Here are the winners of our annual very, very short fiction contest BY RN&R REaDERs
T
his weird little fiction contest—in which we ask our readers to submit stories that are exactly 95 words long—is one of our favorite annual traditions around here. This year yielded a large and better-thanaverage crop of stories. The editorial staff reads all the submissions, and then we vote on our favorites with a weighted point system (10 points for each editor’s favorite story, nine for their second favorite, and so on down to a single point for their tenth favorite). The stories with the most points win, with ties broken by the number of editors who voted in favor of it. So yeah, it’s all very scientific. We received over 200 submissions this year. And, as with every annual crop of 95-word stories, particular themes start to emerge. This year’s stories were, as a whole, more depressing than previous years. Lots of divorce and lots of death (especially, for some reason, deaths by car accident). But don’t worry, there were still plenty of goofball stories among our favorites. Congrats to the winners!
FirsT place Free at Last
British author Zadie Smith writes: “Self hatred is for younger, prettier women.” Amen, I say, Amen. But this is a peace that came marching slow for me. My youthful Artemis achievement phase produced a doctorate degree, daily weighing and a svelte size 8. The wild horse ride named “Mid Life Crisis” bucked me along complete with profligate behavior, Botox, braces and a curvy size 10. Now, presto chango, I have my “giving back” job. There is no room for a scale in my bathroom. No small journey this. Hurry along, younger girls. It is nice. —EIlEEN DRIsCOll
second place
THird place
To be fair, it was a Monday. Not only was it a Monday, it was the first Monday after she left. And to be honest, it was a mess. He was clueless. She was the one who always made the kids’ waffles. She was the one who always matched his socks. She was the one who stuck drawings and schoolwork on the fridge with multi-colored magnets. She was the one who always had the dishes washed and put away. She was the one who did everything. And to be fair, that’s why she was gone.
Pigeon on a Pole
—MORgaN ROsE sTEWaRT Morgan Stewart is in her first year of college at Portland State University, studying Biochemistry. She has had an interest in reading and writing since she was a child.
Eileen Driscoll is a secret. She is like a happy, humble nun driving every day up the Truckee River Canyon to work with students in Truckee, California, but … she is one drink away from a Porsche and taking off into orbit. Orbit was her childhood nickname.
After a while you don’t see utility poles, even an ugly one such as stands on my corner with wires going in five directions, here where I’ve lived since my partner didn’t break up with me exactly, but we live apart. (“What’s so important about cohabitation,” her emissary daughter asked/stated.) I heard cooing and looked up, and laughed out loud, because a cock pigeon was turning in jerky circles on the tiptop of the pole, courting a hen perched on an insulator. Then she flew off, he stopped circling, and it no longer seemed funny. —aNThONy shaFTON Anthony Shafton is author of four published books. His current work concerns the friendship between Reno author Walter Van Tilburg Clark and Reno artist Robert Caples. Shafton is 79, a Chicago native and Reno resident.
Morgan Rose Stewart
Anthony Shafton
Photo/Eric Marks
Eileen Driscoll
Photo/Eric Marks
95 WORD FICTION 12.22.16
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