Mini-Contest #65
The 65th OTP mini-contest launched in March 2026. This mini-contest asked contestants to write TWO stories about a family argument: a long version (75-100 words) and a short version (25-50 words). Both versions had to tell the same story, but each version had to be designed to make the most of the word length allowed.
We received 134 qualified entries. Here are the winning entries, then the honorable mentions. Three of the six winners are new to OTP.
Third Place by Marie Avis (new to OTP)
LONG VERSION:
“Don’t drink it all now,” my mother whispers as she hands me the bottle of orange soda, a special treat for this annual road trip. “Your father won’t stop until we need gas again.” Back on the highway, the sweetness and bubbles are irresistible, so different from my usual skim milk.
“What is that smell?” my father roars from the driver’s seat an hour later. I cower, the warm wetness seeping through my underwear and leggings into the faded upholstery. As he twists to look at me, I pull my sweatshirt over my lap and swallow back tears.
SHORT VERSION:
I tried to sip it but the orange soda, a rare treat, proved irresistible. Now my bladder is bursting but my father made his “gas stops only” policy clear. The release brings immediate relief, until he sniffs the air and twists back, knuckles clenching the steering wheel with rage.
Second Place by Imane Abid (new to OTP)
LONG VERSION:
Amina’s pirouettes stirred the dust behind the old barn, her movements a silent defiance. From the shadows, Omar watched, his face hardened by the village’s rigid expectations. “This is not our way,” he snapped, throwing her leather slippers into the dirt. He feared the whispers at the market, the supposed stains on family honor. Amina stood tall, her dusty feet aching but firm. “The rhythm is in my blood, not just my feet,” she whispered. In that golden sunset, their bond broke—one clinging to ancient silence, the other reaching for a forbidden stage.
SHORT VERSION:
In their conservative village, Amina’s ballet dreams collided with Omar’s fears of scandal. He saw shame in her dancing; she felt the music of rebellion. Their family bond shattered under the weight of a tradition that demanded silence instead of art.
First Place by Jennifer Moore (published in Issue #38 and now 10 mini-contests)
LONG VERSION:
How do you get from “Happy Anniversary, darling,” to murder?
Simple. Arrange a surprise party for your husband to celebrate twenty-five years of wedded bliss. Invite all your friends and family. And yes, that includes your cousin, Heidi. Don’t forget her.
Order an expensive cake. Spend all day setting everything up. Drink too much champagne. Fetch your husband when it’s time to cut the cake. He’ll be in the summerhouse with Heidi, celebrating five minutes of un-wedded bliss. (Surprise!)
Don’t forget to take the cake knife.
SHORT VERSION:
How do you get from “Happy Anniversary” to murder? Simple.
Arrange a surprise party for your husband. Invite your family (not forgetting Cousin Heidi).
Drink too much champagne. Fetch your husband to cut the cake. (He’ll be in the summerhouse, screwing Heidi. SURPRISE!)
Don’t forget to take the cake knife.
Honorable Mentions (no money, just fame)
Three other entries earned honorable mentions.
LONG VERSION:
After Taco died, my fiancé replaced our cat-proof plastic plant with a real one. He rotated her to spread sunshine on her leaves and blooms. He gave her filtered water. He read his poems to her.
“No more cats,” he said.
“I miss purrs and petting!” I protested.
“Make our plant your pet,” he said.
The day finally came when I sat close to her, gently stroked her pretty pink blooms.
“Taco would have chewed you up,” I tell her. “Sadly, Sweetheart, your days are as numbered as my fiancé’s. My neighbor’s cat just had kittens.”
SHORT VERSION:
When Taco died, Miles replaced our cat-proof plastic plant with a real one.
“I miss purrs and petting!” I protested.
“Pet our plant,” he said.
Finally, one morning, I stroked her pretty pink blooms. “Sweetheart, your days are as numbered as my fiancé’s. My neighbor’s cat just had kittens.”
by Marie Anderson (published in mini-contests #59, #61, and #63)
LONG VERSION:
“Noah!” says Dad.
“Your teacher emailed,” says Mom. “You were assigned a three-page story for English, but you turned in a picture.”
“Oh, Mrs. Wagner told us earlier this week, ‘A picture is worth a thousand words.’”
“You know good and well, Mr. Smart Aleck, that is not what she meant!” says Mom.
“Although… it is very creative,” says Dad, high-fiving Noah. “Good job, son!”
Mom grabs their hands and pulls them apart. “Creative or not, you’re grounded until you redo the assignment, in words.”
“And you need to stop encouraging him,” says Mom, glaring at Dad. “Boys!” Sigh.
SHORT VERSION:
“Noah!” says Dad.
“Your teacher emailed,” says Mom. “You were assigned a three-page story for English, but you turned in a picture.”
“Oh, Mrs. Wagner told us earlier this week, ‘A picture is worth a thousand words.’”
Dad high-fives Noah.
“Stop that!” says Mom, grabbing their hands. “Boys!” Sigh.
by Margaret Lea (published in mini-contest #60)
LONG VERSION:
“I refuse to do this any longer Mama. We’re taking him to the new clinic—today!”
I shifted my gaze from my mother’s astonished face to my elder sister, her nostrils flared, face livid. For someone who had returned only months ago from the city on a short academic break, there was nothing “schooled” about her expression at the moment.
She must have sensed how high the tension had risen, because she quickly softened.
“Please Mama, I know you’ve been waiting on Him for a miracle. God will heal Papa—but perhaps today, He’ll do it through a man.”
SHORT VERSION:
Their voices held fire this morning; my sister would not yield—they were going to the clinic today.
Between them lay my father—weak, waiting.
Softly now, she said, “God has many hands and feet, Mama. You’ve waited so long on Him. Perhaps today, He’ll reach us through a man.”
by Lotanna Nwafor (new to OTP)
Congratulations to the winners and our sincere thanks to everyone who entered the mini-contest.