Control the Perception of Your Reality
Sit down and shut up
Do not doubt anything
Proceed exactly as you’re told
For we control everything
The government values obedience
Conform without question
Stay in lockstep with society
There’s no freedom of expression
Change starts with self awareness
Defy the foundations of normality
Begin to think and act for yourself
Be free to create your own reality
The rulers demand ideological compliance
But self awareness occurs from cultivated thought
We need to stay sovereign amongst the chaos
Or the fight to be free will be for naught
Writing Contests
Short Fiction Contests
“Fabuly Writer’s Challenge
“Step into Fabuly's writer's challenge and create a short 2,000-word story that focuses on this year's theme: an unexpected encounter. The winner of Fabuly's contest will win $500 and be featured in the mobile app as a professionally illustrated and produced audiobook.
Deadline: December 14, 2024
Prize: $500 and Audiobook production
“Story Shares’ Story of the Year
“It's the seventh annual Story of the Year Contest hosted by Storyshares, featuring up to $15,000 in cash prizes. In addition to the available monetary prize, winners and runners-up will have their works included in the Storyshares library, which currently serves tens of thousands of students worldwide.
Deadline: January 13, 2025
Prize: Up to $15,000 and publication
“Story Unlikely’s Short Story Contest
“The folks at Story Unlikely run a monthly digital magazine that shares a wide range of short stories with no genre restrictions, providing something for nearly every reader. The team also runs its annual short story contest, offering up to $1,500 for the first-place winner and the opportunity to be included in the publication's yearly print magazine.
Deadline: January 21, 2025
Prize: Up to $1,500 and publication
“Arc Manor Books' Mike Resnick Memorial Award
“The Mike Resnick Memorial Award, hosted by Arc Manor Books, is presented to a new science fiction author to reflect upon the American fiction writer of the same name who was nominated for 37 Hugo Awards in his lifetime. Short science fiction works up to 7,499 words can be submitted by authors who have yet to have any work published.
Deadline: To Be Determined (2025)
Prize: $250 and a trophy
“Baen Books' Jim Baen Memorial Short Story Award
“The team at Baen Books' is hosting the Jim Baen Memorial Short Story Award, recognizing a work of science fiction under 8,000 words. The publisher is looking for stories that show manned space exploration in the near future (50-60 years out). Baen notes they want to highlight realistic, optimistic science fiction showcasing our potential future, so no dystopian tales here.
Deadline: February 1, 2025
Prize: Publication with pay and a trophy
General Prose Contests
“Minotaur Books/Mystery Writers of America First Crime Novel Competition
“Minotaur Books, an imprint of Macmillan Books, and the Mystery Writers of America are teaming up to offer a competition highlighting a debut writer's first crime novel. You can submit previously published manuscripts (self-published not permitted) for consideration.
Deadline: December 15, 2024
Prize: $10,000 future royalties advance
“Kinsman Avenue's Stories of Inspiration
“Kinsman Avenue Publishing is running its Stories of Inspiration contest, an opportunity for nonfiction writers. Writers with stories highlighting the struggle and resilience of the human spirit related to marginalized communities' cultures are welcome. Individuals of a BIPOC or underrepresented community are preferred.
Deadline: December 21, 2024
Prize: Publication with pay
“L. Ron Hubbard's Writers of the Future Contest
“Lafayette Ronald Hubbard wrote science fiction and fantasy at the beginning and end of his life. The Writers of the Future Contest was launched in 1983 to highlight aspiring authors in the field of speculative fiction. Today, the contest continues annually, offering the grand prize winner a $5,000 cash prize and trophy.
Deadline: December 31, 2024
Prize: Up to $5,000 and a trophy
“Friends of American Writers Literature Award
“The Friends of American Writers Literature Award focuses on emerging authors whose books focus on the Midwest United States. If you have a book that has already been published, you can submit it for consideration as long as you are a Midwestern resident or your book's setting is within the Midwest.
Deadline: December 2024
Prize: Recognition
Poetry Contests
“Poetry Society of America's Four Quartets Prize
“The Poetry Society of America, founded in 1910, continues its mission of bringing poetry into everyday American life with its Four Quartets Prize. If you are a poet with a complete sequence of poems published in the United States in 2024, you are invited to enter. Finalists receive $1,000 each, with the winner receiving an additional $20,000.
Deadline: December 31, 2024
Prize: Up to $21,000
“Defenestrationism Lengthy Poem Contest
“Based on its name, we cannot think of a better organization to host the Lengthy Poem Contest than Defenstrationsim. Poets are invited to enter a poem of considerable length, at least 120 lines long, for submission. The contest runners will publish the three finalists on the website, and several days of public voting will be available before a winner is announced.
Deadline: January 1, 2025
Prize: $300
The Levis Reading Prize
“The Levis Reading Prize is offered yearly in memory of the Virginia Commonwealth University poet and faculty member. It recognizes the best first or second book of poetry published by a poet. Winners receive an honorarium and are invited, expenses paid, to Richmond, Va., for a public reading the following autumn.
Deadline: January 15, 2025
Prize: Honorarium and an invitation to Richmond
“Note: Before submitting to any writing contest, please carefully review the contest's rules and eligibility. These change regularly, so make sure to confirm that a contest has not instituted submission fees since this article was written.
15th November, 2024
The Deer
(This is inspired by an animation I saw)
First our dog, Max, went missing
He was the there in the evening,
but the next morning he was not
We aren't completely sure where he went
There's been talk in the town of a creature
One who stalks the woods at night
No one has completely seen it
But they say it becomes parts of what it takes
My sister went missing
She was here yesterday evening
this morning she was not
She had said she wanted to look for Max
Of course I miss her
but I don't want to see her again
Because I'm worried that it won't really be her
That it will be it instead
I'm worried it will have her arms instead of deer legs,
her hands instead of hooves
I'm worried it will have her green eyes,
instead of normal dark deer eyes
I'm don't want to see her again
I'm scared that I will
I'm scared that it will be
The deer instead
excerpt--Father and Son
“I have wondered if thee will marry,” his father said.
Elnathan looked up from his rabbit stew.
“It is a part of life,” Samuel Holm said, and he ate another bite.
They had built this house together. They had mortared the stones for the foundation, hewn the floor joists, notched the logs they stacked and chinked with rocks and straw and clay. They shared one bed. Through all of it, they had never spoken of marriage, love, or any future beyond tasks to perform. They had left their first farm five years ago, and in that time, Elnathan had heard six directives from his father for every word of conversation.
He studied the older man in the fading dusk, debating whether his father meant to test him. “The Friend says men should live in the Spirit, not in the flesh,” Elnathan said.
Samuel Holm lifted his bowl to his lips. Elnathan noticed his father’s hands trembling again, as they had since his illness the preceding year; Samuel Holm had spent less time carving or whittling since. He wiped his arm across his graying beard to erase the tell-tale drops of broth. He folded his hands on the table and watched them, as though guarding their stillness. “Thee is nineteen. If thee did not shave it, thy beard would be full by this time.”
“Men shave their beards. Thee is the only man I see to wear one.”
“Thee would think of little else beside marriage, if thee lived in any other place,” Samuel Holm continued. He lifted his eyes. “There are things important to a young man.”
Elnathan laughed. “Thee think me a young boy indeed, if thee think to explain such things.”
Samuel Holm returned his eyes to his hands. One of their cows lowed nearby.
“Thee was not so old when my mother left time,” Elnathan said, “and thee never thought to remarry.”
“That I did not discuss the matter with my son does not mean I did not of think it.”
Elnathan watched his father, awaiting further words, some sign. Samuel Holm sat quietly with hands folded on the table he had made.
The Dealer’s Table
(Cross posting this from a challenge I created and entered yesterday)
The dim, smoky glow of the tavern lanterns cast wavering shadows against the wooden walls. The oaken surfaces stained from years of spilt ale and drawn blood from drunken brawls.
The warm, yeasty scent of beer mingled with the tang of sweat and the faint note of rusty blades and daggers. Patrons spoke in hushed voices, keeping one eye on their drinks and if they were lucky enough to have a second, on whoever staggered in through the battered oak door.
I sat at my usual corner, back to the wall, nursing a tankard of bitter soured ale and shuffling a deck of Gwent cards that had seen better days. Each frayed at the edges and crease marks running their surfaces.
My reputation unfortunately preceded me, a trickster with nimble fingers and the sharpness of a knife hidden in the smile. Dagnar is the name and separating patrons from their coin the game.
A ripple of unease whispered through the room as the door creaked open on its half broken hinges. The cold forced itself in on a gust of frigid wind like a wicked omen. A precursor of a bad night on the dark horizon. He walked in, tall and pale, dressed in all black and silver, with the kind of presence that sucked the air from the lungs leaving one speechless. Scars crisscrossed his face, each line a history of violence. And surely a horrid tale that went hand in hand with its presence.
His eyes, those damned eyes, glowed like embers from the depths of a dying fire. A fire that didn’t need much prodding to become adequately stoked. I didn't need a name to know who this man was. A Witcher.
The chatter died down as he strode past tables of farmers and soldiers, boots thudding with the cadence of a death march. He halted by the hearth, the flicker of flames licking at his silhouette, and let his gaze sweep the room like the precision surgeon’s blade. For a moment, I held my breath, fingers tightening on the edge of my cards.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, the kind of tone that could cleave stone. I caught the bartender’s eyes shifting nervously, but no one answered.
The Witcher sighed, more weary than frustrated, and turned to face me, as if he had known where I was the whole time.
“You there,” he said. My grin was automatic, masking the twist of anxiety and fear burbling in my gut. I felt the sudden rush telling me to run for the outhouse. “Aye, Witcher. What brings you to our humble corner of Novigrad?” I raised my tankard in a mocking toast.
“Yennifer. I’m told she was seen passing through,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Have you heard of her whereabouts?”
“Ah, the sorceress,” I drawled, pretending to think while I shuffled the deck. The cards slapping against the table buying me time to phrase my thoughts. “Perhaps we could make this interesting? A simple game of Gwent. I win, you share a drink, a tale, and toss me a copper. You win, and I’ll tell you what I know.” Another ploy to buy me time.
The room collectively exhaled, tension slipping from their postures and they resumed their duties and conversation. The Witcher’s lip twitched, half amusement, half disdain.
“Fine,” he said in his voice that sounded like raking stones. He pulled up a chair and sat across from me. He dropped a pouch on the table; the heavy clink of coin echoed. “Deal.”
I set the cards, fingers moving deftly, sliding in a marked one just so. A dangerous move on my part, but my hope that his hands weren’t as well versed in cards as they were with his weapons. A few rounds passed in tense silence. Outside, the wind howled like a starving wolf. Inside, soldiers whispered about Nilfgaard’s relentless push north, about the battered Redanian defenses and whispers of a rebellion brewing in Skellige. The war may be drawing to a close. Gods be praised. But here at our table, there was only the game, and the Witcher’s unsettling gaze catching every flinch, every tell.
“You’re sweating,” he noted, laying down a biting frost card that turned the tide.
“Just the heat,” I replied smoothly. But my stomach churned as I watched my carefully laid strategy fall apart. My siege troops no longer holding their position on the table they once had. I played the Mysterious Elf card and a knowing smile crossed my face.
He stared in disappointment at the layout of cards upon the table, then seeing his defeat pushed the cards into a pile for reshuffling. “Strange,” The pale Witcher said, glancing at my deck. His golden eyes met mine with a knowing glint. “Your cards … they’re heavier than they should be.”
I feigned a chuckle, a sound as thin as parchment and attempted to change the course of conversation. “You never said your name, your accent? Is it Rivian?” I tried to snatch the cards back, but his hand shot out, iron-hard fingers closing around my wrist.
“Cheaters don’t deserve mercy,” he growled.
Time slowed to a heartbeat, then splintered into chaos. I reached for the knife at my belt, but he was faster. His chair clattered to the floor as he drew his steel sword in a flash of silver. The blade caught the firelight as it swung toward me; I stumbled back, drawing my knife too late.
A roar erupted as patrons scrambled for the exits, tables overturned and tankards spilled, beer slicking the floor. He advanced upon me, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. I lunged, aiming for the gap beneath his ribs, but he sidestepped with the grace of predator on the hunt.
“Igni,” he intoned, and flames roared to life from his outstretched hand. I cried out, throwing up an arm to shield my face. The heat seared, blistering skin in an instant.
“Damn you to the nine Hells!” I spat, desperation clawing at my throat. I swung wildly, the blade catching nothing but air. His foot slammed into my chest, sending me sprawling into an upturned table. Pain shot up my spine as I crashed to the ground, the room spinning.
“You know where she is,” he said, sword tip pressing against my throat, cold as a winter's kiss. I gasped for air, vision spotting.
“Sod off,” I managed, defiance trembling in my voice.
A second of silence, then the blade sank in, swift and merciless. My world shrank to a pinpoint of pain before slipping into blackness. Over the din, I heard him mutter, half to himself, “I’ll find you, Yen.”
The last thing I saw as my eyes began to lose their focus was the Witcher’s unyielding expression as he pulled his sword free.
A game of Gwent …
The dim, smoky glow of the tavern lanterns cast wavering shadows against the wooden walls. The oaken surfaces stained from years of spilt ale and drawn blood from drunken brawls.
The warm, yeasty scent of beer mingled with the tang of sweat and the faint note of rusty blades and daggers. Patrons spoke in hushed voices, keeping one eye on their drinks and if they were lucky enough to have a second, on whoever staggered in through the battered oak door.
I sat at my usual corner, back to the wall, nursing a tankard of bitter soured ale and shuffling a deck of Gwent cards that had seen better days. Each frayed at the edges and crease marks running their surfaces.
My reputation unfortunately preceded me, a trickster with nimble fingers and the sharpness of a knife hidden in the smile. Dagnar the name and separating patrons from their coin the game.
A ripple of unease whispered through the room as the door creaked open on its half broken hinges. The cold forced itself in on a gust of frigid wind like a wicked omen. A precursor of a bad night on the dark horizon. He walked in, tall and pale, dressed in all black and silver, with the kind of presence that sucked the air from the lungs leaving one speechless. Scars crisscrossed his face, each line a history of violence. And surely a horrid tale that went hand in hand with its presence.
His eyes, those damned eyes, glowed like embers from the depths of a dying fire. A fire that didn’t need much prodding to become adequately stoked. I didn't need a name to know who this man was. A Witcher.
The chatter died as he strode past tables of farmers and soldiers, boots thudding with the cadence of a death march. He halted by the hearth, the flicker of flames licking at his silhouette, and let his gaze sweep the room like the precision surgeon’s blade. For a moment, I held my breath, fingers tightening on the edge of my cards.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, the kind of tone that could cleave stone. I caught the bartender’s eyes shifting nervously, but no one answered.
The Witcher sighed, more weary than frustrated, and turned to face me, as if he had known where I was the whole time.
“You there,” he said. My grin was automatic, masking the twist of anxiety and fear burbling in my gut.
“Aye, Witcher. What brings you to our humble corner of Novigrad?” I raised my tankard in a mocking toast.
“Yennifer. I’m told she was seen passing through,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Have you heard of her whereabouts?”
“Ah, the sorceress,” I drawled, pretending to think while I shuffled the deck. The cards slapping against the table buying me time to phrase my thoughts. “Perhaps we could make this interesting? A simple game of Gwent. I win, you share a drink, a tale, and toss me a copper. You win, and I’ll tell you what I know.” Another ploy to buy me time.
The room collectively exhaled, tension slipping from their postures and they resumed their duties and conversation. The Witcher’s lip twitched, half amusement, half disdain.
“Fine,” he said in his voice that sounded like raking stones. He pulled up a chair and sat across from me. He dropped a pouch on the table; the heavy clink of coin echoed. “Deal.”
I set the cards, fingers moving deftly, sliding in a marked one just so. A dangerous move on my part, but my hope that his hands weren’t as well versed in cards as they were with his weapons. A few rounds passed in tense silence. Outside, the wind howled like a starving wolf. Inside, soldiers whispered about Nilfgaard’s relentless push north, about the battered Redanian defenses and whispers of a rebellion brewing in Skellige. The war may be drawing to a close. Gods be praised. But here at our table, there was only the game, and the Witcher’s unsettling gaze catching every flinch, every tell.
“You’re sweating,” he noted, laying down a biting frost card that turned the tide.
“Just the heat,” I replied smoothly. But my stomach churned as I watched my carefully laid strategy fall apart. My siege troops no longer holding their position on the table they once had.
“Strange,” The pale Witcher said, glancing at my deck. His golden eyes met mine with a knowing glint. “Your cards … they’re heavier than they should be.”
I feigned a chuckle, a sound as thin as parchment and attempted to change the course of conversation. “You never said your name, your accent? Is it Rivian?” I tried to snatch the cards back, but his hand shot out, iron-hard fingers closing around my wrist.
“Cheaters don’t deserve mercy,” he growled.
Time slowed to a heartbeat, then splintered into chaos. I reached for the knife at my belt, but he was faster. His chair clattered to the floor as he drew his steel sword in a flash of silver. The blade caught the firelight as it swung toward me; I stumbled back, drawing my knife too late.
A roar erupted as patrons scrambled for the exits, tables overturned and tankards spilled, beer slicking the floor. He advanced upon me, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. I lunged, aiming for the gap beneath his ribs, but he sidestepped with the grace of predator on the hunt.
“Igni,” he intoned, and flames roared to life from his outstretched hand. I cried out, throwing up an arm to shield my face. The heat seared, blistering skin in an instant.
“Damn you to the nine Hells!” I spat, desperation clawing at my throat. I swung wildly, the blade catching nothing but air. His foot slammed into my chest, sending me sprawling into an upturned table. Pain shot up my spine as I crashed to the ground, the room spinning.
“You know where she is,” he said, sword tip pressing against my throat, cold as a winter's kiss. I gasped for air, vision spotting.
“Sod off,” I managed, defiance trembling in my voice.
A second of silence, then the blade sank in, swift and merciless. My world shrank to a pinpoint of pain before slipping into blackness. Over the din, I heard him mutter, half to himself, “I’ll find you, Yen.”
The last thing I saw as my eyes began to lose their focus was the Witcher’s unyielding expression as he pulled his sword free.
Hopeful Words
Doused in gold
But nonetheless cold
A world where you
Are expected to grow old
The endless pits
Of double shifts
And the hazardous rhymes
Of these troubled times
A troubled world
Where we'd rather be sleeping
Than having to deal
With the monsters that are creeping
A world where dying
Is better than lying
About who we are
While we watch from afar
Where wars are endlessly fought
For reasons we've long since forgot
Where blood is easy to shed
And we never learn from the dead
A people who cry out in pain
While others just try to stay in their lane
When even reaching one hand out
Could free them from their doubt
We see all the little ways
That our inner demon plays
But don't forget the angel within
That could break us free from the sin
It's easy to get lost
In all of this sauce
But try to keep in mind
It's not the end of the line
Don't just live for tomorrow
Live for next year too
Don't lose your hope
To this chaotic zoo
