My Short Story Rejections

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Well_of_Lost_Plots

Most writers at some time or another, usually early in their literary career, enter a writing competition. It gives you a reason to write when you think you have lost the plot. There is exposure and the bonus of possibly getting a monetary reward. Occasionally there are the perks of receiving feedback from the judges and maybe your work appearing on the relevant website. Not all writing competitions do this, especially if they specify a word/theme which is only used as a one-off with no ongoing relevancy other than it being a writing exercise to aid your creative thinking.

Never put your name on the actual story, write it on the submission form. If A4 size paper is requested (e.g. Word.doc, email attachment, PDF) – if font is requested – if the line spacing is requested – if any other requirements are requested please do it for best results. Another necessary thing you must do is wordcount. Absolutely stick to the specified wordcount. This does not guarantee you will win but it will leave a good impression.

Okay, I know you may have already entered some writing competitions, and perhaps none of this is new to you, but that should not stop you from fully reading the competition rules and guidelines and sticking with them. Be aware that there may be an entry fee for some of the bigger writing challenges. Usually if you are a member of a local writers group you can enter free. Note, I have never been given money as a prize and once a story is published is cannot be used again in competitions.

If you are reading this far, I have included two of my most recent short stories (below) which were written for two key-words supplied by a writers centre prompt. ‘Fragment’ and my piece is titled ‘Rocky Horror.’ Allow me to offer a critique and say the winning entry for ‘Fragment’ was predictably sentimental. The prompt and title for my second tale is ‘One Room Story’.
Anyway, my two stories are short, both are well within the 500 wordcount limit and as you can see they are different styles. Although rejected I did have a sense of achievement writing them. So don’t fall into that Well of Lost Plots.
Great book title, thanks Jasper!

——ROCKY HORROR——
By Gretchen Bernet-Ward 2025
The pavement fractured under her feet and fissures formed. A fragment of rock flew down from a dark sky then bounced back up. Annie fled for the house – fast.
Felicia sniffed, her author brain unimpressed.
“Too much alliteration,” she reasoned, and ducked a meteorite as Annie reached out for the front door handle. The molten mass smashed a jagged hole straight through the door and landed on Annie’s new carpet. It choked the air with sulphurous intent, which caused Annie to wail uncontrollably.
Felicia glanced upward. “That’s not rain.”
Sharp shards showered down onto the rooftop shingles. She held grave fears for their resilience under the rapid assault.
“Cut it out,” she yelled in her head. It stopped.
Now feeling foolish and faintly ridiculous, she quickly wrote down fragments of what had just happened as another gritty fissure crackled towards the house. It wasn’t looking good, she still had an imagination too wild for pre-school books.
Annie shrieked “Help me, please!” a fraction too late as Felicia swiftly drew a thick black line across the previous paragraph.
The workshop lecturer looked up and raised an elegant eyebrow.
“Having trouble with this exercise?” she asked.
Unnoticed by group members, a light sprinkle of insect-like shale bounced and pinged off her neatly groomed head.
“No, no,” replied Felicia, “just trying to control my fractured thoughts.”
She smoothed her notepaper as a resurrected Annie tipped over a metal bin, sending granite boulders rolling silently across the meeting room floor towards the unsuspecting lecturer.
“Actually,” Felicia mused, “I seem to have hit a rocky patch.”

——ONE ROOM STORY——
By Gretchen-Bernet Ward 2025
The waiting room chair had a cracked leather seat which pressed through her summer dress like a blunt knife. She tried to move slightly, knowing mother would hiss, do not fidget. Maybe her button-up shoes could reach the floor, maybe that would ease the pressure on her insides. Heels swung, mother glared.
Only two other people sat in the doctor’s waiting room, the nurse at a desk and an old man with wire-framed spectacles who breathed in and out like a faulty balloon.
Why was she here? It hadn’t been said at breakfast, only that she would miss school for the morning. Like a gift given and snatched away, her stomach churned with what might be waiting for her behind that big brown polished door with its fancy gold lettering. That slow, slow rotation of the brass door knob. She hoped the old man would live long enough to go through first.
The front sash window was slightly ajar but didn’t allow for an escape.
An idea, perhaps she could bolt out the front door while everyone was looking at the surgery door?
No, her mother was fast, even catching squawking hens.
Glancing around she studied the glass fronted cabinet beside the nurse’s desk. Medicine in small bottles made of brown glass with paper labels and cork stoppers. Bill Beans Laxatives also in their family medicine chest. Saltrates, Alkia, Nitrate of Amyl and her grandmother’s stomach powder. Like medicine daddy gave her at night.
Her body shivered. Time to move. She slid and jumped, the seat tore at her dress.
A black and white tiled dash to the front door but the shiny door handle was unyielding. She tugged hard, memories rose, she whimpered as mother pulled her back.
The nurse steered her to the uncomfortable seat, not to worry, the doctor was a nice man. She remembered daddy had whispered, be good. A special treat tonight.
A quick glance, the hem of her dress torn, she felt bad as her mother quietly wept.

Now it’s your turn to start plotting! Write something wild about the Blue Geese photograph. Or follow through and blog your own prompt and short story. I promise not to critique them. Send me a link to your latest short story and I will post your link below where I have mentioned *Ekphrastic Writing. Whether it be writing or frantically editing to meet a deadline, make something great from those 26 letters of the English alphabet.
You know you can!
📚 Gretchen Bernet-Ward 2025

BLUE GEESE Community Arts project by STREET ART MURALS on Green Hill Reservoir Brisbane Australia https://www.australiansiloarttrail.com/green-hill-reservoir
© image Gretchen Bernet-Ward 2021
*Don’t forget to look at my Photo of the Week every Saturday on my home page*.

STOP THE PRESS: This information may be of interest!
AUSTRALIAN WRITERS’ RESOURCE
https://www.austwriters.com/competitions
A seriously long list of writing competitions around the world!
The AWR has sourced information from other websites
and no assurance can be given as to its current accuracy.

*Ekphrastic writing is a literary description of a work of art
such as a painting, sculpture, or performance
BUT IT CAN BE USED FOR EVERYDAY ITEMS within a story.

Win a Prize by Cheating

Fleur was sick and tired of the competition rules, regulations and conditions which surround the submission of a manuscript. She decided to cheat the system. But one of the worst things is to think you are going to get caught, that you are double-dealing the system, that you’ve done something you shouldn’t have done. Be self-assured?

“Sure, you justify it to yourself that you aren’t going to win a prize in that writers competition anyway so what the heck, give it your best shot, enter four competitions with the same short story under 3,000 words.” Fleur finds her handbag and house keys. “And who cares? First world problems, right? They can only disqualify me. They’ll get an entry fee without the hard slog. What hey, they will do the hard work first. Judges will find out later that I’ve cheated. Well, not exactly cheated, more bent the rules.”

Fleur submitted the exact same story to four different organisations in the hope that one would succeed. Of course, deep down she knows that the story will not succeed. But there’s that tiny little glimmering hope that one entry will win. “Ha,” snaps Fleur’s psyche, ‘you’ll win first, second or third place in each competition and cause a furore.” There will be a lot of huffing and puffing, but Fleur says “I don’t care! Keep the entry fees, frankly I don’t care!” There will be tedious emails pointing out her indiscretion and how naughty she’s been – she don’t care! They can sort it out by themselves. Go ahead, eliminate her, but questions sneak through before the front door closes.

Fleur’s shoes pound the pavement as her rant continues “At the time I think I said to myself that I had not submitted to another competition, however, by the last entry I had. And I didn’t change a word. But here’s two questions for you. How come books and authors can win the Pulitzer Prize, Nobel Prize, Ned Kelly Award, Prix Goncourt, Man Booker Prize, etc, even though they have already won another prize? Or magazine articles which have been reprinted elsewhere with author permission? Like I said, I don’t care!”

“Please, please,” Fleur takes a breath “don’t let me win a place in any more than one competition. I couldn’t stand the hassle. As a matter of fact I don’t quite understand why I did it. Well, in the case of the smaller organisation, I think I did it out of pity to bolster their entry numbers. And in the case of the larger organisation, I think I did it out of spite to prick their egotistical speech bubbles.”

Fleur is expounding this tirade now because three of the organisations have announced their cut-off date, entries have closed. The minor one is still struggling on. “Oh,” she says, her pace slowing “I forgot to mention that I have submitted another manuscript, quite a different story but the same copy to two interstate writing competitions. Their game plans are miles apart, one laidback and one stiff and starchy. The story is rather laidback itself so I will be interested to see if it gets anywhere, I do like it.”

On the subject of slightly ignoring their instructions on the grounds of “get over yourselves, bloody gatekeepers” Fleur couldn’t help adding “If they don’t like it then that’s tough. I don’t care!” She knows she will have second thoughts after formal announcements are made in a few months’ time, and she voices the unsettling assumption that she may be victimised. Fleur has heard tales of editors, indeed publishing houses, blacklisting people and the writing fraternity shunning one of their own for not following the guiding principle of “doing it the right way”.

Fleur stops walking. “Publishers want unusual, they want different, but mostly they are just as rigid as the public service, any spark of individuality snuffed before it ignites. Death to the formula!” She hears her bulky envelope fall into the metal post-box and slams the flap shut. The guidelines stated that all entries must be submitted by email attachment.

♥ Gretchen Bernet-Ward