Meet the winner and runners-up from the latest round of the Post’s annual short fiction contest.
Classic FictionMore Classic Fiction
“Why hadn’t he done something about it years before? Why hadn’t he broken it up before it was too late, and saved his own soul, his longing for life, color? But no, he had not. Why complain so bitterly now?”
“Mary Gowd, with her frumpy English hat and her dreadful English fringe, and her brick-red English cheeks, which not even the enervating Italian sun, the years of bad Italian food or the damp and dim little Roman room had been able to sallow.”
“And when the dance was over and the dancers stood, panting and applauding, on the floor, you caught the eye of one of them, perhaps, and it was like a precious secret between you.”
“You’ve heard of the Christian Science cures where some bedridden person who hasn’t set foot to ground for years gets up and prances down the street? Well, that’s faith operating on will.”
Contemporary FictionMore Contemporary Fiction
When her mom walks out of the nursing home, Charlotte heads to the only place she might have gone.
Jace lives to fish and fishes to live, but when he sets his sights on new game — his wife worries about her friends.
In this story of longing and loss, a man watches his 15-year-old neighbor approach a breaking point and disappear like “dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,” says author Michael Caleb Tasker, winner of the 2019 Great American Fiction Contest.
The Saturday Evening Post continues to discover and publish the works of new, talented authors. Take a look at our most read contemporary fiction short stories from 2018.
Fiction by Jack London
In this short story, a frivolous game turns deadly.
A wealthy city woman strikes up a surprising camaraderie with a late-night intruder, and they discover what lies beneath the surface of each person’s intentions.
A barn burner fight with a nimble fighter stands between an aging boxer and his prize money.
Old San Francisco, which is the San Francisco of only the other day, the day before the earthquake, was divided midway by the Slot. The Slot was an iron crack that ran along the center of Market Street, and from the Slot arose the burr of the ceaseless, endless cable that was hitched at will to the cars it dragged up and down.