The 2019 Flash Fiction Contest is closed to entries. Look for the return of this popular feature in May of 2020.
Three Winning Stories will be awarded $100 each!
The editors of Third Wednesday are pleased to honor the memory of George Dila, friend of Third Wednesday and the editor who originally brought fiction to T.W.
We are proud to have called him friend and colleague. To this end, we proudly announce the Third Annual George Dila Memorial Flash Fiction Contest.
The entry fee of $5 per story is payable via credit card or by Pay Pal through Submittable at the time of your submission. All entries will receive a free PDF copy the contest issue – a $5 value, or enter for FREE with the purchase of a 2 issue e-subscription to Third Wednesday for $10. You will receive a PDF copy of the current issue and the contest issue. You may enter multiple stories but include only one story per entry.
From May 1st to August 15th, 2019 we will accept entries of previously unpublished fiction under 1000 words in length (including title). Three winning stories will receive cash prizes of $100 each and a print copy of the contest issue.
Formatting your story entry is easy. We want submissions in size 12 Times New Roman font, single spaced with one inch margins all around. Save your document in .doc or .docx format and upload it where prompted by our Submittable account. You can name files whatever is convenient for you but the submission title should match the title of your story. Do not include any identifying information within files or file names. Our judge will read all submissions blindly.
Introducing this year’s contest judge, Jeremy Griffin.
Jeremy is originally from Louisiana. He received his MFA in Fiction from Virginia Tech University. He is the author of the books A Last Resort for Desperate People: Stories and a Novella, from SFAU Press, and Oceanography, forthcoming from Orison Books. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in such journals as the Alaska Quarterly Review, the Indiana Review, Shenandoah, and the Water Stone Review. He has received support from the South Carolina Arts Commission, and he teaches at Coastal Carolina University, where he serves as faculty fiction editor of Waccamaw: A Journal of Contemporary Literature.
Now read one of last year’s winning stories:
Out For Delivery
It was the dishwasher’s rhythmic noise that made the man go next door and shoot his neighbor. Lying on a couch with a book of poetry he couldn’t bring himself to open again, he listened to the sounds of the house, and watched as winter limbs in different windows discussed the weather. He noticed that the surge and rumble of the dishwasher, laboring in the kitchen, made a kind of music that had the orchestration of a march. Exultant phrases falling to a rush of drums and then repeating. Finally a hollow silence left the parade ground empty. Everybody turning in angles away from each other in his mind, getting on with another day.
She was dying and in pain, her hair gone. The chemo had even caused her fingernails to fall away. But her husband wheeled her about on their broad front porch with a defiant alacrity. He was a pastor at a nearby church, and his faith could brook no argument with what was right—no slip that would tarnish the command of joy.
The man rose from his couch and paced the rug before it. Looked down at the birds woven there. And he wondered how one might come to terms with the history of all that humans had done to each other. Then he took up his book and a small pistol.
It was Sunday morning, and the pastor had wrapped her in a blanket and left her in her wheelchair on the front porch. The tired sound of hymns drifted to her from his church. She imagined that she might soon hear, faintly, scattered tones of his voice. Points of emphasis being made without the quiet parts there to make sense of them. And now—the neighbor man walking across the front yard and up the steps.
He took a seat in a chair in front of her, held her gaze for a moment and then tipped up a book he held. He said he thought she might like to have someone read to her. She saw that the book was not the Bible, and nodded. It was a book of poems. Robinson Jeffers. How long had it been since she had smiled at anything?
He read a poem about a hawk dragging its broken wing. At the end he looked up at her, seeking her thoughts. She closed her eyes. Nodded yes, still smiling.