Read his winning story below, and find his exclusive interview with Senior Editor Michael Woodson in the November/December 2026 issue of Writer’s Digest.

The Saddest Funeral

by Luis Reynoso

There were four of us at the cemetery that morning, not counting the driver. Snow had settled into the engraved letters of the headstones, softening the names as if they had been written in chalk. The cemetery was nearly empty, the sky the flat white of unpolished bone. My brother Joaquín’s casket hovered above an open rectangle of earth, its brass handles dulled by cold.

The driver stood a respectful distance away, hat in his hands. He kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other, glancing at us as if waiting for instructions we did not know how to give. My sisters stood shoulder to shoulder, their coats identical in their heaviness, dark wool absorbing the morning. No one touched the casket.

The driver cleared his throat.

“If you’d like,” he said gently, “we can say a few words.”

Neither of my sisters answered. I watched the thin vapor of his breath dissolve into the air and wondered if this was how it would be for me someday—four figures in winter, a hired man to speak on my behalf.

When the driver began to pray, his voice trembled almost immediately. He did not know my brother’s history, the failed marriages, the children scattered across two countries, the years spent arguing with doctors and with himself. He knew only a name on a certificate and a burial plot assigned by the county. Still, halfway through the prayer, his voice broke. He removed one glove and wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist.

He was the only one who cried.

I was forty-five years old that winter and had attended many funerals—uncles, coworkers, neighbors from church—but none had felt as unfinished as this one. There was something provisional about the way we stood there, as if we might gather the casket back up and carry it somewhere else once we decided where he truly belonged.

My family had come to New Jersey believing we would not stay.

My father arrived first, in the early seventies, moving north in increments: from the Dominican Republic to Puerto Rico, from Puerto Rico to Washington Heights, each relocation described as temporary. He sent money home and promises with it. My mother joined him years later, and then the rest of us followed. Paterson was supposed to be a way station. The apartment smelled of bleach and boiled plantains, and the radiators hissed through the winter as if irritated by our presence.

We learned the streets quickly—the bus routes, the corner stores, the factories closing one by one. My parents spoke often of going back. They kept their Dominican passports current, as if return were only a matter of timing.

But time has its own preferences.

Joaquín arrived after we had settled into the American rhythm of shifts and paychecks. He was older than I was by more than a decade and carried himself like someone who had already exhausted several versions of himself. Even in our small kitchen on Broadway, he seemed in motion, as if the floor beneath him were gently vibrating.

Before Paterson, there had been Santo Domingo.

They called the president at that time, El Presidente del Cemento—the Cement President—because he embarked on massive construction project in the country, including roads in the middle of open fields.  Wide avenues appeared where dirt paths had once cut through scrub and sugarcane. The asphalt was new, dark, and strangely empty. Some roads led nowhere at all, stopping abruptly at fields or unfinished overpasses, as if the country had begun speaking in mid-sentence and then lost its train of thought.

Joaquín treated those roads as invitations.

I was twelve the summer he took me riding with him. My mother objected; he laughed. He owned a red motorcycle that looked too large for his narrow frame. He had the wiry build of a boxer and eyes so light they startled you—green against skin darkened by Caribbean sun. Women noticed the eyes first. Men noticed the recklessness.

“Hold tight,” he told me, handing me smelling of gasoline and sweat.

We drove out toward one of the new highways at dusk. The city receded quickly; the road opened like a mouth. He leaned forward, lowering his head, and the engine answered. The wind pressed against my chest so hard it felt like resistance made physical. My fingers tightened around his waist.

“Relax,” he shouted over the noise. “It’s the road that’s afraid, not us.”

The asphalt stretched ahead in long, unbroken lines. No traffic. No police. No animals crossing. It was as if the country had been paved solely for him.

He accelerated.

The speed rearranged the world. Trees blurred. The horizon flattened. For a moment I understood the seduction—not of danger, exactly, but of erasure. At that velocity, nothing could catch you. Not expectation. Not responsibility. Not the quiet disappointments that accumulate in small houses.

Then the rear tire slipped.

It happened so quickly that the sensation came before the awareness. The motorcycle wobbled, a brief sideways slide that felt almost graceful. My stomach dropped. Joaquín corrected sharply, overcompensating, and we fishtailed once before the wheels found purchase again. He did not slow down.

I screamed into the air.

He laughed.

When he finally eased off the throttle, we coasted to the shoulder. My legs trembled as I climbed off. He removed his helmet and shook out his hair, grinning.

“You see?” he said. “The road respects confidence.”

I looked back at the faint black streak our tire had left across the asphalt. It resembled a signature.

That was Joaquín’s theology: speed as immunity.

By the time he reached Paterson in the early eighties, that theology had hardened into habit. He found work as a motorcycle mechanic in a garage off Park Avenue, the kind of place that smelled permanently of oil and burnt rubber. Customers liked him. He could disassemble an engine by sound alone. He flirted with the wives who waited in plastic chairs near the entrance, his green eyes performing small miracles of attention.

He married once, then again. Children appeared in photographs and then disappeared from them. When my mother scolded him—“cabeza dura,” she would mutter—he listened with theatrical patience, nodding as if absorbing wisdom he had already decided to discard.

It was the era when whispers began traveling faster than facts.

At first the illness was described as something distant, something happening in cities we already associated with excess. Then the stories arrived in Paterson—men wasting away, hospital rooms sealed behind glass. The news anchors spoke in cautious tones. Doctors offered statistics that sounded abstract enough to ignore.

Joaquín dismissed it all.

“Cuentos,” he said one evening at our kitchen table, as he drank a beer. “They invent stories to scare men who know how to live.”

My mother crossed herself reflexively. I watched his face as he spoke—not bravado exactly, but certainty. He believed in his own velocity. He had survived crashes before. He had outrun shame, poverty, even geography. Why would this be different?

Outside, snow began to fall against the window. He did not notice.

Back at the cemetery, decades later, the driver finished the prayer and stepped aside. A mechanical whir signaled the lowering device engaging. The casket descended slowly, evenly, disappearing into the white-edged earth.

I tried to summon anger—at him, at the women he had hurt, at the children he had not raised—but what surfaced instead was a memory of that black streak on the Dominican highway. A brief mark left by friction. Evidence that for a moment something had resisted and survived.

The ground received him without protest.

My sister touched my elbow. “It’s cold,” she said.

We turned toward the waiting limousine. Snow had begun again, fine and persistent, filling the shallow depressions left by our shoes. By the time we reached the car, the grave already looked less abrupt, as if the earth were adjusting.

In the warmth of the backseat, condensation gathered on the windows. The driver started the engine and did not speak. As we pulled away, I looked back once more. From a distance, the burial site was indistinguishable from the others—a rectangle among rectangles, names waiting beneath stone.

It occurred to me then that this was our family’s first burial in American soil. Weddings had come. Graduations. Military service. Births announced with balloons tied to mailboxes. We had celebrated loudly, as if volume itself were proof of belonging.

But burial was different.

Burial meant permanence.

For more than forty years we had lived in New Jersey with the posture of guests. My parents had kept suitcases in the back of their closet long after it was practical. Even after my mother died and was flown home to be interred near her parents, the idea of return lingered like unfinished business.

Now Joaquín lay beneath snow in North Jersey, claimed by a country he had navigated but never entirely trusted. He had chased movement his whole life—new roads, new women, new stories—and in the end it was stillness that held him.

The driver merged onto the road, the cemetery receding behind us. Snow blurred the windshield into abstraction. For a moment, as the car gathered speed, I felt the old sensation from the motorcycle—world narrowing, edges softening.

But the road ahead was crowded now. Traffic lights. Stop signs. Other drivers signaling their intentions.

No one was alone on it.

Victoria entered Joaquín’s life the way weather changes in late summer—sudden, electric, and briefly convincing.

She had met him in a bar in Santo Domingo. One of those bars that played Bachata. It was the late 70s, when that type of music was considered to be for lower class people and long that musical genre became internationally known. She liked to dance and laughed with her entire body, head thrown back, palms open. When she moved into his apartment above the garage, she rearranged the furniture within a week and replaced the thin curtains with heavy burgundy ones that held the light hostage even at noon.

For a while, she matched him drink for drink.

They hosted small gatherings on Friday nights—music loud enough to irritate the neighbors, bottles sweating on the kitchen counter, merengue pulsing through the floorboards. Joaquín would spin her clumsily in the narrow space between stove and sink, both of them laughing as if balance were a negotiable concept.

I remember one night in particular. I was in my thirties by then, married, already accustomed to speaking to my brother in measured doses. Victoria stood at the stove frying salami, oil snapping against the pan.

“You don’t eat enough,” she told him.

“I eat life,” he replied, tapping his chest.

She rolled her eyes but smiled. At that moment, they seemed almost stable—two people mistaking volume for durability.

The stability did not last.

The drinking, once festive, became procedural. Bottles lined the kitchen counter even on weeknights. Victoria began going to work with a tightness in her jaw that no amount of makeup softened. The laughter shortened, then disappeared.

One afternoon she called me.

“He doesn’t sleep,” she said quietly. “He just sits in the dark and talks to himself. Sometimes he laughs. Sometimes he argues.”

“About what?”

“About nothing. About everything. I don’t know.”

When I confronted him, he dismissed it.

“She exaggerates,” he said. “She worries too much.”

He had begun losing weight. His shirts hung loosely across his shoulders, his collarbones emerging like parentheses. He blamed stress. The garage had fewer customers. The economy was bad. Everyone was tired.

Victoria left on a Tuesday in October.

There was no screaming. No broken plates. I arrived after she had already packed most of her clothes into two large suitcases. They sat by the door like obedient animals.

“She’s overreacting,” Joaquín insisted, though he did not look at her as he spoke.

Victoria stood near the window. “You won’t see a doctor,” she said. “You won’t even admit you’re sick.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.”

The word lingered in the air between them.

I noticed then that his hands trembled—not dramatically, but with a fine vibration, as if a current passed through him at irregular intervals.

She bent to lift the suitcases. He did not move to help.

“You think you’re outrunning something,” she said, almost gently. “But you’re not moving.”

The door closed with a softness that felt deliberate.

He stood in the kitchen for several minutes after she left, staring at the burgundy curtains she had installed years earlier. Then he reached for a bottle and drank directly from it, as if hydration might replace conversation.

Within months, the apartment was gone.

The landlord had tolerated late rent before, but patience is not renewable. Joaquín moved from couch to couch at first, then to the streets. Pride did not prevent him from asking for help; it only prevented him from keeping it.

I saw him one winter night near the Broadway train tracks in Paterson. Snow had gathered in gray ridges along the rails. He sat on an overturned milk crate beside a barrel fire with two other men whose names I never learned. His beard had grown unevenly; his eyes seemed both brighter and more distant, as if light passed through them without obstruction.

“Temporary,” he said when he saw me. “I just need to reorganize.”

“Reorganize what?”

“Everything.”

He gestured vaguely toward the city—the factories, the boarded storefronts, the small houses leaning slightly into one another for warmth.

The trains passed at irregular intervals, metal shrieking against metal. Each time one approached, conversation halted. The ground trembled. Then silence returned, heavier than before.

I brought him food when I could. Sometimes he accepted it gratefully; other times he waved it away, offended by implication.

The illness announced itself gradually.

First, the cough that would not leave. Then lesions along his arms he insisted were allergic reactions. He lost more weight. His clothes no longer hung; they draped.

One evening he agreed to let me drive him to the hospital. The waiting room smelled of disinfectant and impatience. He sat hunched, arms folded tightly across his chest as if preserving heat.

“Just tests,” I said.

“Tests are for people who believe in outcomes,” he replied.

When the diagnosis came, he received it with an expression bordering on boredom.

“They don’t know everything,” he said afterward, as we walked toward the parking lot. “Doctors make money from fear.”

“You’re sick,” I told him, sharper than I intended.

“I’ve been sick before.”

“This is different.”

He looked at me then—not defiantly, not angrily, but with something closer to confusion. As if I had introduced a rule to a game he had been playing successfully for years.

“You worry too much,” he said finally.

The treatments began inconsistently. He would attend appointments for weeks, then disappear. Medication bottles accumulated unopened. He complained about side effects, about bureaucracy, about forms that asked the same questions in slightly different arrangements.

Eventually there was no couch left to borrow.

The state intervened with the mechanical compassion of systems designed for volume. A social worker located a nursing facility in North Jersey willing to accept him. He resisted at first, calling it exile, calling it surrender.

“It’s temporary,” I told him.

He did not argue.

The room they assigned him contained a narrow bed, a dresser with three drawers, and a window overlooking a parking lot. The television was bolted high in one corner, perpetually tuned to daytime programming no one seemed to watch.

In the early months, he remained himself in fragments. He would tell stories to the nurses—embellished accounts of motorcycles, of women who waited for him in cities he barely remembered. Sometimes they laughed politely. Sometimes they did not.

The dementia crept in quietly.

Names slipped first. Then chronology. Then the ability to distinguish between memory and invention. He accused staff of moving objects he had never owned. He insisted that roads outside the window were new, freshly paved, meant for him.

During one visit, he asked me if the motorcycle was ready.

“There’s no motorcycle,” I said gently.

He studied my face as if assessing reliability.

“You were always afraid,” he murmured.

It was not an insult. It was a statement of taxonomy.

Outside the facility, seasons changed without consulting him. Snow one winter. Humid green summers. Election cycles. New buildings rising where factories had collapsed. Inside, time thickened.

I was approaching forty-five when the call came one night from the nursing home. His breathing had become irregular. They suggested I come.

When I arrived, he appeared smaller than I remembered, reduced not just by illness but by stillness. Tubes traced cautious paths across his body. The television flickered soundlessly above him, captions running beneath images of people arguing about things that no longer concerned him.

My sisters stood on either side of the bed.

For several minutes, he seemed unaware of us.

Then his eyes shifted. Focused. Cleared.

“I am not well,” he said.

The words were deliberate, each one placed carefully, as if testing weight.

No one contradicted him.

He held my gaze longer than he had in years. There was no bravado in it, no dismissal. Only recognition—of condition, of limit, perhaps even of arrival.

Then the focus dissolved.

His eyes drifted back toward the ceiling, toward something beyond it, or toward nothing at all.

Machines continued their soft mechanical vigilance.

He did not speak again after that.

The nurse adjusted the monitors with the calm efficiency of someone who has witnessed many endings and knows that most of them are quieter than expected. My sisters remained on either side of the bed. I stood at the foot, watching the rise and fall of his chest, measuring it against an internal rhythm I could not name.

There is a particular sound a body makes when it begins to release itself from effort. It is not dramatic. It is not cinematic. It is closer to surrender than to struggle. His breathing grew shallower, then paused, then resumed in shorter intervals, as if reconsidering its commitment.

For years I had imagined that if this moment came, I would feel something decisive—anger settling into forgiveness, or grief sharpening into clarity. Instead, I felt administrative. I found myself noting the brand of the monitor, the pattern of discoloration on the ceiling tile above his bed, the way the fluorescent light hummed with indifference.

When the nurse leaned forward and listened with her stethoscope, I already knew.

She nodded once, a small professional confirmation. “Time of death,” she said softly, and read the clock.

My sister began to cry in short, contained bursts. The other remained still, her hands clasped tightly together as if in negotiation. I looked at his face. Without the movement of breath, he appeared unexpectedly young, the angular lines softened, the restlessness temporarily suspended.

For the first time in decades, he was not leaning forward.

The paperwork began almost immediately.

Forms. Signatures. Questions about next of kin. Would the family be handling arrangements? Would the remains be transported?

The social worker spoke gently but efficiently. She handed us brochures with photographs of caskets arranged in ascending order of cost, as if grief could be scaled by wood quality. My sisters looked at me.

“We’ll keep it simple,” I said.

Simple was a word Joaquín would have mocked in life.

The county burial assistance program required additional documentation. Proof of income. Proof of residency. Proof that there were no hidden assets. It felt intrusive and necessary at once. A life reduced to eligibility criteria.

I found myself grateful for the bureaucracy. It offered sequence where emotion did not.

In the days between his death and the funeral, I dreamed of roads.

Not the Dominican highways this time, but North Jersey streets in late winter—salt crusting the edges, potholes opening like small mouths. In the dream, I drove without destination. Traffic lights shifted from red to green to yellow without pattern. I searched for a road that led nowhere and could not find one.

The morning of the funeral arrived with a sky the color of unpolished steel.

The funeral home was modest, its lobby furnished with upholstered chairs arranged in symmetrical rows. A faint scent of carnations lingered, though none were visible. We declined a viewing. My sisters agreed it would be easier that way.

The driver introduced himself in a voice calibrated for solemnity. He shook our hands one by one, his palm warm despite the cold outside. I noticed the careful way he pronounced Joaquín’s name, as if rehearsed.

The hearse moved slowly through Paterson’s streets. We passed the garage where Joaquín had once worked; it had been converted into a discount furniture outlet. The sign above the door had faded unevenly, leaving a ghost of its former lettering. I wondered how many engines he had rebuilt there, how many machines he had restored to motion while his own trajectory frayed.

At the cemetery, the snow had hardened overnight into a brittle crust. Each step produced a sharp crack beneath our shoes. The air carried that peculiar metallic clarity unique to February mornings.

The plot assigned to him was modest but not marginal. Rows extended in every direction; names etched in granite with an authority that suggested permanence even when memory would not.

The driver positioned himself near the head of the grave and asked if we would like music. We declined.

He began the prayer.

His voice wavered midway through the second paragraph. Perhaps he was thinking of his own brother, or his father, or someone whose burial he had attended in similar weather. Perhaps he was simply tired. Whatever the cause, his composure fractured briefly. He removed one glove and wiped at his eye with visible embarrassment.

I felt a strange surge of gratitude toward him—this stranger willing to supply the emotion we could not access cleanly.

When the casket descended, the mechanical hum of the lowering device sounded almost clinical. The straps released, retracting with a small metallic snap. The earth waited.

My sisters stepped forward first, each taking a handful of soil from the small ceremonial pile provided beside the grave. The sound of dirt striking the lid was softer than I expected, a muted percussion.

When my turn came, I hesitated.

In my palm, the soil felt colder than the air. Granular. Definite. I thought of my mother, buried decades earlier in the Dominican Republic, beneath a sky warmer and louder than this one. I thought of the roads Joaquín had ridden as if distance were defense. I thought of the hospital room and the sentence he had managed to assemble at the end.

I am not well.

It had not been an apology. It had not been a confession. It had been recognition.

I released the soil.

It struck the lid and scattered.

The driver signaled discreetly to the groundskeepers waiting at a distance. They approached with shovels once we stepped back. Efficiency resumed. The earth returned in measured arcs, covering wood, then obscuring it, then leveling.

Within minutes, the grave no longer appeared abrupt. Only a slight mound suggested recent disturbance.

We stood there longer than necessary.

My younger sister broke the silence. “He always said he wouldn’t die in a bed,” she murmured.

“He didn’t,” I replied. “Not exactly.”

We walked toward the limousine as the wind gathered strength across the open field. Snow began again, fine and persistent, settling into the shallow impressions left by our shoes.

Inside the car, condensation blurred the windows. The driver started the engine and allowed it to idle before pulling away. None of us spoke.

As we exited the cemetery gates, I looked back one final time. From a distance, the plot was indistinguishable from the others—an assigned coordinate among hundreds.

For decades, my parents had treated our life in New Jersey as provisional. They kept documents in a metal box labeled Return. They spoke of Santo Domingo in the future tense, as if it were a promise rather than a memory. Even after mortgages were signed and grandchildren born, there remained an air of temporary occupancy.

Burial alters grammar.

It replaces future with past perfect.

Joaquín had resisted permanence his entire life. He moved through women, jobs, apartments, even diagnoses with the confidence of someone convinced that motion itself was salvation. Speed had been his answer to every discomfort. If something threatened to anchor him—expectation, illness, intimacy—he accelerated.

But snow falls regardless of velocity.

Now he lay beneath North Jersey soil, claimed by a geography he had never fully embraced and never fully escaped. The country that had once felt borrowed had accepted him without negotiation.

As the limousine merged onto the road, traffic moved in careful, regulated patterns. Turn signals blinked. Brake lights flared. The choreography of order continued without reference to individual stories.

I rested my head against the cold window.

Somewhere beneath us, beneath asphalt and concrete and layers of sediment older than any nation, lay the remains of people who had once believed they were temporary as well. Men who had built roads. Women who had crossed oceans. Children who had spoken two languages and felt entirely fluent in neither.

Belonging, I realized, is sometimes granted only in retrospect.

We drove past the train tracks near Broadway where Joaquín had once warmed his hands over a barrel fire. The rails gleamed faintly through the snow. A freight train moved slowly in the distance, its cars linked in patient succession, carrying goods toward destinations indifferent to individual histories.

For a fleeting moment, I imagined him astride the red motorcycle again, leaning forward, convinced that if he gathered enough speed the horizon would widen indefinitely.

Instead, the horizon held.

The car continued north. Snow thickened, softening edges, erasing minor imperfections in the road.

By the time we reached my house, the world had been rendered briefly uniform—lawns, rooftops, sidewalks covered in the same temporary white. I stepped out and watched as the limousine disappeared around the corner.

The quiet that followed was not empty. It was settled.

Inside, my coat still carried the faint scent of earth. I hung it by the door and stood for a moment in the hallway, listening to the ordinary sounds of the house—heat turning on, refrigerator humming, distant traffic.

Somewhere beneath frozen ground in a cemetery a few miles away, my brother had stopped moving.

And for the first time in his life, he was exactly where he was going to remain.

“Perhaps in those last moments at the nursing home, Joaquin listed to our mouther,” my sister said.

The post Writer’s Digest 95th Annual Competition Winning Genre Short Story: “The Saddest Funeral” appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Grand Prize

THE SADDEST FUNERAL by Luis Reynoso (Genre Short Story).

Children’s/Young Adult Fiction

1. THE GHOST WRITER by Quincy Trochue 
2. PHOEBE’S GIFT by B. C. Bond 
3. THE SPACE BETWEEN by Liz Collard Arnold 
4. A SHOT FIRED by Becky Franklyn 
5. LOVE, HAIKU, AND THE SMALL TOWN GIRL by Suzanne Cordatos 
6. THE MAGIC CARPET BOOKSHOP: A GHOST STORY by Suzanne Cordatos 
7. SHIP SETS SAIL by Kendall Walters Moisey 
8. THE QUEEN & THE QUILL by Tarasyn Hanna 
9. RUMPELSTILTSKIN: CODE NAME RSS by Betsy S. Durant 
10. THE BACKSEAT SISTERS by S. G. Traylor 

Honorable Mentions

• “Even Monsters Cry” by Jay Lehmann
• “The Ballad of Bruin and Owl” by Ruth Amanda
• “Iced Buko For Sale” by Angelie Tumaghap Martzke
• “The Potion Hunter” by bru benson
• “Season of Oak” by Aoibhin Ward
• “The Jewel of the Stardust” by Seany Allsop-Pukahi                 
• “My Moving Picture Garden” by Hali Belanger            
• “No One Shows You” by AJ Forstner
• “Happily Haunted Ever After” by Melissa Stiveson    
• “Skipper Chip and Captain” by Jax Venita Garrison 
• “The Rusty, Dusty Tractor!” by Venita Garrison             
• “Laff in the Dark” by Christine Van Zandt         
• “Dead Mango Trees Go to Heaven” by Adeeb Chowdhury   
• “Abuela’s Treasure” by Frank Brinker                 
• “Death and Family” by Aspen Hite
• “Stonestealers” by Livia Wetherill
• “Gretel McKay – Goodbye Day” by Michelene Esposito          
• “Why I Love Lists, or: Things I’m Trying Not to Hold In” by Tracie Renee
• “The Visitor” by Terri Michels
• “Before I Sleep” by Patti Richards
• “The Instincts We Hide” by T.W. Davis
• “Tehani and the Birthday Lei” by Tina Sacco 
• “Spill the Chai” by Megha Malhotra     
• “For the Birds” by Heather Hartt-Sussman    
• “Big Baby” by Jennifer J. Stewart            
• “Chasing Possibility” by Miriam Glassman    
• “Trucker Kitten” by Kendall Walters Moisey  
• “Cloudia with a Chance of Darkness” by Melissa Grant
• “Kitiza Unknown” by Ilana Bruton         
• “Aunt Marien’s Glasses” by Jessica Dunnagan            
• “Five Finger Discount” by Amanda Fletcher  
• “Abeyance” by Livia Wetherill
• “Viva Lost Vegas” by Shelly Steig
• “The Cookie Lady on Shady Oaks Lane” by Henry Weese    
• “Horses Without Bugs” by Henry Weese          

Genre Short Story

1. LOST & FOUND by Sydne Scivally 
2. A POUND OF SALT by Marilyn Hope 
3. TEDIUM by Clara Pratt 
4. DEATH SENTENCE by Matthew Dion 
5. YOU ARE WELCOME HERE by Jen Brewington 
6. A SPOT OF YELLOW by Grace Carlstrom 
7. THE VINEYARD WIDOW by Trish Church 
8. AMARA by Keywanda Bradley 
9. RESEEDED CONCRETE by Evan Satinsky 
10. TILLIE AND THE QUEEN by Karen Novak 

Honorable Mentions

• “Obstacles” by R. G. Holmes
• “Expiration Date” by Mark Rhodes   
• “The Darkest Night of the Soul” by Samuel Flynn
• “Sand Trap” by Jennifer Slee and Jessica Slee
• “Pawn Sacrifice” by Jennifer Slee     
• “Ivan’s Blues” by A. Elsensohn
• “Bluffing Fantastic” by Genevieve Pollock 
• “Take Flight” by Haley Peck-Law       
• “Weeds” by Amber Fenik        
• “Found” by Mary Buckey         
• “The Sky is Deep” by Clint Taylor       
• “Fool’s Gold” by Meagan Billian
• “The Story” by Denise Parkin
• “Live Until Morning” by L. K. Keir
• “Unequal Justice” by Marlowe Robinson
• “The Fields of Leith” by Christopher Kostyn Passante
• “The Cost of Losing” by Mackenzie Rossero               
• “Manifest Destiny “by Jessica Charle              
• “Simulation” by Laura Bensick            
• “Twelve Midnight on a Saturday Night” by Cheryl Spooner               
• “The Grief We Inherit” by J. Gifuni
• “Thicker Than Water” by Megan DeMarco  
• “Sirens of Neahkahnie” by Celine Goodson
• “Finish What You Start” by K. A. Hamilton
• “The Traveler’s Hope” by Grace McPherson               
• “The Water’s Price” by Mary Jo Wyse               
• “Lora Calis” by Diane Raymond         
• “The Turban Shell” by Marie Tang     
• “The Third Chair “by B.E. Van de Veire
• “Beneath the Meadow” by Ilana Sapenuk   
• “April 20^th, all before noon.” by Audrey Grunwaldt
• “Silken Night” by E. L. Hazelwood
• “Somebody Call a Doctor” by Mia Ashley   
• “Growing Teeth” by Toni Nicolino
• “The Gargoyle” by Bruce Manuel       
• “Sea Singer” by Sophia Johannessen              
• “I Am Adam” by Nick T. Watson
• “Skitterers” by T. A. Sophia
• “Platform Driven” by Kate Swenson                 
• “Mysterious Depths” by Hannah Lavoie       
• “The Return” by Amanda Fletcher    
• “Left Over” by Milena Szafran               
• “The Last Born” by Clarence J. Croxford
• “The Deal” by McKenna Harris-Colvin            
• “The Bond” by Quiver St. Charles

Humor

1. THE TIDES WE SEEK by G. M. Malliet
2. I AM NOT ASHAMED, Y’ALL by Lisa Stamps 
3. CHASED BY DOGS AND OTHER HOLLYWOOD GIGS by Michele Miles Gardiner 
4. THE VOWELS WOULD LIKE TO HAVE A WORD WITH US by Hiko Mitsuzuka 
5. A HARD WAY TO LEARN HOW TO BE A SOFTIE by Rodney Uhler 
6. NOSE HAIR by Wayne Welde 
7. A PROVERBIAL HYENA by Tori Serpico 
8. HOW TO BE 5′ 9″ by Rodney Uhler 
9. DO YOU SUFFER FROM CRS? by Christie Walker Bos 
10. THE CHANCES ARE EXCELLENT by Dez Beck 

Honorable Mentions

• “It Always Gets Worse Before It Gets Worse” by Jaclyn Palumbo                 
• “Dearest Sisters” by Kimberly Taylor               
• “Welcome to America: A Tour by Kylie Jenner” by Autumn Ray     
• “Literary Punch-Up” by Barry Kidd
• “Going to Graceland” by Leigh Curtin Wilding
• “The Body in the Red Mill Building” by Auditi Guha                 
• “Good Girls” by Tracy Cranford          
• “The Nightmare on Elm Street is Over” by Sallie Barr Palmer
• “Running On Empty” by Lisa Chow  
• “The Deli Debacle” by Andrew Badalamenti
• “The Second Time a Frown” by A. G. Sloan
• “Won’t Last – Flash Sale at the Cemetery!” by Ela Hansen
• “A Funeral in Clugg-Uncle Fart Hits a Possum” by Jim Gish             
• “The Holed Tooth” by G. Damon Taylor
• “Diablo” by Aletha Irby
• “Catch of the Day” by Mike Strathdee            
• “Dating Senior Style” by Nancy Dearborn   
• “A Brighter Day” by John Anderson  
• “Hubcap and the Uncomfortable Bun” by Mac McClure
• “Alopecia” by Jennie McClelland
• “The Brother-In-Law Incident of ’09” by John Harris              
• “The Candor Bureau presents Comeuppance Day 7/2030” by Lazlo Menckling
• “Pool Day” by Patricia Hodder             
• “Let Freedom Ring another day!” by Jeff Hawk
• “My Mother’s Converts” by Margaret Danielak
• “The Night We Lost Our Pants” by Wendy Foard     
• “The Almond Pastry Arms Race” by Jason Frohnmayer      
• “Shotgun!” by AJ Hardcastle
• “A Man and His Raccoon” by Kay Julian        
• “The Integratron” by Brendan Praniewicz

Inspirational/Spiritual

1. THE STORY OF THE BLUE LOBSTER by Jeannine O’Neil
2. THE JOY REFLEX^TM by Jenna L. Schutt 
3. THE FIFTH FRUIT by Kim Robinson 
4. THE BUDDHIST MONK WHO SAVED MY SANITY by Andrew Badalamenti 
5. WHAT’S GOD GOT TO DO WITH IT? by Jordan Shields 
6. THE DEPOSITION OF A MAD WOMAN by Elisa Velli 
7. SOMETHING THE LORD MADE by Natalie Field 
8. WHEN THE FATHER COMES OUT TO MEET US by Bill Hoeft 
9. LISTENING FOR GOD by Gary Chorpenning 
10. A RAINBOW OF REDEMPTION by Angel Johnson 

Honorable Mentions

• “A Renewed Life” by Robin Rogel
• “Power Outage” by Robin Rogel
• “Truly Mom, It’s So Simple” by Dave Lutes
• “Days of Awe” by Elizabeth Surlin Gordon  
• “The Artist” by Magan Poindexter      
• “What a Red Rose Taught Me About Belonging” by Melissa Levi  
• “Three Names on an Index Card” by Leigh Curtin Wilding
• “Weathering the Storm” by Patricia Finley   
• “Your Latent Life” by Christopher E. Servedio
• “The Wrong Question” by Amy Catlin Wozniak
• “The Bottom” by Kim Koilpillai             
• “Packing Light” by J. B. Nicholson Hunt        
• “Fall From Grace” by Lisa J. Wise     
• “God’s Messenger” by Linda Mitchell             
• “Hey! Listen!” by Pierce Greene         
• “Sifted as Wheat” by Bobbie Smith Bryant
• “The Upside of Not Climbing Mt. Fuji” by Laurie Mazz
• “Our Bravest Christmas Yes Yet” by Nicole Watt   
• “The Visitors in Our Backyard” by Catherine Wadleigh       
• “Learning to Pray” by Megan Barnhard          
• “Life in the Wilderness” by Ashley C. Shannon
• “Raising Fire: Igniting Resilience and Becoming Whole” by Lee-Ann F. O’Brien
• “The Guardian Angel” by Lisa Stamps            
• “Two Boxes and a Legacy “by Lisa Stamps
• “Crucified Grace” by Molly Mulrooney
• “Christ in My Car” by Ali Murphy        
• “Claiming Myself” by Sheryl Aronson
• “How God Used a Car Accident to Keep My Faith From Crashing” by Donna Hamby    
• “Shared Humanity” by Janet R. Parker           
• “The Crawdad Commission” by Tina Sacco                

Mainstream/Literary Short Story

1. RISE, RIVER, RISE by Taylor Brown 
2. ONE MORE YEAR by Benjamin Nimphie 
3. DON’T FENCE ME IN by Rick Niece 
4. AVERAGE SEATTLE RENT 2025 by D Will 
5. THE GHOSTBIRD by Taylor Brown 
6. DAYS END by E. J. Murphy 
7. THE BRIDGE by Benjamin Nimphie 
8. AMERICAN CAREER FAIR by Lewis Hugo 
9. BELOVED1_BELOVED2_BELOVED3_BELOVED4 by Julia Howe 
10. PAT’S PLACE by Wendy Patrice Williams 

Honorable Mentions

• “Hunter” by Stephanie Grella               
• “Rooted” by Moriah Wisan    
• “Maternal Devotion” by Ada Sparks Mendez              
• “The Obituary Column” by Lisa Collins
• “Sea Swallow” by Susan Sechrist     
• “A Day Like No Other” by Joshua Lane
• “This Body Holds a Fire” by Miles Hulbert   
• “A Walk Down Main Street” by Stacey Brown
• “Some Romances Only Begin Happy” by Douglas J. Walters
• “Today It Rained Upward” by Mauricio Blanco Cordido     
• “Move 37” by Pete Amaker
• “This Story Is Not About My Husband” by Ashley Fleener Johal    
• “Two Tigers” by Leslie H Weber
• “The Adagio” by Doug Alderson          
• “Bad Land” by A. F. Ore
• “Mismating” by T. Ron Carello
• “Ghost Tree” by Sabrina Morris           
• “The Timekeeper” by Rhonda Miller
• “Sort of a Sign” by Jennifer Morfea   
• “Mourning Devotions” by Erin Hardy                
• “Destiny” by Mariel Masque
• “Romantics and the Rain” by Emily Thomas               
• “Living Space” by Damon McLeod   
• “Distracted Driving” by Jacquelyn Bogaczyk
• “Game Over” by Melody Schmidt
• “The Bane of Fernthorn’s Well” by Ethan Baumgartner
• “The Man Who Saved Apollo 13” by Ferrell Jennings
• “Emancipated in a Cage” by Paula J Gabriele
• “The Missed Appointment” by D.L. Marr
• “The Town Drunk” by Joe McClour   
• “Last Supper” by Paul Weidknecht 
• “Manufactured Beef” by Martin Wilson         
• “New Beginning” by Brendan Kelly  
• “Porfy and Willy” by Frank Archibeque          
• “What We Came to Find” by John Addison Appleby
• “Digging at Night Christine” by McMillin-Helsel      
• “Short Story” by Carol Johnson
• “The Judgement of the Livelli” by Peter Hankins     
• “Oversti” by Charlotte Beck
• “Black Hole Kitchen Blues” by Zachariah Claypole White                 
• “The Witness” by Andrei Romanov  
• “Saving the Planet in Three Easy Steps” by David McKenna            
• “The Substance of Hunger” by Tracy Cranford         
• “Special Snowflake” by Lisbeth Graefin von Deym                
• “Hemlock Orchard: The Last Harvest” by Dennis D Montoya
• “The Gift of Fire” by Pallavi Desai
• “The Library of Burning, County Nowhereshire” by Alfred Johnson             
• “The Fish Who Looks Up at the Sky  ——Curious Qiqi” by Chenchen Lian             
• “The World Continues to Turn” by Eve Lyon
• “Honey” by Tracie Renee

Memoir/Personal Essay

1. DAD’S DESK by Diane Birnbaumer 
2. STIMULUS by Jeffrey-Michael Kane 
3. CROSSBREED by Madeline Chang 
4. CHRISTMAS RULES by Rose Calder 
5. MEDIAN AGE by Heide Brandes 
6. WHAT TO EXPECT—WHEN YOU’RE NOT EXPECTING IT: NAVIGATING MISCARRIAGE AND OVERCOMING THE SILENCE by Jennifer R. Charest-Rodriguez 
7. I WILL NOT ENJOY IT WHILE IT LASTS by Julia Shaw 
8. THE JOURNEY THROUGH MONTHS OF MADNESS: LEARNING TO ASK FOR HELP by Stephanie Overton 
9. WHERE ARE YOU FROM? by Jon A. Herrin 
10. BIRTH, BURNOUT, AND BEYOND by Allison LaCross 

Honorable Mentions

• “A brain on fire” by Megan Campbell               
• “That Woman” by Mary Sand                
• “The Thrill of Victory and the Agony of Da Feet” by Abella Leialoha Carroll           
• “The Ocean Between Two Shores” by Ed Sevilla     
• “Whiskey Road Trip” by Tony Nauroth
• “The Price of Me” by Shelane Nunnery           
• “Half Dome Anyone?” by A Mukherjee           
• “Light” by K. Evans
• “Proof of Life” by Michelle Schrock 
• “The Vows I keep” by Heide Brandes
• “Dear Funeral Home” by Kelly Kozlowski    
• “There Is No Casserole for This” by Kathleen Palmer           
• “Singing in Eugene” by K. Lang-Slattery
• “Wild Soul Rising” by Stacy Clark     
• “The Last Supper” by Mariel Masque
• “Driving Away” by Alley Foster
• “What Murder Does to the Living” by Allan A. Vega
• “Kick the Can” by David Glass
• “White Ladyboy” by Thalia Vacha
• “A Letter to My Addict Daughter” by Heidi Overson               
• “Gold Stars” by Tim Spence 
• “A Trial by Fire” by Joanne Weck        
• “No Fireworks Tonight” by Patricia Gable   
• “The Hokey Pokey” by Hillary Tollette             
• “The Loss of Myself: A Memory” by Wout Bols          
• “Seatmates by Design” by Judith Glynn        
• “39 Nights” by KD Corbin
• “Magic in the Hallway” by Emily Ruedinger
• “Where History Becomes a Story” by Julia Motyka                 
• “My Inheritance” by Karen Pugh         
• “That Blue-tiful Day” by Secret Thrower
• “My Mother’s Secret” by Denise Derya Brandt
• “Reframing Failure” by Emily A. Dixon
• “I Am the Son of Levant” by Fadi Saadeddine
• “Morocco” by Kay Julian          
• “In the Shadow of Healing” by Ali Gray
• “What Endures” by Brad G. Philbrick
• “Little Light of Mine” by Kristy Mabe                 
• “Walking on Cinders” by Judith Elaine Hankes         
• “Build a Bear” by Lori Jakiela                 
• “Taking It All Too Hard” by Deb Lehman       
• “Helen” by Mira Goldstein     
• “Two Hells” by Hazel Dixon-Cooper                 
• “Mission Improbable” by Jennifer Swan       
• “The Problem With Being the Capable One” by Rose Calder
• “Lessons From My Imaginary Friend” by Lizzy Danon          
• “The Black Holes in My Mother’s Brain” by Jennifer Bridgman
• “Bitten by the Mosquito: A College Student’s Essay on Her Intrusive-Thought OCD” by Hannah Lavoie           
• “The Second Best Meal I Ever Had” by William R. Ablan
• “Provider” by Benjamin Nimphie       

Nonfiction Essay or Article

1. OUR ANCESTOR’S SCRIPT, TODAY’S MINEFIELD by Chenchen Lian 
2. GOD’S BULLIES by J. D. Edwards 
3. DRIFTED by C. L. Olsen 
4. ANATOLIAN SIKKE by Angela Waldron 
5. SUMMER CAMP by Scott Kraverath 
6. PRINCE DEMAH, BLACK PATRIOT AND SOLDIER ARTIST OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION by Mark Alan Fulco 
7. PATIENCE LOVELL WRIGHT, SCULPTOR AND VOLUNTEER SPY IN LONDON DURING THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION by Mark Alan Fulco 
8. MADELYN PUGH, “GIRL WRITER” FOR I LOVE LUCY by Angela R. Klink 
9. LORRAINE by Martha Pedersen 
10. “KEEP THE FLAG FLYING. I’M COMING BACK.” by Ed Sevilla 

Honorable Mentions

• “Richard E. Cytowic Explores Complicated Relationship with Father in New Book” by Charles Green              
• “Raising Martha’s Boys: George Washington’s Defeat on the Domestic Front” by Maxine Carter-Lome            
• “Six Days to the Outback. Three Words that Altered the War.” by Ed Sevilla        
• “Work in Maine” by Angela Waldron                 
• “Night Ambush at Roullingen” by Phil Lusk
• “From If to How: Reframing the Consciousness Question” by Proy
• “Going to Graceland” by Leigh Curtin Wilding
• “Arrested for Playing Golf? How Collingswood’s Sunday Blue Laws Doomed Camden County Country Club” by Terry Crowley
• “Secret in the Attic” by David Drotar 
• “The Kids Who Fought Smallpox” by Maria S. Rodriguez
• “Her Brother’s Boots” by Diana Green           
• “The Pen (Chief’s Camp) ” by Peter B. Gallagher
• “What Our Genes Remember” by Vilma Ruddock
• “Blockade” by L. C. Willis
• “A Maine Island Wedding” by Laura Lee Perkins     
• “A Series of Obituaries: The Life and Deaths of Norwich, Connecticut” by Douglas Walters    
• “What’s Next: A Collage” by Amarjiit Chopra             
• “The Table” by Laura Larkins
• “Survival Lies Upstream” by Amarjit Chopra              
• “As a pillar of democracy, the Black press deserves more from philanthropy.” by Tirrea Billings          
• “Take a Walk on the Tiled Side: It Seems That Everyone Is Playing Mahjong These Days” by Kathy Bradshaw               
• “Bat Scratch Fever” by Patricia Feinman
• “A Mysterious Land Like an Elephant” by Chenchen Lian
• “Oh, Generous One, Oh Noble One, Oh Hero: The Path of the Akhi in Anatolia” by Angela         Waldron            
• “The Best Instrumental Ever” by Henry Weese  

Non-Rhyming Poetry

1. BLUE LIGHT by Alice de Hubp 
2. A HISTORY LESSON by Juliana Pan 
3. FIRST NEW YORK SNOW by Paul Tifford, Jr. 
4. A STRANGE DEMOCRACY by Leonardo Chung 
5. PALESTINE, 1983 RIDING THE BUS TO SCHOOL by Lucinda H. Kennaley 
6. LATE SUMMER by Leonardo Chung 
7. PROVISIONAL FREEDOM by Leonardo Chung 
8. I IMAGINE HER LIFE THIS WAY by Emily O’Reilly 
9. GULLAH by Eileen Trauth 
10. JUST APPLES by Michael Olson 

Honorable Mentions

• “Before The Two O’clock Rain” by Heidi R. de Contreras
• “Burning Sky” by Seth Pace
• “The Silence of Ai” by Judy Brenneman
• “WAKING UP IS HARD TO DO” by George Amabile
• “Another Sanctuary” by Elizabeth Wee
• “The Last Good Day” by Leonardo Chung
• “Diorama of My Childhood Bedroom” by Polina Korobitsyna
• “My Sock Drawer” by Polina Korobitsyna
• “Ovidian Lament on Behalf of the Bronx Zoo’s Wooden Horses Exiled and Replaced by Wooden Insects in 2005” by H. Preston Soss
• “Guide for Admiring That Which Repels You” by C. Lynn Shaffer
• “Our Dreams Adjusted to Commercial Interests” by Jonathan Greenhause
• “The House Story of What My Brother Was Like as a Child ” by Amy Haddad
• “Raktabija Vadha, A Sonata” by Sailee Charlu
• “When the Particles are Invited to Dance” by Louise Kantro
• “Laika” by Caitlin Johnson
• “FACTORY OF GHOSTS” by Julie Butler
• “Báirín breac” by Sarah Lindenbaum
• “8 a.m. Mass, 1970” by Kathleen Berlew
• “Jacks” by Paul Tifford Jr.
• “Straight Creek” by Mark A. Campbell
• “First Saturdays” by Eileen Trauth
• “Pa bliye, pa bliye’m no” by Gaelle Francesca Rigaud
• “Questions” by Suellen Wedmore
• “Under The Porch Light” by ByPdsn
• “Ode to my deviated nasal septa, a Champu Kavya for my Mother” by Sailee Charlu
• “The Test” by Leonardo Chung
• “the market has only three aisles” by Leonardo Chung
• “Lilacs In Kaliningrad” by Heidi R. de Contreras
• “At the Farm Wood Table” by Heidi R. de Contreras
• “Swallowing Spoons” by Heidi R. de Contreras
• “Snow Tires” by Priscilla Lee
• “Jidi” by Michael Olson
• “Ars Poetica with Wingless Dragon” by Juliana Pan
• “If You Go First” by George Shafer
• “Trash Angel” by George Shafer
• “Buzzcut” by Talan Tee
• “Combinatorics” by Talan Tee
• “The Strawberry Lover” by Talan Tee
• “They Said It Would Be Night” by Talan Tee
• “Summer Evening—1949” by Bill Terrell
• “San Fernando Valley Scene” by Paul Tifford Jr.
• “Rotation” by Paul Tifford Jr.
• “Self-Portrait as a Ghosthunter” by Ava Truong
• “Thwarted (sestina)” by Eleanore Trupkiewicz
• “Abecedarian” by Eleanore Trupkiewicz
• “Dutchess County” by Hana Tsai
• “Peace Offering” by Elizabeth Wee
• “Good Graces” by Elizabeth Wee
• “Midair Collision” by Terri Yannetti
• “Reprise” by Natalie Zhang

Rhyming Poetry

1. AZAZEL AND BEELZEBUB by Robert Daseler 
2. THE VILLA IN DURRËS by Joy Nevin Axelson 
3. SANDBONI by Lisa Alleman 
4. WOKE IS A FOUR-LETTER WORD by Michelle Smith 
5. MINUET by Benjamin 
6. IT’S NEVER THAT BAD by D. L. H. 
7. FATHER OF JESUS, NOT OURS by Patrick Walker 
8. TO EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY by Lynn Saunders 
9. THE HOUSE STILL SMELLS LIKE DOG by Doug Simon 
10. KIPPERS & CUSTARD by David Trunkfield 

Honorable Mentions

• “Sometimes when” by Dennis Rhodes
• “The Bog Song (an amphibian homage to “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot)” by Hannah Lavoie       
• “Lady Winchuck” by Kimberly Blanchard
• “Vigil” by John Carmen
• “I Did a PhD so People Would Call Me Doctor” by Emer Curley
• “No, Don’t” by Lori Bellamy  
• “Life in the Underworld (a villanelle)” by Corinne Flickinger
• “A Shadow Poem” by Reese Landry
• “Up in the Mountains” by Jessica Shiflett    
• “Enough Stuff?” by Ralph La Rosa   
• “SCENE FOR A CHRISTMAS CARD” by George Amabile    
• “supernova” by Kevin Delaney            
• “If It Rhymes” by Marc Davidson       
• “Another Year” by John Beaton
• “Ecce Homo” by Patrick Walker         
• “Candy Corny” by Matthew Wenzel
• “The Interstate” by J. Forrest
• “EMOJIS” by Betty Simpson 
• “Okefenokee Hokey Pokey” by Shannon Miller        
• “My Mother Rests” by Chelsea Crowe
• “Thoughts on a Painting by Bouguereau (The Nut Gatherers)” by DM Lovic
• “She” by H.K. Cartwright, Jr.
• “The Land of the Living” by Larry Kilham
• “Raindrop Ballerinas” by Mindy Rodriguez 
• “LIGHT YEARS” by Marla Alupoaicei                
• “WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?” by George Amabile       
• “I CANNOT WHISTLE THROUGH MY LIPS” by Judith Chibante      
• “Tom’s Backyard” by Peter B. Gallagher
• “Love Like a Black Vulture” by Guadalupe Garza   
• “Owl Ode” by Ophelia
• “Millimeters Moo” by Tom Kind
• “They Couldn’t Erase Socrates” by Tom Kind
• “Always Talks to Rabbits” by Tom Kind
• “Elegaic Saga Tale” by Tom Kind
• “The Willow Tree” by Aimee  Hoilman             
• “Homage to Gerard Manley Hopkins” by Clif Mason            
• “dia de muertos” by Michael Miller 
• “Accidental Poet” by Rebecca Munday
• “Eleventh Hour” by Ismail Najar         
• “Wrinkled Mind Ghazal” by Michael Olson
• “The Flame” by John W. Rapparlie   
• “Unmatching Socks” by Adam Stockman
• “Tales of Mass Incarceration” by Daniel Teitelbaum            
• “A Toast: For All This” by Paul Tifford Jr.        
• “To My Eve, Signed Adam” by Patrick Walker            

The post Announcing the Winners of the 95th Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition appeared first on Writer's Digest.

In this interview, Katherine discusses how growing up on creature features helped inspire her debut novel, When the Night Comes Knocking, her advice for other writers, and more.

Name: Katherine Daniel
Literary agent: Cheyenne Faircloth of Handspun Literary Agency
Book title: When the Night Comes Knocking
Publisher: Berkley, Penguin Random House
Release date: October 20, 2026
Genre/category: Adult Horror
Elevator pitch: When the Night Comes Knocking follows estranged siblings, Jane and Thomas, as they travel from college through the North Georgia mountains to meet their family for Thanksgiving; only when they stop at a convenience store along the way, they soon find themselves trapped and forced to confront a monster that feasts on guilty hearts.

Bookshop | Amazon
[WD uses affiliate links.]

What prompted you to write this book?

Horror has always been my favorite genre to consume. I grew up on the creature features that played on cable TV, finding an odd comfort in those movies that has stuck with me into adulthood. When I was 26, after the sudden death of my grandmother, I had a lot of grief that I didn’t quite know how to process. So, I sought out that familiar comfort I’ve always found in horror and decided it was time for me to try writing my own creature feature, where the complexities of grief would end up being a central theme throughout.

How long did it take to go from idea to publication? And did the idea change during the process?

From idea to the eventual publication date on October 20, 2026, it will have been about 2.5 years total for When the Night Comes Knocking. The main idea of the story didn’t change much throughout the process; from the start, I knew that I wanted the mold for this story to be a survive-the-night creature feature set in North Georgia, and that it would center around a struggling brother and sister duo. From there, it was about building out the themes of guilt, grief, regret, and how each of the secondary characters would function alongside the siblings in this fight for their lives.

Were there any surprises or learning moments in the publishing process for this title?

Since this is my debut novel, it’s felt like everything has been a surprise or learning moment in the publishing process for me so far! There is truly so much that goes into getting a title ready for publication and so many different people from different departments (art, marketing, publicity, sales) who are closely involved beyond just editorial work. It really is a massive team effort, whereas initially drafting a novel is such a solitary endeavor. I think that my favorite surprise thus far has been getting to see the creativity of so many talented individuals be brought together in order to make this book as strong and effective as possible.

Were there any surprises in the writing process for this book?

I’m a plotter by nature in terms of writing style, which means I make detailed outlines of plot, story structure, character arcs, etc., before I begin drafting anything. However, I was very pleasantly surprised by a number of elements of When the Night Comes Knocking that came about completely organically during the drafting process—things drastically different to what was initially planned in the story’s outline. Without spoiling anything, some of these surprises were regarding the monster and its origins, along with a twisty reveal that takes place in the story.

What do you hope readers will get out of your book?

I hope they get some new fears (kidding. Maybe?), and I hope they leave with an excitement to explore more new voices in the horror genre.

If you could share one piece of advice with other writers, what would it be?

There are many challenging things to battle against when it comes to writing—ego, perfectionism, self-doubt, comparison. While it can be incredibly difficult to silence or manage all of these things, try to remember why you started writing in the first place; whether it’s because writing is your greatest passion or the thing that makes you feel most at home in your own skin—whether it just brings you joy like nothing else. Remember the why and let that feeling be stronger than any of the negative ones.

The post Katherine Daniel: Try To Remember Why You Started Writing in the First Place appeared first on Writer's Digest.

For this week’s prompt, take the phrase “I Can (blank),” replace the blank with a new word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles might include: “I Can Write a Poem,” “I Can Talk Out the Side of My Mouth,” “I Can Be the Very Best,” “I Can Get Out and Vote,” and/or “I Can Pretend I’m Listening to You Right Now Instead of Thinking About Something Else.”

Remember: These prompts are springboards to creativity. Use them to expand your possibilities, not limit them.

Note on commenting: If you wish to comment on the site, go to Disqus to create a free new account, verify your account on this site below (one-time thing), and then comment away. It’s free, easy, and the comments (for the most part) don’t require manual approval (though I check from time to time for those that do).

*****

Poetic forms are the backbone of a poet’s writing. They are the building blocks for length, rhyme scheme, subject matter, and so much more. In The Complete Guide of Poetic Forms, Writer’s Digest’s resident poetry expert and former poet laureate of the blogosphere Robert Lee Brewer showcases more than 100 poetic forms to serve as both an informative resource and inspiration for new writing.

Click to continue.

*****

Here’s my attempt at an “I Can (blank)” Poem:

“I Can Hold My Tongue,” by Robert Lee Brewer

If I’m being completely honest,
I can hold my tongue
some of the time
but not always
obviously
because here I am
laying it all out on the table again
like one of those etherized patients
that is actually the evening sky in
a T. S. Eliot poem,
so let’s go then and pretend
we’re not aging
when we are
and that we’re not fretting
when we are
all just waiting for our 15 minutes
or 30 seconds
or whatever the going rate is
for fame nowadays
on television
in the newspaper
or social media,
and honestly again
(because you know that we are friends)
I can hold my tongue
(heck, I can bite it clean off)
but I won’t
when I don’t
think it’s the right thing to do.

The post Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 804 appeared first on Writer's Digest.

I remember thinking that this was pretty funny. My 90-year-old grandmother would talk about another woman, just as I, a much younger woman, would do. I thought that no matter how old we get, there is always someone doing something aggravating or enraging. Some people just never grew up!

When I was 41, I was driving my regular carpool for my nine-year-old daughter and her best friend. That day, her friend had a play date in the car with her. All three girls were in the back seat on the way home when my daughter’s best friend and her play date started coming up with a list of people whom they could invite over—without including my daughter, who was sitting right next to them. I was furious.

I called my daughter’s best friend’s mom, who I was friends with in my own right, and told her what had happened. Her response was noncommittal: “Oh, that’s mean.” I asked her why she wasn’t more upset that her daughter didn’t include my child, who was right in front of her? She told me that “girls don’t think that way.”

When I was 48, my kids were in high school and college embroiled in lots of their own teenage drama. But the story of driving carpool for my nine-year-old lived in my memory, as well as my grandmother’s “friend” (although my dear grandmother had long since passed). It was maddening to me how the girl drama never seemed to end.

It was at this time that I was delaying the inevitable question: “What would I do with my life now that my kids didn’t need me as much?” Friends had asked if I’d be going back to work (Work? From 20 years ago? Who would want me?). I wasn’t a trained writer, but always had a desire to write. What if I wrote a book? I took a chance. An interesting topic would be all the drama that I kept encountering. It seemed that women everywhere, of all ages, never seemed to be exempt from it! It got me thinking about empathy and how people needed to be taught how to understand others’ feelings. And if this was something to be taught to young people, shouldn’t it be something that older people needed to understand first? A multigenerational cast seemed to be the perfect vehicle. Yet, it was a complex scenario. Women and their issues were difficult.

I decided to write about what I knew. My first character would be a stay-at-home mom. It was important to me to show readers that being a stay-at-home mom was a hard job. I could see people’s eyes glaze over when they found out that this was how I spent my days. As if this job were easy. Or unimportant. But this character needed to realize that there’s more to her story than caring for her child. She had her own life!

For the younger character, she was 14 and at a turbulent time during high school when fitting in and finding one’s place were critical. She showed the fragility of being young and insecure while being thrust into daily scenarios where popularity mattered. It was challenging recalling that time in my own life, remembering the high school cafeteria and the pit-of-the-stomach feeling that it inspired. I had watched my three daughters go through the same critical time, each in their own way. This character needed to be at her lowest in order to find her footing and excel.

And the older character? I haven’t been through this time in my own life yet, but I felt it necessary to write about this character to show all stages of life. I thought about my grandmother and her stories about the woman down the hall. I remember thinking that even as we age, we still carry insecurities just as we had in our youth.

It was important to be able to talk from three points of view. I needed to show that for a middle-aged woman, a teenager, and an octogenarian, at their core the women were the same. The three characters each had similar experiences of fitting in, finding a place to sit, romance, and having a true friend. Having a multigenerational cast shows the greater message: Although they were in different age groups, they all suffered the same feelings of wanting to belong, not to mention the girl drama. Yet, based on each woman’s level of life and experience, she dealt with the situations differently.

I love reading stories about different ages of women. It reminds us that inside we remain a girl, who becomes a middle-aged woman, and finally an older woman. We go through necessary stages of learning and security, although at any age, no one is perfect; everyone has their issues and messes up.

People have asked me if a character is them, or if their child is represented. While that is stressful (and not true!) I’m glad that people can find something relatable. It thrills me that my teen-aged niece is reading my book, my peers are super supportive, and my 80-something-year-old mom is proudly giving it to her friends. I hope each age group can appreciate what the others are going through.

Check out Gerilyn Bass Greenberg’s Drama Drama Drama here:

Bookshop | Amazon

(WD uses affiliate links)

The post Challenges and Rewards of Writing a Multigenerational Cast appeared first on Writer's Digest.

I lost my identity during Covid. Like so many others, I struggled during that dark time. I’d had quite a lot of success right out of the gate in my career, and suddenly, I couldn’t sell any books. I had wound my sense of self-worth so tightly around being an author and that loss was a blow that left me reeling. I felt completely untethered. I felt like I had no value. And the worst part was that writing—which had brought me so much joy—now felt torturous. Sitting down to write was agony. And the rejections that piled up only seemed to prove what a failure I was. Clearly, I was no longer “good” at the craft I loved so dearly.

I also stopped dating during Covid. I had always chased the sense of safety I thought being in a relationship would provide, driven to be “picked” but without stopping to really consider what I wanted from a partner. I never considered whether the man I was with was compatible with my wants and needs—I’d twist myself into a pretzel to pretend that whatever he wanted, I wanted, too.

During those long hard years, I felt like I had lost everything that made me me. I was certain I would never sell another book again. The future felt bleak, colorless, drained of hope. And of course, I would never find love. Who would want such a failure?

That’s when I found romance. Or maybe romance found me. We never know why things come to us in certain moments, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that writing romance saved me. It brought color back to my life. It made writing joyful again. It made me believe in love again, as cheesy as that sounds. I’d never written anything contemporary before—I’d always focused on dark sprawling worlds filled with magic. But in romance, I could heal the parts of me that felt broken. I could bring two people together on the page and feel the flicker of hope for that in my own life. Writing romance made me believe in myself again, and what might be possible for me.

I think part of it is that the romance genre itself is so joyful. We know there will always be a happy ending. We know that our hero and heroine will overcome all obstacles in order to be together, that Love Will Conquer All. I found so much comfort in the safety of that promise. I was able to explore a vast spectrum of emotions, putting my own angst to good use. It helped. A lot. By writing a happily ever after, I tentatively started to picture one for myself in the real world.

When I finally got back into dating, I was determined to learn from my previous mistakes. I would not twist myself into a pretzel. I would not jump at the first guy who showed interest and hope for the best. Romance helped with that, too—I love writing from both the hero and the heroine’s perspectives, and knowing the men I had created on the page, I couldn’t just go back to ignoring all the red flags in real life like I used to. And after a year of working hard to break old patterns and focusing on what I was looking for in a relationship, I met an incredible man whom I have the honor of marrying this year. And shortly after we met, I sold my first romance novel.

Writing romance not only breathed new life into my career, but it allowed me to be open to love itself. Finding love at 44 is quite exhilarating. I know myself better. I’ve been through the crucible and survived. And I think romance gave me that resilience. It taught me patience. It was a light in my darkest time. And most importantly, it reminded me that I am more than just one thing. That my sense of self does not stem from what I do, but from who I am.

That is the true healing power of romance.

Check out Amy Ewing’s The Plus One List here:

Bookshop | Amazon

(WD uses affiliate links)

The post The Healing Power of Writing a Rom-Com appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(Finding Inspiration in Writing Short Stories.)

The darkness wasn’t confined to crime. The city’s political history was equally compelling: backroom deals, rogue police operations, larger-than-life personalities, and a 15-member City Council that often governed its districts as independent fiefdoms. Behind the celebrity culture lay another Los Angeles, ambitious, flawed, and often corrupt.

Those were the stories and people that captivated me, not the myths people already knew, but the ones buried beneath them.

Flying through the Canyon, I was California dreaming on my way to see my agent, whom I’ll call Ms. Woodland, carrying a screenplay titled Living in the City of Angels. She had taken a chance on me before with a script called A Child Is Missing, which was optioned but never made into a film. This new screenplay and its lead character, Joanna Steele, filled me with high hopes.

The feedback I received was practical, likely well-intentioned, and disappointing. A producer who worked closely with my agent suggested that, if I wanted a better chance of selling the script, I should consider making Joanna a man. Male detectives were easier to sell. I was also encouraged to remove some of the story’s spiritual elements and to soften Joanna’s anger. At the time, those recommendations made sense from a commercial standpoint.

I tried to imagine the changes. Sitting at the tiny desk in my tiny apartment, I experimented with different names and versions of the story. Could Joanna become Michael? Cole? Chance? The more I thought about it, the more I realized something wasn’t working. The problem wasn’t Joanna. The trouble was that rewriting the script to drop her and the spiritual themes wasn’t the story I wanted to tell.

What interested me wasn’t simply the crime. It served as the inciting incident that connected the three women, but beneath the detective story lay something larger. I couldn’t quite articulate at 26: the idea of awakening. The idea that a person could reach a point where the life they had been living no longer fit and a deeper truth demanded acknowledgment. I sensed that theme was at the heart of the screenplay, but I lacked the experience to fully grasp or execute it.

So the script sat on my desk.

Weeks became months. Months became years.

On my way out the door to bartending jobs in Hollywood, I passed the manuscript, and thoughts of revising it in those early months clung to me. But it never pulled me back to the desk; instead, it remained untouched. Eventually, it was packed into a box during one of many moves and disappeared. Life moved on. I got married, raised children, pursued other careers, and slowly accepted that a screenwriting career was not in my future.

What surprised me was that the story never completely went away. In the original screenplay, there were three women: Joanna Steele, Desire Diamond, and Lana DeMille. Desire and Lana had smaller roles than they do today, but they stayed with me. Over the years, all three women continued to evolve in the back of my mind. They would appear unexpectedly while driving, walking, or lying awake at night, like ghosts, reminding me they were still there, trying to get my attention. Without my realizing it, they were growing older, changing, and becoming more complex alongside me. But I did nothing. I had given up writing, and certainly screenwriting, a long time ago. Notes to my children and thank-you cards were the extent of it.

Then one afternoon, more than 30 years after I had written the screenplay, I was cleaning out my garage. As I gathered old files for shredding, I came across a grubby box with faded letters labeled simply, “Kevin’s Stories.” It was falling apart; the cardboard came off in my hands as I slowly opened it. Inside were old writings, some decent, some embarrassingly bad. The shredder didn’t want them. In the unorganized pile was one screenplay, Living in the City of Angels. There they were—Joanna Steele, Desire Diamond, Lana DeMille, and Kiddy, the murdered hustler—waiting for me. Or maybe I had been waiting for them.

Surprised it had survived all this time, I found the manuscript for Living in the City of Angels. It could have been an episode of Antiques Roadshow. Hidden in a crowded garage, inside a weathered box, was a forgotten treasure. Its value might have meant little to anyone else, but to me it was priceless. As I lifted the screenplay from the pile, I decided it was finally time to see what had become of Joanna Steele, Desire Diamond, Lana DeMille, and the story I had abandoned so many years earlier.

For a long time, I simply sat there reading. I saw its flaws, the themes I had reached for and missed. What struck me wasn’t how much I remembered, but how much I had forgotten. More importantly, I realized I no longer wanted to write the screenplay that 26-year-old Kevin had written. What interested me was the seed and the people buried within it. The story had always been trying to become something larger.

Revisiting the characters inspired me. Desire Diamond gradually became Mia More. Lana stepped out of the background and took center stage in the narrative. Joanna remained exactly who she had always been: a determined woman searching for truth in a city built on illusion.

It made me sit down and write again. I wrote The Book of Souls series and a couple of Christmas books. Then I felt ready…

The screenplay wouldn’t work; it had to transform into a novel. That novel became Waking Sleeping Beauty.

On the surface, it is a crime thriller set in Los Angeles, a city that became one of the book’s most important characters. It is a story of murder, corruption, power, and the seductive promises of fame. But beneath those elements lies the same question that first drew me to the story decades ago: What happens when we wake up? Not from sleep, but from the stories we tell ourselves about who we are, the stories that lock us in.

As the novel developed, I became increasingly drawn to the Sleeping Beauty metaphor. Traditional fairy tales often rely on rescue from the outside. Someone arrives to save the princess. Real life has taught me otherwise. The women at the center of Waking Sleeping Beauty are not waiting to be rescued. Their journeys are difficult and often painful, yet they ultimately discover that the power to change their lives comes from within. As we all must.

Looking back now, I understand something that never would have occurred to me at 26: sometimes a story arrives before the writer is ready for it. The idea may come first, but the life experience needed to tell it can take decades to acquire.

Over the years, I underwent my own spiritual awakening, learning how easily we mistake illusions for reality. I also became the father of a nonverbal child who struggles to communicate, an experience that taught me to listen beyond words and to see the world differently. Those experiences deepened my understanding of connection, loss, longing, and what it means to be truly seen. Writers are always trying to connect with readers. To do that honestly, we first have to understand something about ourselves. Only then did I realize I had the life experience to tell this story.

Had I written Living in the City of Angels exactly as originally conceived, it might have become a decent screenplay. Instead, it spent 30 years quietly evolving in a box while I evolved alongside it.

A line from T.S. Eliot’s “Little Gidding” has always stayed with me: “We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

That perfectly captures what happened when I opened that dusty box in my garage.

I saw Joanna, Mia, Lana, and Kiddy again, but this time it felt as though I were meeting them for the first time.

Check out Kevin Moore’s Waking Sleeping Beauty here:

Bookshop | Amazon

(WD uses affiliate links)

The post Adapting a Screenplay Into a Novel appeared first on Writer's Digest.

(How Writing Poetry Helps Our Fiction)

In this episode of “Writer’s Digest Presents,” senior editor Michael Woodson revisits the topic of book cover design with designer Elisha Zepeda. Elisha talks about his creative process, the differences in working with traditional publishing and self publishing, what he’s loving in the design world right now and what he thinks could use a refresh, and more.

About Elisha

Elisha is a book cover designer with Penguin Press known for his fast paced process videos on social media (@ez.bookdesign). Browse his portfolio and learn more at ElishaZepeda.com.

Watch or Listen Below

The post Book Cover Design 101: How To Make Your Story Stand Out appeared first on Writer's Digest.

For today’s prompt, write about a metronome that won’t stop ticking.

Post your response (500 words or fewer) in the comments below.

The post The Metronome appeared first on Writer's Digest.

In this interview, K-Ming discusses tackling a new genre and style with her new novel, Needlemouth, her hope for readers, and more.

Name: K-Ming Chang
Literary agent: Julia Kardon
Book title: Needlemouth
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Release date: October 20, 2026
Genre/category: Literary Fiction, Horror
Previous titles: Bestiary, Gods of Want, Organ Meats, Cecilia
Elevator pitch: Three young cousins are visited by a vengeful demon—part vampire, part Hungry Ghost—who demands that they kill a man for her.

Bookshop | Amazon
[WD uses affiliate links.]

What prompted you to write this book?

There’s a whole combustible mixture of reasons—my desire to write a vampire book, my love for the horror genre, my sense of unbridled rage, my desire to destroy the myth of the “perfect” victim—that inspired me to write this book. First and foremost, I wanted to write a transformative story about a demon whose power and anger and desire to be free can disrupt patrilineage and intervene in the fate of three girls who are stifled and trapped in an intergenerational cycle of violence. I wanted to give myself permission to write a story that was uncompromising and at times playful, and ultimately about choosing your own life, even and especially when there are tragic or painful consequences. Its original title was Rage Will Be Your Savior, and the spirit and message of those words propelled me.

How long did it take to go from idea to publication? And did the idea change during the process?

I would say it took approximately four years for the manuscript to go from idea to publication. The idea evolved mostly in form rather than in content. Originally, I wrote it as a series of loosely linked stories, which is how I often write my novels, because I don’t naturally gravitate toward larger narrative arcs. But this story demanded a new mode for me, and I spent a lot more time and effort thinking about narrative than I usually do. Needlemouth demanded it, and her presence was propulsive for me. The more I allowed her to flourish in the foreground, the more the other characters and their journeys came alive.

Were there any surprises or learning moments in the publishing process for this title?

Definitely! This book was different from my others in that it was sold as a partial manuscript, which means that I worked extensively with my brilliant and insightful editor, Brittany Adames, to shape the book. It was an intensive and rewarding process, and I couldn’t have done it without her faith and her encouragement. She saw the book with clarity and with a sense of playfulness that allowed me to explore the characters in ways I didn’t anticipate. I was constantly surprising myself during the editorial process, which was invigorating and exciting, especially because it can be exhausting reading your own words all the time!

Were there any surprises in the writing process for this book?

I think what surprised me the most was that this book felt like it was being written without me, if that makes sense. I sometimes felt like it was writing ahead of me, which is a great feeling. It’s a departure for me both stylistically and genre-wise, though I’m sure most people would say that it feels very thematically tied to my work and still feels like “me.” Yet it feels like a book that’s absent of me, even as it contains my obsessions. It’s a book that feels antithetical to a lot of what I was taught about writing and literature. It screams. It has something to say, and there’s a certain clarity of purpose that surprised me and that asked me to be brave and unwavering.

What do you hope readers will get out of your book?

I hope that readers will embrace the sources of their own rage, and resurrect and reawaken the parts of themselves that have been sacrificed for the sake of maintaining the status quo.

If you could share one piece of advice with other writers, what would it be?

This is difficult, because I feel like I’m the one who would benefit from receiving advice! I would say to have faith in your writing and your work. And specifically, the words that kept me motivated to finish Needlemouth, and to stay true to its rabid spirit, were gifted to me by a friend: “What’s the point of writing if it’s not saying anything?” I will say that sometimes we write because we don’t know what to say, and that can be important and a part of the process, too; sometimes we don’t ever know. People often say that writing is about asking questions, but I wonder if writing can also be the answer. Why can’t it be the answer? In the case of Needlemouth, I wrote because I needed to write the answer; in a world where abusers obfuscate the truth, I needed to say something clear, without restriction and without fear.

The post K-Ming Chang: This Book Felt Like It Was Being Written Without Me appeared first on Writer's Digest.