ALT: a cartoon duck is writing in a notebook with a pencil

A writing prize open to all forms of narrative prose, be that flash fiction, short-short, vignette, haibun, hermit crab, prose poem or work that sits outside such labels.

Congratulations to all the 27 authors who have made our Award long list for the 2026 Award (Final results in January, 2026) and huge thanks to all who entered.Author names are yet to be announced, …

ALT: a cartoon duck is writing in a notebook with a pencil

Huge congratulations to the twenty authors who have made our 31st Award short listAuthor names are yet to be announced, so while it is fine to share you are on the short list, please do not identif…

Congratulations to all the authors who have made our Award long list and huge thanks to all who entered.Author names are yet to be announced, so while it is fine to share that you are on the long l…

Visit the post for more.

Visit the post for more.

Ad Hoc Fiction : - Books ecommerce, open source, shop, online shopping, store, book, bookshop, chap book, chapbook, flash fiction, micro fiction, sudden fiction, poetry prose, short short story, pres...

Congratulations to all the authors who have made our Award long list and huge thanks to all who entered.Author names are yet to be announced, so while it is fine to share that you are on the long l…

Coy sits behind the reception desk. “You sure you want a tattoo?” he says.  “Hell, yeah,” the woman says. She juts her chin forward and narrows her eyes. “I want a whole sleeve, but I’ll start with something simple like a chameleon or a woodpecker.” Coy looks at her. Gray hair, wrinkles, knotty blue veins. “Neither of those is simple,” he says, “not if they’re done right. You don’t know much about tattoos.” “As long as you do, we’ll be fine. I do know I like yours, especially the anaconda  winding around your neck,” the woman says. “Ironic. Wry. In your face.” Coy scratches his head. This woman could be his grandmother. Maybe great-grandmother. She’s ancient. Skin like hers would be paper thin. Probably a bleeder. He imagines tying a tourniquet about her arm to stop some god-awful hemorrhage. “Does anyone know you’re here or that you’re wanting to permanently inject ink into your body?” Coy can’t help but notice that she smells like cake. “Can I call someone to take you home?” “I don’t answer to anyone, young man. I’m the boss of me,” she says, “an if I want to tattoo one hell of an anaconda on my neck, then that’s my prerogative. If you won’t do it, I’ll go to Inkblots.” She turns to leave. Coy flinches. Barb over at Inkblots would grab the old woman’s money, slap some god-awful smudge of a broken heart on her shoulder and sleeve her up with clichéd designs and bleed her of hundreds of dollars.  “Wait,” Coy says. He walks around the desk to stand with the woman who smells like someone he wishes he remembered.  “We’ll start with cornflowers,” he says, “Then around your arm, we’ll twine a vine with heart-shaped leaves as green as early spring.”

“Put a gun in it,” he says. He exhales a cigarette breath even though he hasn’t smoked in months. “It’s not that kind of story,” I say. “It’s about family connection.” “Without a gun, you won’t get a movie deal,” he says. “When you put a gun in a story, someone gets hurt or dies.” I reach for his hand to stop his galloping fingers. I look into his eyes. Most of him is still there. The opinionated part, at least. He gives me his that’s-the-way-it-is look. “If the story’s up to snuff, someone has to die,” he says. “It makes readers care.” Our hands let go of each other. “My stories aren’t about death,” I say. “Yes, they are. What happens to the fish?” I sigh. My hands hold each other.  “Don’t you care about them?” he says. “I do,” I say. “I’ll revise it so they catch and release.” Now his fingers on both hands drum. “Cop out,” he says. I take a deep breath. “It isn’t about fish. It’s supposed to show the father and daughter casting out and reeling each other back. It’s a metaphor for holding onto something elusive.” “Malarkey,” he says. “Add a gun.” I clasp my hands as if prayer could help. “No gun,” I say. “If it’s there certain things will happen.” I give him my own that’s-the-way-it-is look. He raises both hands. “If you put a fish in the story, nobody has to catch it. If you put in a cigarette, nobody has to smoke,” he says. “You’re the writer. Fix it so nobody uses the gun.” My father—sitting in a wheelchair, stale breath, his fingers drumming—leans toward me. “You can still control your story,” he says. I nod and drum along with him. --- Debra A.Daniel has published two novellas-in-flash, A Family of Great Falls and The Roster (AdHoc Fiction), Woman Commits Suicide in Dishwasher (novel), and two poetry chapbooks, The Downward Turn of August and As Is. She’s a Pushcart and Best Short Fictions nominee. She won The Los Angeles Review short fiction prize, received the SC Arts Commission Poetry Fellowship, the Guy Owen Poetry Prize, and awards from the Poetry Society of SC. Work has been longlisted and shortlisted in many contests and has appeared in: Snow Crow, Legerdemain, LA Review, Smokelong, Kakalak, Inkwell, Southern Poetry Review, Tar River, and others.

Ma shrugs, it’s how he was – intrusive, shaming . To me, the stippled mucosa telescoping into view is like veined marble, unknowable beauty....