Awards, Contests, and Nominations
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The Saturday Evening Post 2026 Great American Fiction Contest: Meet the Winners!
The results are in! Here’s who won this year’s fiction contest.Read Bethany Bruno’s story, “No Swimming at Monson’s,” available online January 2, 2026 “I saw the opening line congratulating me and said, ‘Wait, no way.’ I reread the email just to be sure it was real,” says Bruno about when she was notified that her short story “No Swimming at Monson’s” won first place, online and print publication, and a $1,000 prize. “It felt like a dream come true for the little girl who used to write ‘books’ o…
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Half of What I Hear
Now, in my thirties, I hear her again, this time through the walls of my daughter’s room. “She’s fine,” my husband says, rocking her back to sleep. His voice lands easily; it does not have to travel far. But my mother’s words echo differently through memory. They bend. They return like tidewater over shells. I have lived most of my life inside half silence, a place both crowded and lonely. It teaches you to watch mouths, to read pauses, and to fill in missing notes. It also teaches patience. Silence has weight, like deep water; you learn to move through…
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The Taste of Absence
My father drank black Maxwell House from a repurposed Big Gulp cup, the kind with afaded NASCAR logo and a plastic straw he never used. Every morning, long before theworld stirred, he’d fill it to the brim and cradle it between his knees as he drove to work. No cream. No sugar. Just heat, grit, and something close to devotion. On weekends, he used the Grumpy mug I bought him when I was twelve. We were atDisney World, sweating through July, and I picked it out with the kind of glee only achild fee…
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Weary Willie
I was awaiting my cue, with a few other clowns, when the foul smell of burning canvas infiltrated my senses. Dressed in oversized pants barely held up by my flimsy suspenders and my unshaven face covered in thick white paint. I called myself Weary Willie, a sad hobo clown with a permanent frown. I always got the short end of the stick, yet I never gave up. An important lesson my pa taught me, and one which I impressed on the children who came to the Ringling Circus.
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Mr. Sandman, Please Bring Me a Xanax
As the small wind-up clock ticks along with the slow decline of the afternoon sun, small bursts of anxiety begin to rise within me. Nighttime, three years after acquiring PTSD, bring only those aching realities of a life lost forever. I genuinely miss my daily Xanax, who was my call me no matter what time, day or night, and I’ll be there best friend. The tiny oblong shaped pill, once placed ever so gently under my tongue, would melt into a chalky paste before I swallowed.
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Alligators Don’t Blink
The first thing you learn growing up near the glades is that stillness is a kind of power. Not quiet. Not hiding. Just the stillness of an alligator, belly pressed into the mud, eyes watching without ever blinking. They don’t have to flinch. They know they own the land.