to one side, waiting for James to take the stage. Although the crowd was in a generous mood, people avoided the group with the smiling cockroach in a pink heart on the front of their shirts. The group clustered around a gray card table piled high with cockroach key chains, bumper stickers, and hard rock candy. They’d given away less than a quarter of their promotional materials. Pamela beat her head against a tree in frustration when she learned the ASPCA had run out of buttons and free-T-shirts within their first hour.
"People don’t care about cockroaches,” sighed Sally. “They just like the furry animals like kittens and puppies and chickens.”
“Chickens aren’t furry, you moron,” snapped Pamela. As co-founders of Don’t Poach the Roach, James and Pamela often found themselves bemoaning the lack of quality offered them in club members. Taking the Roach Oath to love, serve, and protect was a surefire step onto the path of societal outcast. James and Pamela had to take what they could get.
“Don’t call me a moron, you clip,” said Sally. “I just meant those animals are cute and cuddly. Cockroaches are more . . . ”
“What?” asked Pamela, narrowing her eyes.
“You know,” said Sally. “More . . . gross.”
* * *
“There he is!” Pamela clutched the hands of Sally and Jake.
James strode confidently to the microphone. As he waited for the crowd to quiet, his eyes met Pamela’s. This was it. Their years of sacrifice were about to pay off.
“There is a war going on,” James said, his voice reverberating high above the crowd. “A war against God’s creatures who are innocent and defenseless and who have done nothing to provoke the malice shown toward them.” The crowd cheered.
“We too must enter this war,” said James. His blue eyes shone with love. “But we must enter on the side of the innocent, and fight to protect and cherish them.” Pennants waved frantically in agreement.
As James continued talking, Tommy - the youngest member of the group - stared thoughtfully at the raised cockroach banner. He nudged Pamela.
“Maybe we could like, paste some fur on them,” he whispered. “You know, like shave a golden retriever and use all that hair to make them, like, cute.”
Pamela’s glare cut through him and he quickly took a step back. Sally patted his shoulder.
James was wrapping up. The crowd was behind him 100% chanting, “War! War! War!”
“I . . . ” James’ voice caught and he choked back tears. “I can’t tell you what your support means to me and those I work with,” said James. He took a deep breath and went for it. “Now is the time for us to be strong together. It is time to end the reign of madness of the Terminix man!” He raised a fist in triumph.
The crowd paused in mid-chant. James didn’t notice. He was back in childhood, remembering the day his dad had been hired by Terminix. He’d fired his death spray on James’ collection of bugs, centipedes, and, tragically, James’ beloved roach Skyler. James was haunted by the image of Skyler, belly up on the kitchen floor, legs pointing to the heavens. His dad called it ironic justice. Alone late at night, James still cried.
“People!” James now wailed. “Terminix has started a new advertising campaign to rid your homes and offices of our planet’s most precious creature, the cockroach! Such evil cannot go unpunished. This is a call to arms! Go to your homes and grab your guns, your bats, your mace, and we will purge the earth once and for all of the evil of this race!” He wept openly on the stage.
A murmur ran through the crowd. The organizer of the event frantically flipped through her booking chart.
As armed off-duty cops escorted James off the stage, Sally sighed and patted Pamela’s arm. “Tommy’s right,” she said. “We should have pasted fur on them.”
Dena Harris Copyright © 2002 -
Based on the writing prompt, “Roach Lover,” from Fear of Writing
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April's Writing Challenge:
April Showers
Reprinted from Fear of Writing Gazette, Vol. 2, Issue 5, May 2002
Writing Challenge designed by Jennifer Turner, Gazette editor 2001 - 2002
This month we'll take the term APRIL SHOWERS to the next level. Your writing challenge is to write 700 words or less on how rain has driven the citizens of Webster—a small midwestern town—to the brink of madness. Describe why and how these people change through the eyes of one or two main characters. Does Mr. Rogers suddenly become Mr. Hyde? How does lack of sunlight and the never ceasing drum of rain affect these normally complacent families? Be wild, dig deep, use humor or horror, but have fun!
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Winning story:
APRIL SHOWERS
by Sharon L. Montag
Webster was normally a placid place, blessed with an even climate and equally even-tempered residents. No one was quite sure, however, when the weather changed or when the people started changing with it. In fact, there were few people who even
admitted, after the month in question was over, that there had been any changes in the residents. There was no denying that there had been a change in the weather, though.
It had been raining for thirty days. Some days were lighter than others but it always rained, without a letup. If asked whether they were tired of it, some would walk quickly away, their mouths shaped in a fair imitation of the famous painting, "The Scream." Others would say it hasn't been raining long enough. The Ark wasn't finished, they said, although they did admit that there were more animals coming in on their own to what they obviously hoped might be a construction site.
Of course, there were also a few whispered comments about some people. Mr. Kelp, for example, after the third week, had taken to taking long solitary walks. He could be seen gulping water in massive amounts and someone said they could see gills forming. Mrs. Kelp wouldn't confirm it though, so the rumor remained unproven. It was noted, however, that about that same time the quite large cat population in the village all started following Mr. Kelp closely on those walks.
And certainly the people didn't notice, or said they didn't, when words like "porpoise,” “life raft” and “surfboard" became popular words for Scrabble. Mrs. Taylor tried to use the word "titanic" but was vociferously voted down. She tried to argue that she was using the true definition and not using it as a proper noun but the opposition was so strong that she backed down.
In the end, it was young, gorgeous Miss Jones who finally got everyone's complete and undivided attention. She went outside two days in a row, stark naked, to shower in the showers. There was no third time, though, for the rain had stopped.
The staff at the Weather Bureau, who didn't know Miss Jones and who hadn't heard about her showers, were therefore perplexed when they started receiving dozens of male callers wanting to know when the rains would start again.
They were equally perplexed when they noticed there were no women calling.
Sharon L. Montag © 2002
SHARON MONTAG lives in Chula Vista, CA, and says she is “new to this writing business.” Sharon entered the contest with the encouragement of her friend Magpie, a regular in the Fear of Writing Chatroom.
Sharon received her choice of a Fear of Writing T-shirt, coffee mug or mousepad and a winner's certificate from the Fear of Writing website, plus publication in the May 2002 issue of Fear of Writing Gazette.
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June's Writing Challenge:
Heat of the Moment!
Reprinted from Fear of Writing Gazette, Vol. 2, Issue 6, June 2002
Writing Challenge designed by Jennifer Turner, Gazette editor 2001 - 2002
As we dive headfirst into summer, let's play with some heated
dialogue. Your writing challenge this month is to create a short story,
in 500 words or less, based on a heated argument between two
characters. Use humor and play with the scenery to invoke the
fight. It can be in a courtroom, on a playground, or at the mall,
but your two characters should be avidly exchanging two sides
of an argument. The more thought provoking and heated the
debate, the more chance you have of winning!
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Winning story:
AN UNFORTUNATE CAREER CHOICE
by Margaret B. Davidson
"I always thought you pushed that boy too hard."
"Well, of course it has to be my fault, doesn't it?" Cyril crashed
his cup into its saucer and slid it halfway across the table in
frustration. "Does anything ever happen that isn't my fault? Just
tell me one thing in our whole lives that hasn't been my fault! Just
one lousy thing, Mabel." His voice had risen a few octaves.
Mabel sniffled her distress into her napkin, and then used it to
dab at the corners of her already red eyes. She glanced furtively
around the coffee shop.
"Keep your voice down," she whispered. "Oh, I'm so ashamed," she wailed.
"Well, how do you think I feel, Mabel? It'll be all over tomorrow's
papers. I'll never be able to hold my head up at the bank again.
They've always been jealous of my success. They'll love this. I'll
have to transfer to another branch."
"Banking, banking, banking - that's all you've ever talked about.
You think the whole world revolves around banking! That's what
did it to our Billy, you know. You and that bank. You rammed it
down his throat morning, noon and night. It was 'Get into banking,
Billy,' or 'Banking's the place to be, Billy.' 'You can make a
FORTUNE in banking these days, Billy.' Well, he took your advice,
didn't he? He got into banking."
"I hardly expected the lazy lout to go and rob the G-D-bank, did I?"
Margaret B. Davidson © 2002
MARGARET B. DAVIDSON was born and raised in England. She
now lives in upstate New York with her husband and cat. Margaret's
husband provides moral support for her writing habit, while the cat
helps with the typing.
Margaret received her choice of a Fear of Writing T-shirt, coffee mug
or mousepad and a winner's certificate from the Fear of Writing
website, plus publication in the July 2002 issue of Fear of
Writing Gazette.
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