See the full list of winners here!

When did you start writing?

Pretty much from the moment I had the fine motor skills to grip a pencil and form letters. I started off in first grade writing elaborate fantasies in my journal about what my dog did when we left the house. As a kid, I’d write books to give as gifts to my cousins when we went to visit them over the summer. I wrote short stories and humor pieces for fun in high school, majored in English and Creative Writing in college, and got to work writing a collection of short stories after graduation. Basically, I never had a shot at doing anything else.

What do you like most about writing in the short short form?

Half of good writing is editing. How can you say what you mean—no more, no less? The constraints of the short short form force you to get to the point and sharpen your prose until it’s precise and deadly. Plus: everyone’s attention spans are so dilapidated these days, you’ve got a much better shot of a reader actually making it to the end of your story if it’s bite-sized.

Where did the inspiration for “A Beautiful and Everlasting Moment of Pleasure” come from?

I was reflecting on a trip I’d taken to Vegas and just how surreal a place it is: the giddiness, the headiness, the buoyant feeling that something wonderful is about to happen at any moment—and also the griminess, the hollowness, the endless tease that never seems to come to fruition. I ended up exploring that double-edged feeling through the lens of a relationship between two people stuck in a toxic cyclical pattern with one another, a dynamic that keeps approaching what feels like love or connection or pleasure but never quite reaches it.

What did your drafting and revision processes look like for “A Beautiful and Everlasting Moment of Pleasure?”

I got pretty much the entirety of the story down in one sitting during a writing session at a local cafe. (That’s another joy of the short short format: being able to hack up a full story in a moment of inspiration and then get straight to polishing it.) The version that won the award actually changed very little from that first draft—I made a few tweaks to tighten and clarify things after running it by my workshop group, but this one came out “fully formed, ready to run,” as Ada Limón put it. 

Do you have a history of entering writing competitions?

Absolutely—like any self-respecting writer, I’ve got an Excel sheet that’s a tribute to the dozens of “no’s,” “nice no’s,” and “shortlists” I’ve received over the years. This was my first real win!

What interested you in entering WD’s Short Short Competition?

I was flipping through the back of Poets and Writers Magazine looking for contests and submission calls that aligned with what I was working on (I’m currently revising a linked short story collection about a bunch of college misfits—think Overcompensating meets A Visit From the Goon Squad by way of Mary Gaitskill). I saw just how many outlets were looking for stories with low word counts (3,000 or less), whereas most of the stories in my collection are over 3K. So I set myself a challenge to write something shorter than my usual work so I could try submitting to some new places, and this story popped out at exactly 1,000 words—the word limit for WD’s Short Short Competition. It felt like fate so I submitted it, promptly forgot I’d done so, and was so incredibly shocked when I received the acceptance email, I was convinced it was a very elaborate phishing scam. 

What advice do you have for other writers out there?

Keep writing, even if it’s just scenes and fragments, because the more you do, the more random pages you’ll have to stumble back on weeks or months or years later and say, “Wait, I wrote that? That could be something…” Keep a journal; use it to keep track of interesting things you notice so you stay attuned to the world. (You will want to remember the jacaranda tree that exploded all over your car, the smell inside that dive bar you stumbled into, the precise color of the sky the day after it rained.) Form or join a workshop with other writers—share your writing with them even and especially when it’s scary; learn how to give good feedback in a way that’s honest, helpful, and kind; and learn how to receive feedback without spiraling, getting defensive, or losing touch with your own instincts. Also, remember that a creative process is as powerful, finicky, and irrepressible as an ocean wave; even if you’re in a creative “low tide,” trust the process and remember that high tide is always coming back around.

A Beautiful and Everlasting Moment of Pleasure

by Hanna Bahedry

Any minute now, the pleasure is coming. Any minute now, around the corner, the pleasure is coming. Any minute now, you’ll be turning the corner and the pleasure will bump right into you or the pleasure will be turning the corner and you’ll bump right into it; any minute now, you and the pleasure will collide and send a tray of fluted champagne glasses flying; any minute now, you and the pleasure will collide and send one or both of you into the hotel pool and you’ll both be sopping wet and everyone in their deck chairs will cheer; any minute now, you and the pleasure will collide.

It’s Las Vegas, because of course it is. This is where the pleasure lives, but just around the corner always. Here is where the pleasure is circulating, but always away from you like a waiter on the casino floor. Here is where the hope lives, not just the hope but the absolute certainty that something magnificent is bound to happen, is right on the verge of happening, that all you need to do is close your eyes and stumble faithfully around the next blind corner to find it. The less you do, the better, actually. The magnificent thing is fated, it is on a course set straight for you, you are the Google Maps destination that the magnificent thing has plugged into the phone on its dashboard, and all you need to do is be here and wait for it to find you.

 Outside, it’s airless like a breath stolen straight from your chest. The heat and the diesel fumes combine in the city’s cocktail shaker like a drink no one wants, a drink left in a plastic-handled neon travel mug on the corner of an intersection wider than a pilgrimage. Under the sun, the asphalt cracks and the linoleum splinters and the paint peels like skin in long strips.

If outside is airless, then inside is all air, airheaded and heady, a balloon cresting a high ceiling like a tongue against a mouth’s roof, everything high high high, too high for gravity, too high for the earth to turn, too high for the clock to strike. Every watch stopped at 00:00, every pair of hands sky high and stuck there forever.

You don’t wear a watch. You wear black and not that much of it. You circle the casino floor like you are inevitable, and every flashing light, every winning shout, every tuneless slot machine jingle is for you. You wait at the bar. You are always waiting here, but that’s OK. Here you know that the pleasure is coming, that the magnificent thing is always already on its way to you. The bartender is making your drink, and then she is handing it to you.

When he arrives, he’s wearing black too: shoes, pants, shirt, jacket. No tie. He kisses you. He smells like the diesel cocktail from the streets outside. He has been working all day while you sat by the pool in the saline heat with a bright blue cocktail longer than your forearm. He takes a sip from your drink, takes your hand and presses it to his lips, to his heart, which you cannot see but which you assume is somewhere just under the black shirt, the chest hair, the silver chain.

He does not ask you how your day was, and you do not ask him how his day was. He asks you what you want to drink, and he orders two, and he looks into your eyes as if he loves you. It is the way he always looks at you, and it has always scared you because you do not know if what you are and what he is seeing are the same thing. When he looks at you like this, his eyes become bottomless, and you cannot tell where they lead.

He is smooth, so smooth, but underneath the smoothness, there is something spikey and ragged, something that sizzles like a live wire. When the smoothness wears away (which it always does), you know you will get burned. You are covered in these burns already, burns he kisses better once he’s done making them, covered enough to wonder if love is meant to require so much Neosporin. But for now, he is smooth, so smooth. His thumb is at home on your knee, and he is laughing when you laugh. You both have a second round and a third round, and when you get up, the room tilts on its axis like the whizzing eyes of a slot machine. His hand is at your elbow, your back, your waist, and the carpet is red and gold and everywhere.

He waits outside while you hack in the lobby bathroom, champagne and spit on the ends of your hair, which you wet clean in the sink. The mirror is huge, and you are inside of it, and you are gorgeous, even with your champagne and spit-wet ends, even and maybe especially with the hollow look in your eyes. When you are alone with yourself, the hollow thing inside your eyes you do not want to acknowledge gets louder and louder, and so you push back through the swinging door into the casino, which is always louder than your thoughts, the casino which always wins.

He is waiting there, and his eyes are sparkling with the bottomless thing that scares you. His arm is around your shoulder, guiding you through the lobby and into the elevator, where you watch both of your faces in the mirror on the ceiling. Sometimes you think you are always watching because you are waiting for what you are seeing to change into something that does not scare you. You watch for as long as you think it should take to change, and then you keep watching.

The hallway is long with many corners. An empty room service tray, there. You could order room service. You could do anything you want. That’s the whole point, that’s the whole point of coming here, all the infinite options for pleasure, all the infinite options. The door beeps red, then green.

You kiss standing up inside the room, near the door, away from the beds. He kisses your neck. You’re dizzy. You’re crying and you’re not sure why. He is kind, he is always kind when it happens, like a part in a script he knows how to play. Sometimes you wonder if you cry so you can get to the part where he is always kind. He’s running a bath, sitting on the white edge of the tub with one black sleeve rolled up, cuff wet like the ends of your hair. You know in the morning, he will be angry, that the bottomless tunnels in his eyes will close, and when you go to touch him, he will push you away like a punishment, but tonight he is kind. He undresses you and puts you in the tub and undresses himself and sits at the other end. You tell him you are sorry (which is true), and he tells you it’s OK (which isn’t). But he is tender with you now, and it is so easy to believe him.

When the water gets cold, he wraps you in a towel you wish was softer. You hold each other in the bathroom until your skin is sticky with dried soap. You always wish this part could last longer, but already his eyes are beginning to close in that way they do. In the morning, they will be all the way closed, and you will reach for him, and he will turn you away, so tonight you get under the covers and back your body up against his so you don’t have to watch it happen. Maybe it will be different this time when you wake. Maybe his eyes will be open, and when you look into them, you’ll see all the way down to the bottom, and what you see there will not scare you, and he will see you, and it will really be you. You think it should be possible. You think about it so often, sometimes you trick yourself into thinking it has already happened.

Any minute now, the pleasure is coming. Any minute now, you and the pleasure will bump shoulders at the bar, will reach for the same gilded button at the elevator bay, will beeline for the same blackjack table, and put your hands on the same empty chair. Any minute now pleasure’s car will pull up alongside yours on the highway with the windows down, any minute there’ll be a knock on the hotel room door and pleasure will be on the other side of the peephole, any minute now the lever will pull and the lights will flash and pleasure will come pouring out like dirty change right into your ready open palms, any minute now you and the pleasure will collide.

The post Hanna Bahedry: 25th Annual Writer’s Digest Short Short Story Awards Winner appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Out of many great entries, WD editors selected the following 25 winners:

1. “A Beautiful and Everlasting Moment of Pleasure” by Hanna Bahedry

2. “Scratch” by Gordon B. McFarland

3. “Toward the Thermosphere” by JL Perling

4. “The Piano” by Jenna-Marie Warnecke

5. “The Creation of Art” by Jenna-Marie Warnecke

6. “Initiate” by Coby Kellogg

7. “The Way Back” by Eric Jacobs

8. “At the Lochshore” by Sarah Dollacker

9. “Revival Reatha” by Thomas Oakley

10. “The Western Reaches” by Caitlin A. Quinn

11. “Vivid Warm” by Richard Jespers

12. “Red Bird (or, Eleanor at the End)” by Juliana Delany

13. “Witness Marks” by J.M. Lake

14. “My Father the Telepath” by Sophia Hyland-Wolzak

15. “The Bobby Pin Box” by Carol Elizabeth Larson

16. “Nature’s Decision” by John Arthur Lee

17. “What Wasn’t There” by C. Piper

18. “Something for the Children” by Katie Wills Evans

19. “Side-Step” by Laura Guilbault

20. “Echoes of Silence” by Nicole Disney

21. “An Infinite Capacity” by Mark D. Mrozinski

22. “An Odd Number” by Coby Kellogg

23. “Open Secrets” by Tim Lynch

24. “Dinner Date” by Jenna  Merritt 

25. “Choices” by Minh-Tam Le

The post Announcing the Winners of the 25th Annual Writer’s Digest Short Short Story Competition appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Happy writing!

28 Flash Fiction Prompts for the 2025 February Flash Fiction Challenge!

Day 1: Write about a garden.

Day 2: Set your story in a retirement home.

Day 3: Write about something captured on camera.

Day 4: Write about something on the news.

Day 5: Write about a purchase gone wrong.

Day 6: Write a eulogy for an idea or inanimate object.

Day 7: Write a story based on a font.

Day 8: Write from an animal’s perspective.

Day 9: Write about a creation.

Day 10: Write about peace.

Day 11: Write about exhaustion.

Day 12: Write about someone googling something.

Day 13: Write about a work in progress.

Day 14: Write from the perspective of a well-known character.

Day 15: Write about a sign.

Day 16: Write about the last of a species.

Day 17: Write about an unlikely team.

Day 18: Write about a daydream.

Day 19: Outline someone’s personal hell.

Day 20: Write about the day the world was supposed to end.

Day 21: Write about where the devil goes on vacation.

Day 22: Write a story that takes place in one spot.

Day 23: Write a story where a character sees a new perspective.

Day 24: Write about relief.

Day 25: Write a story from a villain’s perspective.

Day 26: Write a story based on a reality TV show.

Day 27: Write about a puzzle.

Day 28: Write about passion.

The post 28 Writing Prompts for the 2025 Flash Fiction Challenge appeared first on Writer's Digest.

I’ve loved spending this month with you! If you’re interested in poetry, be sure to come back for Senior Editor Robert Lee Brewer’s April Poem-A-Day challenge starting April 1!

In honor of our collective passion for the written word, today’s prompt is to write about passion.

(Note: If your story gets flagged for review, be patient—we will be releasing comments every few hours throughout the weekdays of this challenge. Our system randomly flags comments for review, so just sit tight and wait for us to set it free! If you run into any other issues with posting your story, please just send me an e-mail at mrichard@aimmedia.com with the subject line: Flash Fiction Challenge Commenting Issue.)

Here’s my attempt at a story about passion:

Becky, Age 56

It wasn’t that she disliked the younger girls, it’s just that scrapbooking was more than a casual hobby. It was a craft, something you studied and got better at. She watched them snicker over fancy coffee—not one single layout completed—shook her head.

Their books would never be treasured.

The post 2025 February Flash Fiction Challenge: Day 28 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

For today’s prompt, write about a puzzle.

(Note: If your story gets flagged for review, be patient—we will be releasing comments every few hours throughout the weekdays of this challenge. Our system randomly flags comments for review, so just sit tight and wait for us to set it free! If you run into any other issues with posting your story, please just send me an e-mail at mrichard@aimmedia.com with the subject line: Flash Fiction Challenge Commenting Issue.)

Here’s my attempt at a story about a puzzle:

Missing Piece

The hardest thing about her mother’s passing was visiting her house after. She expected it to be emotional, but the half-finished puzzle on the dining room table, a cup of tea gone cold next to it, brought her to her knees.

She’d never been a puzzler, but that night, she found herself working on it late until the night, a raunchy audiobook playing through her headphones, one piece slotting into the next.

When she was down to the last piece, she sat back, feeling its dips and ridges with her fingertips. She laid it down, tears streaming, leaving it unfinished.

The post 2025 February Flash Fiction Challenge: Day 27 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

For today’s prompt, write a story based on a reality TV show.

(Note: If your story gets flagged for review, be patient—we will be releasing comments every few hours throughout the weekdays of this challenge. Our system randomly flags comments for review, so just sit tight and wait for us to set it free! If you run into any other issues with posting your story, please just send me an e-mail at mrichard@aimmedia.com with the subject line: Flash Fiction Challenge Commenting Issue.)

Here’s my attempt at a story based on a reality TV show:

You Are the Father

The crowd was murmuring excitedly, all eyes pinned to the three people next to the host. The husband was on one couch; his wife and his girlfriend on the other, purposefully alienating him.

“Our children deserve to know each other,” the girlfriend said.

“He made a mistake, but these children are not mistakes. They are family!” the wife agreed.

The crowd cheered and hooted, delighting in the drama, having sided with the women. Video of the babies played on the large screen behind the host.

The husband hunkered down.

The host flashed his yellow folder. “Let’s get to the results.”

The post 2025 February Flash Fiction Challenge: Day 26 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

For today’s prompt, write a story from a villain’s perspective.

(Note: If your story gets flagged for review, be patient—we will be releasing comments every few hours throughout the weekdays of this challenge. Our system randomly flags comments for review, so just sit tight and wait for us to set it free! If you run into any other issues with posting your story, please just send me an e-mail at mrichard@aimmedia.com with the subject line: Flash Fiction Challenge Commenting Issue.)

Here’s my attempt at a story from a villain’s perspective:

The Beast

The townspeople screamed the moment I stepped foot inside the town limits. I stalked forward, watching them scatter and scramble to get farther away from me.

One small figure crouched in the center of the cobblestoned street. My shadow stretched and loomed over the child, their back to me

“Oh, Beast!” one woman wailed. “Not him!”

The child turned and squinted up at me, a pout screwing his mouth to the side. I stared down at him, breathing hard.

He stood and held his hand out to me. After a moment, I stretched forward, opening my claws to reveal the soft palm of my hand.

He dropped something in my hand. A stone, smooth as glass, reflecting my visage on its surface.

The boy turned and pantomimed throwing the stone. I looked up and saw a small pile of them halfway down an alleyway, and further down, a bucket.

The boy turned back and stared at me expectantly.

I pulled my arm back. The woman screamed and the thud of her body hitting the ground reverberated as she fainted. I pitched the stone.

The boy pumped his small fists in the air, his mouth opening in a soundless whoop as the stone landed in the bucket.

My smile cracked over my fangs.

The post 2025 February Flash Fiction Challenge: Day 25 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

For today’s prompt, write about relief.

(Note: If your story gets flagged for review, be patient—we will be releasing comments every few hours throughout the weekdays of this challenge. Our system randomly flags comments for review, so just sit tight and wait for us to set it free! If you run into any other issues with posting your story, please just send me an e-mail at mrichard@aimmedia.com with the subject line: Flash Fiction Challenge Commenting Issue.)

Here’s my attempt at a story about relief:

Fast Friends

The ghost woman appeared in one bright burst, like a glitter balloon popping. Mac spun and stared at the spirit, hovering hazily in the kitchen.

They were quiet for a solid minute.

“Boo?” the ghost said.

“Oh!” Mac clutched her chest and sagged back against the counter. “Thank God. It’s haunted! I thought that all the noises were something serious. I know my home insurance wouldn’t cover replacing the pipes in this place, and I’m trying to stick to a budget in 2025, feel me?”

“I was not allowed to deal with finances,” the ghost said.

“Oh girl,” Mac lamented.

The post 2025 February Flash Fiction Challenge: Day 24 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

For today’s prompt, write a story where a character sees a new perspective.

(Note: If your story gets flagged for review, be patient—we will be releasing comments every few hours throughout the weekdays of this challenge. Our system randomly flags comments for review, so just sit tight and wait for us to set it free! If you run into any other issues with posting your story, please just send me an e-mail at mrichard@aimmedia.com with the subject line: Flash Fiction Challenge Commenting Issue.)

Here’s my attempt at a story where a character sees a new perspective:

Privilege

The baby was screaming. A wet diaper, I was pretty sure, although I’d known this tiny human less than a week. I looked around at the cars parked around us, but we were far back in the parking lot and cars were all around us. After another minute of shushing from the front seat and waiting for Nick to get back, I hopped into the back with her. Just seeing me and feeling the weight of my hand across her little belly calmed her some, but her crying was still loud.

The trunk popped open, and Nick’s face peered in at us. “She okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, climbing out.

“I think she has a wet diaper.”

“I know.” I grabbed the diaper bag and went to get the baby out of her car seat. “I’ll change it now.”

“Why didn’t you change it before?”

I turned and gave him a funny look. “We’re parked away from the main entrance where not many people are, and there are cars all around.”

“So?”

“So? Don’t you know that human trafficking is on the rise in this area? If someone came up behind me while I was changing the diaper and held a gun on me, I’d do anything to keep her safe, including going with them without a fight.”

We stared at each other. The plastic grocery bags rustled in the breeze.

“I’ve literally never had to think that way,” he said. “It wouldn’t have occurred to me.”

The post 2025 February Flash Fiction Challenge: Day 23 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

For today’s prompt, write a story that takes place in one spot.

(Note: If your story gets flagged for review, be patient—we will be releasing comments every few hours throughout the weekdays of this challenge. Our system randomly flags comments for review, so just sit tight and wait for us to set it free! If you run into any other issues with posting your story, please just send me an e-mail at mrichard@aimmedia.com with the subject line: Flash Fiction Challenge Commenting Issue.)

Here’s my attempt at a story that takes place in one spot:

Nebby Neighbor

Eleanor had been looking out the window more and more, half hidden by the curtain, peering into the neighbor’s house. The new owners didn’t put curtains up and left their blinds open, which baffled her. She found herself caught on the routines of their lives; getting ready for work, family meals, nighttime feedings. Her house was empty now, with John passed three years now and Katie over in California. At first, she was just being nebby, but as time wore on, she began to see the negative of her life overlaid on this young family, an addiction that pressed on the sweet ache in her chest.

The post 2025 February Flash Fiction Challenge: Day 22 appeared first on Writer's Digest.