by Fractured Lit | Aug 20, 2025 | calendar, contests
AWARDING $3,500 + PUBLICATION
JUDGED BY TARA ISABEL ZAMBRANO
December 1, 2025, to February 2, 2025
Time to send us your freshest, most exciting flash fiction! We’re excited to host our fifth anthology contest. Every year, writers send us their best flash fiction, and they never disappoint! This year, we want your most arresting stories, those that shine the light on the dark parts of our worlds and your character’s psyches. Give us the flash that only you could write with characters only you could create, who fill the page with resonating actions and good trouble, the characters who find themselves through bad choices and resolute actions. Fill our queue with sparkling language, original metaphors, and sparkling sentences that transport us into the narratives we’ve always wished to read but haven’t found yet!
Our fifth anthology will showcase today’s best flash fiction writers. $5,000 will be awarded between 20 winners. Submissions are open for the Fractured Lit Anthology Volume 5 from December 01 to February 02, 2025.
This year, stories will be selected by Guest Judge Tara Isabel Zambrano, who will choose 20 winners from a shortlist of 40 stories.
We’re excited to assemble another anthology of fiercely original stories of all flash fiction lengths and topics. Surprise us with your brevity and originality, and we’ll make sure your story is read far and wide!
Guest Judge: Tara Isabel Zambrano
Whether your title is several lines long or a word, it should be representative of the story. Get me hooked from the first line. Build a world inside your thousand words. Use precise, sensory details, unreliable characters, and movement. Use fresh insights into relationships and original metaphors. What’s at risk? Is it enough to make someone care? Go weird, weirder, but don’t let the story be all about shock and surprise and language just for the sake of it. The story should connect at an emotional level. Don’t give me easy answers but help me understand the nature of the conflict, the struggle. When it’s finished, it should make me want to read it again and discover something new, even if it’s a subtle detail.
Tara Isabel Zambrano is an award-winning writer of South Asian descent. Her multigenre writing has appeared in Tin House Online, Electric Literature, Southeast Review, Post Road, and other notable venues. She is also the author of a short story collection, Ruined a Little When We Are Born (Dzanc Books, 2024) and Death, Desire, and Other Destinations (Okay Donkey Books, 2020). Find out more at https://taraisabelzambrano.com/ and @tizambrano on Instagram.
The deadline for entry is February 02, 2025. We will announce the shortlist within 10-12 weeks of the contest’s close. All writers will be notified when the results are in. The book is published 10-12 months after the announcement of the winners.
OPTIONAL EDITORIAL FEEDBACK:
You may choose to receive editorial feedback on your piece. In your cover letter, please let us know which piece you’d like your editor to focus their review on. We will provide a two-page global letter discussing the strengths of the writing and the recommended focus for revision. Our aim is to make our comments actionable and encouraging. These letters are written by editors and staff readers of Fractured Lit. Should your story win, no feedback will be offered, and your fee will be refunded.
Guidelines
-
- Your $20 reading fee allows up to two stories of 1,000 words or fewer each per entry—if submitting two stories, please put them both in a SINGLE document.
- We allow multiple submissions—each set of two micro/flash stories should have a separate submission accompanied by a reading fee.
- Writers from historically marginalized groups will be able to submit for free until we reach our cap of 25 free submissions. No additional fee waivers will be granted. (This opportunity is now closed.)
- Please send micro/flash fiction only—1,000 word count maximum per story.
- We only consider unpublished work for contests—we do not review reprints, including self-published work (even on blogs and social media). Reprints will be automatically disqualified.
- Simultaneous submissions are okay—please notify us and withdraw your entry if you find another home for your writing.
- All entries will also be considered for publication in Fractured Lit.
- Double-space your submission and use Times New Roman 12 (or larger if needed).
- Please include a brief cover letter with your publication history (if applicable). In the cover letter, please include content warnings as well, to safeguard our reading staff.
- We only read work in English, though some code-switching/meshing is warmly welcomed.
- We do not read anonymous submissions. However, shortlisted stories are sent anonymously to the judge.
- Unless specifically requested, we do not accept AI-generated work. For this contest, AI-generated work will be automatically disqualified.
by Fractured Lit | Aug 14, 2025 | news
And the winner is…
What the Bones Remember by Melinda Li
We loved this story from its opening line. The way it plays with paradox creates this liminal space between a god and their people. The story had a great structure with the god returning in new forms, each one an escalation from the one before it. This story, though traditional, drew us in, kept us reading with intrigue, and captured our imaginations! And we love it when a last line echoes in our minds long after reading the story!
We’re also publishing China Plate by John Hanley
Shortlist:
- It’s a Monster, Baby by Caroline Beuley
- Return by Morgan Cross
- Barnacle Moon by Dorit d’Scarlett
- Tokoloshe by Jessica Evans
- From Clay, God by James R. Frohman
- China Plate by John Hanley
- What the Bones Remember by Melinda Li
- Silence of Mothers (Selene Speaks) by Becky Petterson
- The one with the birds… by Robert Taylor
- Chimei by Wanying Zhang
by Beth Cho Little | Aug 14, 2025 | contest winner, flash fiction
The sky went dark on a Monday, pushing the straining sun behind a curtain of smoke, creating an opaque swath of grayness where light would catch – lost – never making it to the retina, never lighting up the things we had been used to seeing: tree leaves in the sunlight, a glint off the lake, a squinty view of a deer through the trees, the forest floor spotted and daring looking, and so, in this relative darkness – thick and vast – we see with our hands out in front of us, using them as a guide, a buffer, a shield against a stumble over the rake in the yard, the log in the road, the slick of wet leaves on the front path, our own feet, ourselves – clumsy and fumbling as ever.
It’s only been a week since the smoke and its particles put up a blanket across the sky. It’s only been a week and, already, I struggle to recall the exact way the sun used to glow through the cluster of birches off the back side of the house, the dark woods backlit behind them. The smoke and the flames have been on the news for months, years. The fires continue to burn and move, overtaking everything, and while they have never been where we are, this time, their effect is inescapable, and one day we woke up to a sky unchanged by morning light, and we wondered but didn’t speak our questions out loud. The next night we stayed up to watch the sky, absent of stars, never turning into morning. Then the following night, we stood on the back stoop, waiting to see one single star. Hank grabbed his headlamp and said, “Go to bed. I’ll be up in a bit.” I watched him from the bedroom window, on all fours, his face close to the ground, studying something, the brightest setting shining from his forehead. I thought I heard a yell in the dark, but I went to bed anyway.
The next morning, I woke to his side of the bed undisturbed and the truck gone from the garage, and now, the sky is dark and the house is empty except for me and the dog, and I work at remembering the way the street looked with the light of an unshadowed sun shining through the branches onto the dirt, brightening the way ahead.
Last week, before the sky went gray, Hank had razed a long section of ground in the yard. He had wielded the machete he bought at the flea market in Brownfield, hacking at a particular green stalk that sprouted in the dark soil. With every swing of the metal, rocks and pebbles – disturbed from the earth – flew all around him with vengeance. The little bits of green – the offenses – threatened the well-being of Hank’s beloved roses and blueberry bushes, his tulips and herbs. I could hear him ranting about the roots and sprouts and green bits, how he knew they would choke the life out of the plants he’d chosen, the ones that belonged. As if he knew the world was about to change and there was no way he’d stay and live in it with me and his doomed flora, Hank took the truck and hit the road.
Now, I stand at the edge of the property and turn my light to the brightest setting, checking again to see if what I think I see is true, if growing out of the black dirt – where he had stamped down and beaten back every stem and every green speck with his worn work boots – there are in fact thirty or forty little green shoots a couple centimeters high; the weed is not obliterated; even in the grayness, it is very much alive. And, considering the massacre of leaves and stems, branches and soil that took place here only a week ago, a barely comprehensible and resilient little thing.
My arms are folded against the morning chill, and I hear Hank and his friend Vesta “the Garden Guru” talking a month or so ago – their words cutting through the emptiness of the dark yard: “invasive”, “not from here”, “alien”. I see the ways they averted their glances, avoiding my hair – thick and black, long around my shoulders; my eyes – narrow and dark; my skin – olive in the sun, contrasting me with all the whiteness: her, Hank, every neighbor for miles, the shutters on the house. She had spat her words: “That weed is downright stealing the space of what’s ours. You know what I mean.” I did, and she knew it. And now, watching the little plant push through the soil, I laugh; it bursts from me in the silent woods – a loudness echoing through the trees.
by Buddfred Levi | Aug 11, 2025 | contest winner, flash fiction
Back home inside our first floor apartment at 2PM, as we were, after a morning at the city library where we spent several hours while mom searched through the mysteries for one that suited her and I picked out a couple of graphic novels, after mom had splashed the leftover bottle of wine from her pantry storage into a large glass to complement a small snack (cream-cheesed everything bagel) from the fridge, and after she sat down at the kitchen table to eat and to write out a list of groceries she wanted for dinner from the local delicatessen which she completed and handed to me, I, sneaking two cigarettes from mom’s purse, set off through the kitchen door, down the stairs to the basement exit, lighted up and smoked one while taking the shortcut through the dirt alley way which stretched behind rows of apartment complexes from our apartment to a nearby block of stores where the delicatessen was located and where, after entering, I squeezed between a couple of shoppers who were eyeing various foods displayed in refrigerated compartments, handed the list to Isaac who was tending to the counter fronting shelves filled with groceries along the back wall and from which he filled the list, added the total cost to our standing credit account, told me to be careful and handed me the bag which I promptly smashed on the door when I started to exit and a full bottle of Gallo red wine broke and poured down onto the dingy grey linoleum and while Isaac was quick with a mop and broom, the other customers wondered what a young teenager was doing with a bottle of Gallo red wine and I stammered my mother is a gourmet cook to no one in particular and everyone in general and I took the second bottle of wine from Isaac who had, after calling my mother about the bill, rescued the other groceries to which I added the wine and I backed out red-faced and cautiously through the doorway to freedom, hurried home without smoking the second cigarette, yelled “I’m home!” to mom, dropped off the order on the kitchen table beside an empty glass and a half-eaten bagel, retreated to my room, crawled under my twin bed, grabbed the flashlight I kept handy to read all the comics stored there hidden, and waited for my father to get home from work, hiding from the argument that would follow at the kitchen table over dinner, the yelling and excuses, Father’s storming out muttering about a divorce, my mother’s tears, and the inevitable snoring as she went to sleep, soon followed by my father’s return home and to bed beside her.
by Karin Kohlmeier | Aug 7, 2025 | contest winner, flash fiction
Dad calls it “Eyesore Trashtown”. I don’t read perfect yet, but looking at the letters on the sign, I don’t think that’s right. “It’s called Eastlake Terrace,” Mom says, hugging her purse tight and shooing me into the elevator. “Dad thinks he’s funny.”
Dad wasn’t funny this morning, whisper-fighting with Mom, both of them thinking I couldn’t hear, as me and her were leaving the house. In the car, I tried to ask her about it, how somebody could spend money they don’t have, and what he meant by calling this lady the Snow Queen of Welfare, but Mom’s look said shut my hole, so I did.
Now in the elevator, the wobbly box I’m carrying—with cans all on one side and a big box of crackers on the other—makes my arms burn. I distract myself by watching Mom change her face, so by the time the doors open, the line between her eyebrows is gone and she’s wearing a big smile.
The lady who opens the door Mom knocks on doesn’t look like any kind of queen to me. She has yellow hair like mine on the ends, but where it comes out of her head, it’s dark brown. She’s wearing a baggy t-shirt and stretchy pants that have holes in the knees. This is an apartment, which is like our house except way smaller and with a bunch of them crammed together in one building. It smells like old cigarettes and some kind of food I’m glad I don’t have to eat.
There’s a kid about my age—Annie, she says—and Mom tells me to go play. Annie’s room has three unmade beds and a dresser. The carpet has stains, and the closet door doesn’t close right. We sit on the floor, and Annie hands me a little plastic Snoopy—the kind with a hole in the bottom because it’s supposed to go on the end of a pencil. “I love Snoopy!” I say, but Annie says, “Don’t call him that.” She takes him back and rubs him against her cheek. “His name is Harrison K. Snooples The Third,” she says. “You can call him Mr. Snooples.” She kisses him and hands him back. I bring him to my nose and sniff. He smells like plastic, strawberry Chapstick, and dirt.
While Annie digs in the closet for more toys for us to play with, I watch Mom and Other Mom unload the groceries in the kitchen—all the cheapest brands, like Mom says, we’re going to have to start buying.
“Let’s play Barbies,” Annie says. She hands me Ken, she’s Barbie, and Snoopy is their pet dog. Even though he’s way too small to look like their dog for real, Annie takes Barbie’s hand and makes it pat his little head. “Good dog, Mr. Snooples,” she says. “I love you.”
I’ve been trying out a word I learned from Dad, and I shout it out now as loud as I can: “Imbecile!” I lift Ken’s arm and do my best Dad voice: “This imbecile thinks he can lay me off when I gave my heart and soul to that company!”
“Let’s kiss,” Annie says and smooches Barbie’s face into Ken’s.
When the kissing is done, I sit Ken down on the floor and put Snoopy on his lap. I make Snoopy go around in a circle three times before he sits down like a real dog. “Good job, Mr. Snooples,” I say because I know Annie will like it. She laughs and goes digging in a pile for a new dress for Barbie to change into.
I watch Mom in the kitchen talking with Other Mom. The line in her forehead is starting to come back. In the store earlier, she got a notebook out of her purse and did a bunch of math problems, then she put back the steaks she was buying for our dinner and got a package of hamburger instead. She had promised me Pop-Tarts, but she changed her mind to “maybe next time.”
When it’s time to go and I stand up to leave, Annie asks for Mr. Snooples back. I say, “I gave him back to you. Where did you put him?” and start lifting Barbie clothes, hunting under them for the Snoopy. Mom says let’s go, and we leave Annie crawling on the floor, flinging aside Barbies and clothes and calling, “Mr. Snooples, where are you?”
In the car on the way home, I take Snoopy out of my pocket. My window is rolled halfway down, and I hold him balanced on the edge of the glass. I lean him in. I lean him out, feeling the wind trying to catch him out of my hand. Then I let go. I crane my neck to watch him bounce in the road until he’s crunched under the car behind us.
Recent Comments