The Contest Winners Are

Congratulations to WriterAdvice’s Flash Fiction winners, those who came close, and everyone with the courage to submit. We were impressed with the quality of submissions, and we selected six winners this time. 

As we made our selections, we tried to include a variety of subjects as well as tightly written and evocative pieces. You’ll see our reasoning below each entry, and a new winner will be posted each week. 

Please continue submitting. There are lots of places seeking flash fiction and all kinds of writing. Our compliments to all who participated!

And the Winners Are

7-01-26 The Value of Fat by Shelley Stutchman

7-06-26 Smoke and Mirrors by Scott Dukette

7-13-26 Operation Chaos by Karin Cooper

7-20-26 It’s So Hot I Feel Like I’m On Fire by Jane Harkins

7-27-26 The Butterdish by Cassie Hussey

8-03-26 The Microwave by Alison Smith

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The Microwave  

By Alison Smith

 “So I should use glass or plastic, right? I shouldn’t use metal, I think.”

“That’s right, Dad. Some types of glass. Some plastic. Usually there’s a symbol on the container. You definitely should not use metal in the microwave. That would be bad.”

He was never physically that strong. Not weak, but on the smaller side, swallowed by his suit and tie. He sat most of the day behind his desk, designing something to do with ocean waves that I never really understood although he tried to explain. He was, more or less, physically the same as many Aussie middle class men of his generation. Not a labourer, not super strong, but able to work the lawnmower of a Sunday. Able to pick his kids up until they got too big. Able to play backyard cricket on Boxing Day. Able to sweep my Mum off her feet, even after that should have been far in their past.

He was, however, intellectually strong. He read New Scientist for fun. He debated the existence of god, framing it in the headlights of human fallibility and the need to belong somewhere, to something, even if it wasn’t there. He read mathematical equations (although not as easily as Mum). He helped with homework, even when it wasn’t his area of expertise. He listened to Alistair Cooke’s “America” and drank in the news through his ears and eyes, linking past events to the present and projecting into the future, often accurately. He pored over Choice magazine to assess new technology; he made us wait to buy a CD player until he was sure it wouldn’t be taken over by soon to come developments. I wasn’t happy, had my eye on Billy Joel’s “Behind the Iron Curtain”, was sure a CD player would bring Billy into my living room. But he was right and that CD player lasted decades, far outlasting the Iron Curtain itself.

Now, we are discussing what container can heat up his food and won’t explode, setting his house on fire. Given the house’s current state, it’s pretty clear his fire extinguishers won’t have been checked within the regulatorily-required time limits. So they can’t help. If he has fire extinguishers. I forgot to check.

It’s a far cry from the icy streets in northern Europe, this antipodean home he lives in now. Clear blue sky. Flocks of cockatoos – more than I remember, filling the sky, invading the parks, shouting at a too-early dawn. Pavements that will melt your shoes, spiky bindis waiting to pierce bare feet in a sea of seemingly soft grass. The sun flooding the sky, glowing orange in the morning and emitting a fiery haze when it goes to bed. A rumbling in the atmosphere suggesting the electrical storms will put on a show later that evening.

But here we sit, him stuck in his routine, me struggling to connect. Talking about the weather. The wildlife. The gum trees. The banksia. Anything so he doesn’t talk about his wife – my mother. Normally I would welcome stories of how she was, before she stopped recognising me. Before she introduced me, solemnly, to my father. Somehow knowing who we were but not seeing how we were connected to each other. He smiled. He knew then. He played along, as did I. Nodding and smiling.

But now she is gone and it is him that doesn’t really know me. So he tells me stories about his wife, how they met, how she decided he was “the one”. Which normally would be a love story that children would devour – “How I Met Your Mother”. But he forgets she is my mother and tells me things that once heard, cannot be forgotten.

He was so invincible. She was so elusive. Together they were a powerhouse. Now, I have travelled far from my own husband and children halfway around the world to close the circle. The cared-for becoming the carer. Trying to laugh inside at the absurdity of learning from my young children how to care for my father, whose power of reason has given way to innocence.

Deep breath. Broad smile. Caring eyes. Poised with a glass bowl full of soup I made yesterday that he loved then but now doesn’t remember eating.

“I imagine I have to learn how to use this – what did you say it was?”

“A microwave, Dad. It heats food up quickly. A cheese sandwich and a banana will sort you out. Then you can nap.”

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Alison Smith grew up in Brisbane, Australia, and now lives in Venice, Italy, with her human, feline and canine family. She is a human rights defender who works with civil society across the world to seek justice for victim/survivors of war crimes, crimes against humanity and genocide.”

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Editor’s Note: There’s something incredibly authentic about the crisis that the father faces and the way his daughter helps him. “What did you say this is?” was particularly resonant, partly because of what came before. The description in the second paragraph gives a wonderful picture of who the dad is and how much the daughter loves him. We also liked the skill of the artist who drew the illustration. Excellent work!

Would you like to share your prose with us? Our next contest, which we’re calling Flash Prose, is open and we’d love to read your submissions. Feedback is available. 

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The Butter Dish

By Cassie Hussey

Little Peggy studied the faces of the other girls at the table. Her legs swung anxiously under her chair, and though her hands were folded in her lap, her fingers wouldn’t stay still. Everything here was still new, and she wished she were home with her sister, brothers, Mama, and Papa.

Mary, sitting beside her, gave her ankle a quick kick—a warning to settle—just as the House Mother entered.

All eyes shifted to the tall, stern woman. She sat at the head of the table, her two assistants close by. Her steely blue gaze swept over the ten girls as she folded her hands and began to speak. Peggy rested her elbows on the table and folded her hands into a little temple. She knew this part.

It was what she and Mary did at home before meals. Peggy closed her eyes and waited. At home, Joe would nudge her when it was time to open her eyes and eat, but Joe wasn’t here. She cracked one eye open, peeking to see if it was time.

Finally, she lifted her knife and fork. Her heart lifted at the sight of one of her favorite meals: meatloaf, beets, and mashed potatoes. House Mother spoke again, but Peggy focused on cutting her meatloaf. Mama had taught her and Mary the proper way to use a knife and fork. A warm tingle of pride filled her. She wasn’t making a mess.

She watched the butter dish move around the table. She needed butter for her potatoes. The gravy boat was coming her way, but she needed butter first. The dish had stalled on Mary’s far side. But how could she get it? The biggest rule here was that hands and fingers were only for silverware or pencils.

Peggy leaned forward, nodding toward the butter dish. But the girl beside Mary was looking away, nodding at the gravy boat. The girl with the gravy boat nodded toward the salt and pepper. Everything was slow, tangled. Peggy’s food was cooling. Too many times, she’d eaten her meals cold, waiting for someone to notice her.

Her stomach growled. The smell of dinner made her mouth water.

She couldn’t wait anymore. She tapped Mary’s foot. Mary turned, and Peggy pointed at the butter. Mary slid the dish toward her just as House Mother stood.

Peggy quickly used her knife to take a slice of butter. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw House Mother approaching.

Suddenly, fingers clamped onto her shoulder and yanked her from her chair. House Mother’s face flushed red as she seized Peggy’s hands. Terrified, Peggy stared into those icy eyes. The woman’s mouth moved sharply, lips twisting, teeth clenched. Then, in quick, furious motions, she slapped Peggy’s hands and then her face.

Peggy wailed—not only from the sting but from the hurt blooming inside her chest.

One of the assistants grabbed her arm and dragged her upstairs to the dormitory. Peggy was hauled to her bed. She didn’t need to see the woman’s face to know she wouldn’t be allowed dinner.

When the assistant left, Peggy threw herself onto the iron bed and sobbed. She cried for her lost meal, for Mama and Papa, for her brothers.

Why had Mama and Papa brought her and Mary to this awful place? What had they done wrong? Maybe they had pointed too much at the dinner table. She would never point again. Maybe then Mama and Papa would take them home.

Much later, the girl who’d had the butter dish beckoned to Peggy and Mary. They slipped into the dorm bathroom. The girl pointed to herself and traced letters in the air: Carol. Then she shaped something with her hands and pointed to herself again. She pressed a finger to her lips.

Ssh.

Carol was teaching them a secret way to communicate.

Peggy smiled. She would follow House Mother’s rules. But now there was a way around them—one that had to stay hidden.

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Cassie Hussey is a retired interpreter for the Deaf, a Coda, who has enjoyed writing stories since childhood. She now has more free time to devote to family, friends, reading, and continuing to write stories from the perspective of growing up in the Deaf community.

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Editor’s Note: Although this story takes place in the past the issues of misunderstanding and friendship are contemporary. Peggy is likable, clever, and sympathetic, and we liked the way her hearing issues were revealed. Well done!

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It’s So Hot I Feel Like I’m On Fire

By Jane Harkins

Mom and the neighbor, Mrs. Blake, are squared off in our shared driveway while the black top radiates heat like someone set the oven on high and left the door open. My science teacher would be proud of my use of the word “radiate.”

My rubber soled sneakers stick to the over-heated tar. You can hear them squelch as I walk toward my mom. I don’t run outside anymore.

Mom says no more swimming at the public pool. I’m disappointed, but a sign was posted last week about cases of E. coli, and yesterday the suntan oil slick caught fire, so I guess she has a point.

I see the object of Mom’s and Mrs. Blake’s argument before I can hear them. They both have a death grip on the garden hose and are waving it like a drooping sword, while a few drops of water dribble out. There’s hardly any water pressure, and we’re on a rationing schedule. Today is not Mom’s day.

“I need to water my tomatoes before they die in this heat,” Mrs. Blake insists, pointing at the gray-dry stalks with the hard green marbles hanging from their stems.

Too late, I think.

“Forget your stupid tomatoes,” Mom shouts. “We won’t have anything to eat today if I don’t keep these peas alive.”

“It’s my day to water,” Mrs. Blake shouts back, yanking the hose harder and stumbling backwards when her hands slip off the hose.

“Ha!” Mom yells, forgetting her resolution to be more neighborly this year.

I catch Mrs. Blake by the elbow to steady her. “Mom. Mrs. Blake. It’s too hot to argue out here.” I realize it really is hot. Like, I’m heading for some shade.

“Honey,” Mom says. “Come here.”

She reaches out and pats me on the head, surprising me – she’s not one to show affection – when I realize the sun’s scorching rays have set my hair on fire.

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Jane Harkins knows a lot about a little and a little about a lot, most of which ends up in her stories. She’s part of her local writing scene, collects strays, and strives to save the world one aluminum can at a time.

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Editor’s Note: This has an original message as well as a scary one. Out of everyday life comes dystopian fiction. Love this narrator’s confidence and the last line blew us away. Excellent job!

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Check in on Tuesday, July 28 to see our read our next winner’s piece. We’d love to have you submit to our current contest. Details and Submittable link.

Operation Chaos

By Karin Cooper

Timing is crucial in abduction.

“My journal!” Birdie stops short.

“Got it!” The journal, toiletries, and laundry are stuffed into a Hefty bag. I shift it to my left arm, hooking my right hand over the handlebar of the Mighty Mack walker, pulling Birdie behind me. We accelerate from a snail’s pace to a turtle’s crawl.

The two nurses are occupied. I remind Birdie not to say anything, and she nods. Birdie likes being part of Operation Chaos.

“We’re leaving,” I mumble. A patient can’t leave the skilled nursing station without permission.

The nurse doesn’t look up. “Okay. Let me just check we have the doctor’s clearance for an outside appointment.”

“Leaving for good.” Calm and collected is crucial when abducting a patient. Even if the patient is one’s mother.

Operation Chaos sprang into action twenty-four hours ago. Ignoring consent from her doctor or me, they swiftly transferred Birdie from Assisted Living to Skilled Nursing. Skilled is subjective. A UTI. Antibiotics. Still, Birdie remains confined. A week with no physical therapy, each day bedridden weakening her further.

The nurse looks up with a stiff smile. It takes her a second to process the situation. We are rule breakers. The nurse retreats to find reinforcements.

Just one long corridor left, and I will break Birdie out of Samarkand’s Skilled Nursing. The only sound is Birdie’s heavy plop of one wide-toe box, Velcro-strapped, beige orthopedic shoe planting down while the other foot lifts up. The slow plodding gait is from a Traumatic Brain Injury, a hip replacement, osteoporosis, and stiffness from several days of bed confinement.

My fist clenches; I am angry. I am an adult-child angry at our society’s mass shoulder shrug to Code Old. I am angry at the understaffed and under-motivated medical elder care training. I am angry at pharmaceutical drugs haphazardly doled out. I am angry at the appalling indifference of government regulators, media, and watchdog groups to these violations of human dignity. I am angry at an industry posturing as a trustworthy authority, charging exorbitant prices to families who are then rendered voiceless once their loved one is contracted in their care.

There are no campus protests except for me.

 

In two weeks at the uber-expensive Samarkand, the atmosphere has been contentious. Brochures promised a campus of care, harmony, and Christian neighborly friendship. We arrived excited, moving her into a new studio with a kitchenette, balcony, and garden patio.

Nurse Maria greeted us curtly. “You’re late.”

She immediately issued a required “safety test” where Birdie had to get from bed to the patio door in under thirty seconds without a cane or walker. No chance to prepare.

Birdie knew the importance. Head up, eyes focused, she slowly planted each foot, her brain sending sluggish signals.

She clicked the stopwatch with a sadistic Nurse Ratched aura: “Twenty-nine and a half seconds.”

“You passed, Mom.”

A week later Birdie’s removed from her studio.

“Medicare will cover costs if you have her doctor admit her to Skilled Nursing,” informs the insurance-billing clerk.

“Why would Doctor Morris admit her if she’s not sick?”

The clerk coldly repeats the insurance requirement, adding, “Then you’ll have to pay the private rates.”

 

With a shove against the slow-moving automated double doors, we adjust our eyes to the raw natural morning light.

“Oh, it’s chilly.” Birdie stops.

“Eighty-five today.” I pull us toward the getaway car.

She’s Admiral Bird deciding on conditions for the trek. “Then I don’t need to button the sweater now.”

Activity is picking up around the campus. A golf cart emblazoned with large lettering, SECURITY, is coming straight toward us. But like everything on campus, it too is slow. In my rear-view mirror, I see the skilled nursing doors parting and nurses rushing out as we speed away.

“They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do.” I used to love reciting the Philip Larkin poem to Birdie. But today I added my own new line: “I may not mean to, but I keep fucking up too.”

The former fourth-grade teacher, always the lady, reprimands me. “Don’t use that kind of language.”

I look over at my mother. She’s happy to be in the car and not in a bed. My mother opens her journal and clicks her pen. “Now what?” she asks, assuming I have another plan.

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Smoke and Mirrors

By Scott Dukette

Lillian’s gut felt queasy as she went into the bar.  Although smoking indoors had been banned citywide for many years, the atmosphere still seemed hazy – as if decades of accumulated fumes still hadn’t cleared.

It was an odd place to choose for her first meeting with her birth father – a man she’d thought about daily over the past 40 years but had never taken shape into an actual person, with a face, a body, hands, or a soul. But it seemed fitting somehow to meet at a nondescript anonymous dive where she’d never been before and would never go again.

“Hey little lady!” a fat man at the bar blurted out as soon as she entered. “Let me buy you a drink.  The sky’s the limit – anything you want!”

“Oh, please God, let that not be my father,” Lillian prayed to herself, “Please, please, please!” She exhaled when she realized he didn’t fit the description she’d been provided – slender 60s man, bearded and balding.

She ignored the man and proceeded slowly into the gloom, to a booth near the back that seemed to offer some amount of privacy.  While the front entrance was not directly visible from the booth, it could be easily monitored in the mirror hanging over the table if Lillian sat in exactly the right position.

Although she’d arrived at exactly the agreed-upon meeting time, her procreator remained elusive for the next 90 minutes.  The mirror over Lillian’s table had reflected about two dozen customers entering the bar during that time. Most of them seemed to be younger men, with a few women mixed in. The few 60s men she’d seen were large. Like fatso at the bar, whom she’d started thinking of as “Lew” for no reason she could be certain about.

As Lillian finished her third drink, she scrolled through her phone to the number she’d been using to correspond with her father, blocked it, and hit delete.  On her way out, she smiled at Lew, who gave her a wink and a big grin of his own.  For a split second, she considered climbing onto the empty stool next to him.  Maybe the attention of someone friendly and demonstrative would be better than no attention at all.

But two young men entering the bar while bantering loudly, accompanied by a burst of cold air from outside, interrupted her thoughts and she slipped out through the door before it closed.

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Scott Dukette retired from a longtime career in 2025 and now splits his time between Austin, Lake Champlain, and Valle de Bravo, Mexico.  He and his wife, Barbara are avid international travelers.

Editor’s Note: Scott skillfully showed us what the man at the bar knew and the woman couldn’t see. This is shown well and only  essential information exists, but there’s plenty for us to imagine. Nice work!

The Value of Fat

by Shelley Stutchman

Brittany measured her worth in before-and-after photos. Before the wedding. After the wedding. Before the vacation. After the vacation. She starved herself for these events, then ate in secret until her body once again found every pound, plus interest. At thirty-five, unmarried and two hundred and fifty pounds, she moved through the world like an inconvenience. People didn’t seem to notice her when she entered a room. Men looked past her. Brittany felt invisible.

It seemed almost everyone else had melted away pounds with a shot once reserved for diabetics, now repurposed for weight loss. Friends who once shared pizza with her now spent their time shopping for smaller sizes and living glamorous lives, while Brittany stayed the same.

One night, the indigestion that followed from eating an entire pizza by herself prevented her from falling asleep, Brittany stripped and stood naked before the mirror. She pressed her stomach flat with both hands, as if trying to turn into someone who fit into this world of skinny people. Her flesh slipped back into place the moment she let go, as if it belonged there more than she did. She tried to imagine herself thin, wanted. That night, she decided she would take the shot, charge it to her Mastercard, and accept the debt. Being beautiful was all that mattered, but to Brittany, being wanted mattered even more.

The next morning, Brittany walked into a med-spa clinic, instantly feeling uneasy, thinking she didn’t belong here. All the women in the waiting room were thin, radiating the confidence Brittany lacked. She turned to leave, but the receptionist walked toward her and then gently touched her shoulder. “Come sit down,” she said, her voice soft and welcoming. Brittany sat because that was what fat girls did: they obeyed. The receptionist smiled and slid her phone across the counter. “See that fat girl?” she said, tapping the screen. “That was me six months ago.”

An hour later, Brittany left the med-spa. Her purse bulged with boxed syringes, and the pricey elixir promising thinness. The receptionist hugged her tightly. “You’re going to love this,” she whispered. Outside, catching her reflection in the tinted glass, she looked the same. Yet now, hope tugged at her chest; it felt fragile, electric, and terrifying.

The next morning, Brittany turned on the news. “Emergency public health announcement,” the reporter said. “All overweight individuals must report to the nearest medical facility immediately. All weight-loss injections are recalled.” She swallowed. “Patients who’ve received injections for three months or more are experiencing rapid systemic failure. The drug suppresses all fat production. Some fat is biologically essential. Without it, the body cannot survive.”

Brittany dressed and went to the nearest clinic. The waiting room was packed with thin bodies, faces tight with fear. Heads turned the moment she entered. A nurse called her name and hurried her past the others into a room with a few other fat men and women. A man in a suit told them they were a national resource. Their fat cells were urgently needed to save lives. The government would pay each of them $250,000 a week to donate their fat cells until the crisis was contained. Brittany did the math. In one month, she would be a millionaire. As she passed back through the waiting room, thin people watched her with envy. Brittany felt visible and wanted.  Now, everyone wanted to be like Brittany.

Shelley Malicote Stutchman is an award-winning author, speaker, breast cancer survivor, freelance newspaper reporter, featured writer for Caregiver Magazine, and blog writer. Her book, Peek-A-Boob: Uncovering Breast Cancer, has received numerous awards. In 2025, she received the Honorable Eileen Echols Inspired Woman Award. She lives by the belief that every challenge can become a story of hope.

Editor’s Note: What a delightful turn of events in the end of this story. Over the years we’ve read a great deal about being overweight and loving oneself, but we’ve never seen this unique perk. WTG!