We extend our enthusiastic and heartfelt congratulations to the 8 winners in WriterAdvice’s 2026 Flash Prose Contest.
We also applaud those who were short listed, and everyone with the courage to submit.
If you feel WriterAdvice is a good place to submit your work, please do. If you are a generous writer, please share this site with your friends.
As usual, we included tightly written and evocative pieces that dealt with many subjects and multiple issues.
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 flashes and all kinds of writing.
Our next contest, which is not flash, is posted at https://writeradvice.com/latest-contest/.
The Winners, and the Days They Will Be Published:
10/01/26 Meg by Erik Johnson
10/06/25 Before Sunrise, He’s Your Son by Austrie Martinez
10/13/26 Home by Connie Pertuz-Meza
10/20/26 Letter to Laura by Bari Benjamin
10/27/26 Green Chilis by Irene A. Marquez
11/03/26 Second Coming by Susan Wadds
11/10/26 Bleu by Robert Robeson
11/17/26 788 by Sascha Ealey
GREEN CHILES
By Irene A. Marquez
I was 16 years old. My Mamá had been dead ten years and my brother, Marcos, had gone off to fight with Pancho Villa. It was only Papá and I. I didn’t go to La Señora’s anymore. They fled when the Villistas raided their hacienda. I had already been introduced to your Abuelito, grandfather but it was hard for us to see each other.
Papá now worked repairing the railroad which transported men and ammunition. It was better because the silver mines made his lungs weak, but the railroad was dangerous, too. At any time, either the Villaistas or Federales could attack.
I cooked for my Papá and washed and cleaned our two-room home. I was alone most of the day and sometimes late into the night. War has no hours. Papá told me to always be on the lookout. However, because it was so quiet I could hear if someone was coming or feel the earth tremble with horses.
Still one afternoon– I was sitting at the kitchen table peeling green chili peppers I roasted. Your great-grand father loved chili rellenos. That year it had rained more than usual and the crop was plentiful. La Señora sent some goat cheese, and I wanted to use it before it went bad. I left the door open hoping for a cool breeze. I hummed a song whose words I could no longer remember but reminded me of my Mamá. And thinking of how surprised and happy Papá would be to eat his favorite dish.
It was hard then. La Revolución took people away. Some never came back. I sang careful not to touch my eyes, because the chilies made them sting and tear. I piled the long strips on the edge of the table. I remember I heard crowing.
“¡Órale, look what I found!”
I glanced up. At the front door stood a short man dressed in a soiled white uniform–a Federalista. He wiped his thick dirty hand across his mouth.
I inhaled as my heart slid into my stomach.
“Mirá, que bonita.” Look, how pretty you are. The Federalista looked around. “Are you all alone, mi chiquita?” my little one. He took a step inside.
I leaped, pushing the chair aside. Somewhere I found my voice. “No, no, my, my big brother is outside.”
“¿Oh, sí? ¿Dónde?” where. He slammed the door.
“All I have to do is scream.” My stomach squeezed my heart. “An, and he’ll come.”
“Go ‘head, yell. I’ll wait.” He grinned.
“Marcos!” I squeaked. I saw his heavy boots walking toward me.
“Marcos? Marcos?” He mocked.
He approached closer.
I held my breath. Holding onto the side of the table, I felt something slippery.
The chilies!
“Doesn’t look like Marcos is comin.”
Walking my fingertips to the peppers, I curled them into my hand.
“Marcos?” He teased again as he came closer dropping his rifle on the table.
My heart stopped as I heard his belt buckle clink.
Another step.
I felt his hot breath. I noticed his cracked lips and a rotted front tooth.
“Oh, lil’ girl, this is goin’ to be fun.”
Madre mia, ayudame. Help me.
Black stone eyes stared at me.
Lifting my arm, I opened my hand.
Staggering, he shouted, “Ahhh!” as I smeared the spicy slivers across his face.
My legs shaking, I reached for the firearm.
“Goin’ to get you!” His fingers clawing at me.
My palm was slippery, but I managed to raise the gun. Although my hand trembled, my finger found the hard curve of the trigger.
And as he lurched forward, the barrel pressed itself against his chest.
Then a loud noise knocked me down. When I opened my eyes, red spread across the wood floor. My yellow pee mixed with it.
I raced outside and threw up, bringing my heart out from my stomach. Tears mingled with sprayed blood on my neck and face. My hands and arms felt sticky. “Papá!” I cried collapsing.
Later, I pulled off my wet underwear, tucked my dress around myself and crawled under the house. I noticed dripping through a crack. Crouched and rocking, I waited for my Papá.
That night after he arrived, Papá cleaned the floor, the wall and me. I helped him dig a hole in theground.
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The author says, “It began with diaries. Then lined whitepaper notebooks, followed by journals. The writing muse persisted. And publications encouraged. A non-profit bilingual literary organization founded publishing anthologies, a play written, script consultant, editor to polish, and to date adult and young adults creative writing workshops. Stories are our legacy.
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Editor’s Note: The ending rocks, but it wouldn’t work without all the details leading up to it. This is good work. The tension is immediate and so is the tragedy of war. It shares a message as well as a story.
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Letter to Laura
By Bari Benjamin
May 2020
Dear Laura,
You grabbed my hand and squeezed so hard your newly manicured, blue nails dug into my sweaty palms. You were scared. You kept your eyes glued to the floor as though hoping to miss seeing Grandma in this cold room, reeking of alcohol and urine. I was scared, too. I barely recognized her. Her frail body lay haphazardly strewn across her bed as if she had no control over her limbs. Her warm, brown eyes were glazed over and lifeless. As I leaned over to whisper in her ear, I noticed a glimmer of recognition in her eyes. My heart swelled with love and for an instant, I felt happy. Then it was gone and she didn’t know me.
It was then that I realized I didn’t know her either. Wait; I wanted to scream; I need to know things. I have questions, Ma. What were you like as a little girl? Did your mother hold you close and comfort you when you were frightened? Did you sit on your daddy’s lap, like a princess on her throne? What was your first kiss like? Did you hate it like I did? Did you wonder if it would always be like that? How did you feel when you married Dad? Were you happy or did you know in your heart it was a mistake? How did you feel when I was born-no, how did you really feel?” I need to know your stories.”
Grandma died one week later. Mourning has been difficult for me because instead of mourning her death, I’m grieving my disconnection from her life. I’m grieving the loss of not knowing her as a child, a teenager, a woman. This is a longing that will never go away. I know that you, too, have that longing, dear Laura, for your biological mother, who you only knew for the first six months of your life. You were then found in a train station in Moscow, Russia, surrounded by family photos, a baby blanket and a soft toy. I tried so hard to retrieve those photos, dear Laura, but sadly, I could not. You were then transferred to an orphanage, one of twenty-five baby homes, as they called them. That’s where I first met you; me, a single, divorced woman, you, a two-year-old toddler. Your large, dark brown eyes sparkled when I hugged you close to me. I was smitten.
So, I am offering you a substitution of sorts, an opportunity to know me as your adoptive mom as well as a woman, who is human with strengths, flaws and limitations. Know me, Laura. In my letters to you, know who I am and where I’ve been. And know that my life choices have led me to happily find you.
Love,
Mom
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Bari Benjamin is a former English teacher turned psychotherapist. She began writing journals during her high school days and currently writes memoir and personal essays. She has published essays in Stepmom and Adoption Today magazines as well as Chicken Soup for the Soul books. This letter is the introduction to her memoir book, “Dear Laura.”
Editor’s Note: There’s urgency in the first paragraph. The narrator asks great questions! There’s an excellent purpose, and the writing has excellent specificity. This works.
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” Our parents go north to forget, and we go south to remember.”~~Guillermo Gomez-Pena
Home
By Connie Pertuz-Meza
If you stare at the map of Colombia long enough, it morphs into a heart. Not plump or Valentine red, nor the lopsided creations made of crayons. It looks like a fast sketch of the organ itself. After all, Colombia pumps beauty within and outside its borders. Colombia is partially contained within the northern Andes, flanked by two coastlines: the Caribbean Sea and the Pacifico. It is a place of marvel.
There is much talk about Pachamama— Madre Tierra in South America. It feels right to say Pachamama seems to live in the cordilleras. It’s home. La Central, Oriental, and Occidental, like a holy trinity, stand tall to conjure a long-ago memory when we were not Colombian, but people of the mountain. En La Costa Atlántica, the cities’ names ripple like the water surrounding them: Barranquilla, Santa Marta, and Cartagena. Mamá Cocha, madre de las aguas. They are people of the ocean.
A long, long time ago, before we were Colombians, we were people of the highlands and lowlands. The Wayuu people are the people of the sun, sand, and wind. I think they are the luckiest, since they never encountered the Spanish; their culture remains mostly intact. They are home. The Taironas have inhabited the Sierra Nevada in La Costa since before Christ. They splintered into groups: Arhuaco, Wiwa, Kogi, and Kankuamo. Then the Muiscas, who spoke Chibcha, lived in the present-day Cundinamarca and Boyacá.
I know I went to Colombia when I was an infant, despite not having any recollection of it; a passport from a very young me confirms this. There are pictures of a toddler me in Los Carnavales de Barranquilla, covered in celebratory talc. We went every other summer to Colombia: Mami, my big sister, and I. We split ourselves. Summer meant freedom from school, and in the even years it meant nights playing under the stars in front of abuelo’s house, and the odd years were spent longing to be back. Then, in the late 1980s, our trips came to a standstill altogether. Bombs in the interior of the country, kidnappings, and an emboldened guerrilla made Mami book bus excursions to Disney, Virginia Beach, and Canada, where government buildings were not bombed, presidential candidates were not assassinated, judges did not hide behind masks, and guerrillas did not kidnap indiscriminately.
During the summers spent in Colombia, I observed how Colombians circled the violence and continued with the matter of living, very much like the cumbia of our ancestors. I took the cue, too, and chatted with family, neighbors, and friends on la mesedora on Abuelo’s porch under the stars. I hummed to the vallenato that poured into the air in Barranquilla as if on some city-wide surround system. I drank Coca-Cola from a bottle, sipping slowly from the straw, and began to call soda gaseosa like everyone else. After a while, I didn’t even have to spray myself down with bug spray to be outside, as the mosquitoes buzzed by me like everyone else.
On the last day of my month-long trip to Colombia, I visited El Museo Nacional. I learned about United Fruit Company, the exploitation of los bananeros, Jorge Eliécer Gaitán’s assassination in 1948, La Violencia, the start of la guerrilla, el narco traffico, a long list of murders of government officials and candidates, Plan Colombia, and the 2016 Peace Treaty. When I was done, I realized sometimes there is no single answer to why Papi left, just a series of choices.
I thought of my son’s words on our first night in Colombia. I wish we had never had to leave Colombia. I touched my throat as it swelled with emotion. I knew the ones he spoke of were his grandparents. The words tumbled in my mind: “Our parents go north to forget. We go south to remember.”
Safe in the country where every generation before me has lived. A quieting took place, as if I answered a persistent beckoning. I can’t help but think my ancestors are smiling; after all, I have finally taken heed of their call. I was once told you don’t have to be born in la patria to carry it inside of you. I was home.
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Connie Pertuz-Meza is a Colombian-American writer and educator. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus, Kweli Literary Journal, and several anthologies. Connie is a VONA alum, a Tin House participant, a 2022 PEN America Emerging Fellow, and a 2025 Periplus Fellow. Scholastic published her early chapter book, Magic Outside My Window.
Editor’s Note: We loved both the specifics and the universality. This is tightly written, and skillfully incorporates identity, description, reflection, and a sense of urgency–all in 750 words. I personally love the ideas in the last paragraph. Remarkable story!
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Before Sunrise, He’s Your Son
By Austrie Martinez
My dad never took pictures of us. My mom was always the one behind the camera. In one photo, that she took with her Canon, my brothers and I are posed by the fireplace at our home in Northern Virginia. The fireplace is adorned with holly and red Christmas ornaments that my mom probably personalized with puffy paint. On the brick mantle lies a plate with a half-eaten peanut butter and M&M cookie mom made from scratch, and perhaps, a small glass of milk. Both left for Santa and his reindeer when he visited our house the night before. My brothers and I are wearing matching Lion King pajamas that my mom surprised us with. Mine was a night gown and my brothers were thermals. This was the late 90s and the Disney movie had taken over our house with a fury. We were happy, loved.
What the picture doesn’t show is that the second born, my brother, is on the spectrum. His hyper fixation at the time, and for years, was learning about African animals. He had a big book about safaris that described how to pack a proper rucksack. We’d pretend to travel to Africa as we played in the basement with old costumes and cardboard boxes. He had Lion King toys from Burger King that we played with on the tall grassy hill in the backyard. Scar was hated and ended up with a scuffed paint job from all the fights with Mufasa. My brother had memorized the cassette tape version of Lion Kingthat my brothers listened to on their boom box every night as they fell asleep. With my door ajar, I listened from across the hall.
What you don’t see in the picture is the mural my mom painted in their bedroom with lion paw prints all over the walls. What you don’t see is the matching movie bedspreads she bought for the boys for their twin beds. What you don’t see is my mom buying Burger King repeatedly so we could have a complete set of Lion King toys. What you don’t see is my mom using a screwdriver to respool the VHS tape of Lion King after we watched it so many times we exhausted the cassette. What you don’t see is her making my brother’s zebra Halloween costume by hand and taking pictures of him while he pretends to eat grass. What you don’t see is my mom behind the camera. What you don’t see is my dad in the picture.
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Austrie Martinez is an internationally published writer and a veteran of the US Air Force. She has an MFA in Creative Writing and Publishing Arts from the University of Baltimore. She teaches in Maryland where she lives with her two kids, two dogs, and two cats.
Editor’s Note: The author’s use of “What you don’t see…” and “What the picture doesn’t show…” make this particularly effective. Sometimes pictures don’t tell the whole story, and it’s the story behind the picture that interests us. The details also make this work. Well done!
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Meg
By Erik Johnson
There, in the back row of the risers, among the tallest of the choir members, is Meg Glick, my daughter. Except she isn’t.
Janice Glick had approached me twelve years earlier with a desperate plea that her son, just completing kindergarten, be put in my class the following year to separate him from a bully. That exchange started an intense summertime friendship of innocent coffees, gossipy lunches, and one Aperol Spritz-infused afternoon dalliance at my place. I never got the impression her marriage to Robert Glick was unhappy, more like boring. As the cliché goes, we never meant to take it that far; it was a compounding of bad decisions. The friendship instantly dissolved in shame and regret. In the fall, her son was placed in my colleague’s class and I got the bully. No surprise there.
Almost six years later, Meg Glick showed up in my classroom. By that point, I had moved on, my moment of appallingly bad judgment largely behind me. The name “Glick” brought it all back in a flash of ink on a page, or rather, text on a screen. Meg had been placed in the other first-grade class, probably at Janice’s insistence, but we swapped for science, so I taught her three times a week. Something about her eyes had been familiar and intriguing. It wasn’t until I was shuffling boxes around at home and came across old family photos that I understood: Meg’s eyes were exact replicas of my mother’s and sister’s eyes when they were her age.
I couldn’t escape or ignore it. And then, this last year, as she entered sixth grade and hit puberty, her face transformed, the round cherubic visage becoming thinner, more elegant, more defined. Unmistakably like my sister’s teenage face, shades of mine as well.
I cannot hold back the feelings for this girl, becoming a teenager, becoming my daughter. Except not mine. It’s like an itch became an ache. I always figured Janice had not admitted our indiscretion to her husband. Should I blow that up, ruin a family, traumatize all involved, to attempt to have a relationship with my daughter?
Now, here we are, the day of the sixth-grade graduation. My daughter’s graduation. I struggle to hold back tears as I think about the next day, the next year, and all those to follow. She’s poised to leave my life forever. Oh sure, I was only ever her former (favorite) science teacher who still acknowledges her in the halls, the cafeteria, the playground. She’s always greeted me with a smile. And I’ve always gotten to admire her, laud her, venerate her. From afar, though. I hadn’t realized how much I’d come to depend on her proximity.
Until now. Because it’s ending.
As the choir’s final song reaches a crescendo, I wonder if I can steal a final word with Meg before she departs this school, my life. I chance a glance at Janice and her husband, standing among the teary-eyed parents at the back of the auditorium. Robert Glick is staring, not at Meg, but at me, eyes slicing into me like lasers.
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Erik Johnson lives in New York and dabbles in flash and short fiction, poetry, novels, and screenplays. He has pieces in The Yard: Crime Blog, Half & One, Humans of the World, Wingless Dreamer, Free Spirit, Beyond Queer Words, and the Permanent Collection of Chateau D’Orquevaux International Artists and Writers. Artwork by Carly Johnson (IG: @carlymjohnson29)
Editor’s Note: There are lots of reasons to like this. We were particularly struck by the ending line and the narrator’s authentic turmoil which built throughout the pieces. His baggage helps readers appreciate the struggle.
