208 Fiction 2026 contest results

January 7, 2026

Here we present the winners of the fifth annual Sandpoint Reader 208 Fiction contest, in which we invited writers to submit a work of fiction totaling exactly 208 words for consideration by a panel of judges including Reader Publisher Ben Olson, Editor-in-Chief Zach Hagadone and Senior Writer Soncirey Mitchell.

This year we had 36 entrants, each of whom paid $5 per piece for consideration, with first place winning $150 in cash and second- and third-place finishers receiving gift certificates courtesy of the Reader and its advertisers.

This year, we received several submissions that might have been considered for top prizes, but they failed to meet the word-count criteria. Other submissions were entertaining, but fell under the “memoir” category, as opposed to fiction. Remember, the word count is always the body of the story, not including author name and title.

Thanks to all those who participated and we extend our hearty congratulations to the winners and honorable mentions.

— Reader Staff

First Place

Familiar Stranger
By Michael Prewitt

Tyler pushed through the bramble, his boots sinking into damp earth. The woods were silent today, as if the forest were holding its breath. Beside him trotted Lady, his Collie, her ears perked.

They reached their destination, a glassy pond hidden deep among moss-covered stones.

Tyler had come here countless times, but today something was off. The water glistened a bit unnaturally, like polished obsidian.

Lady growled low and deep. Tyler knelt, peering into the surface of the pond. His reflection stared back — except it didn’t. The face was his, but the eyes were not, like embers still burning in ash. Then his reflection smiled.

Tyler gasped and jerked back. He could feel his heart pounding, and his ears instantly filled with pressure. The water softly rippled, though he had not touched it.

The ripples stilled. The forest hushed again. All was silent.

Tyler could feel a pull toward the black pond, as if it were beckoning through gravity. He peered over the surface once more. His reflection returned — normal, lifeless. He stood staring, breath misting in the cold, crisp air. Lady whined, pressing against his leg as if to say, “Let’s leave this place.”

Tyler glanced down once more at the pond.

And this time, it winked.

Judges’ notes:

ZH: Yes! I’m all in favor of the entry’s unsettling, topsy-turvey tone and what amounts to a mashup between the myth of Narcissus and Jenny Greenteeth. Good pacing, solid and evocative scene-setting — with an emphasis on showing, rather than telling — and the final line is a creepy chef’s kiss. It’s hard to write a beginning, middle and an end in 208 words, but this entry does it with skill and confidence.

SM: What makes this a good story, and sets it apart from other submissions, is Prewitt’s conscious use of the limited word count. He begins the story in medias res, or “in the middle” of the action, and so devotes the entire piece to character development — including the descriptions of the pond and forest. Then he manages to complete a full story arc with a twist ending that feels like a natural progression rather than a gimmick. Bonus points for the mischievous wink at the end.

BO: The author understood the assignment and presented a rounded snapshot in time that is both mysterious and somehow familiar at the same time. The story has an arc and gives the reader just enough to guess what’s happening, but also leaves a lot unsaid. That’s what made it a great story. I loved Prewitt’s last line.

Second Place

Another Day
By Charles Mortensen

Though still autumn, the air felt more like winter. The breeze gusted sporadically, and the asylum grounds were still wet from the passing squall. An unnerving quiet brought me pause. Still, I headed to the manor. John-John stayed to tend the boat and keep a lookout.

Entering the building, I came upon the warden and his assistant gagged and hog-tied together heel to heel and loosely roped to the banister by their necks. Not knowing the circumstances, I reckoned a recon was in order and made my way up the creaky stairs.

The padlock hasps on a bedroom door down the hall had been torn from the jamb, and the whistling wind from an open window carried a whiff of roadkill. I entered cautiously, wishing I had brought my pistol.

The colonel, naked and soiled, sat cross-legged on the bed humming softly. Jane stood with her back to the window, wielding an automatic combat rifle. A bloodied machete lay on the floor in the doorway to the bathroom. Another day, I figured, and scampered out the door.

Downstairs again, I freed the prisoners and escorted them out and across the lawn to the dock, where John-John had already untied the boat. Thunder clapped, and the sleet fell anew.

Judges’ notes:

ZH: There’s a lot of really strong imagery throughout and it casts a palpable pall of doom and gloom, but it felt a little to me like wandering into a movie when the story is already well underway. Still, it’s an effective piece of horror-suspense scene building that makes me want to know more about what happened before — and after.

SM: Mortensen has submitted a few stories about John-John, Jane and the colonel over the years — including the 2024 honorable mention “Blanket” — and each addition unravels and then adds another piece to the mystery. His writing is evocative, prioritizing setting and imagery over plot, and yet his characters feel complex and lived-in. The story makes you want to keep reading, and that’s the mark of good writing.

BO: The writing in Mortensen’s piece is evocative and, thanks to a good opening line, sets a definite mood. There is a vibe to this submission that makes me feel the author knows the story they’re trying to tell. Well done.

Third Place

A Blue Mountain Horror
By Stephanie Le Roy

Kara stepped onto the sidewalk in Parsons, West Virginia, her two sons staying close. Owen was 10, Ryan 5, both excited to meet their father. Michael didn’t know they existed. He was a mechanic — known more for hunting than kindness.

She would tell him after the hunt.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” her mother asked. “It’s been a while since you hunted with a man.”

Kara remembered leaving the woods pregnant last time. “We’ll be fine, Mom.”

Their guide filled the hike with rumors — children stolen in the night, couples vanishing and Blue Mountain warnings he whispered like prophecy. Kara brushed it aside.

But, in the blind, Owen listened. A whistle pierced the trees. Ryan returned it, and the huntsman snapped. Temper rising, a branch cracked nearby, and he insisted they leave.

Owen protested.

They stepped out. The shape hung from a nearby tree, amber eyes gleaming. Its claws retracting as it landed silently. Their escort fled screaming.

The creature watched them. Considered the coward, then followed.

Kara dragged her boys toward the treeline. A gunshot. Then a scream. Another branch snapped. The scent of motor oil followed.

When the beast spoke.

“Is this why you left?”

Kara’s eyes burned amber.

“I was afraid you’d eat them.”

Judges’ notes:

ZH: I give this one high marks for inventiveness and the inclusion of horror elements. I especially appreciated the semi-vagueness of the monster and its threat. Not quite cosmic horror, but enough to keep the reader guessing, and (as H.P. Lovecraft said), “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.”

SM: Weirdos (like me) know that West Virginia is well known for its cryptid sightings, which just adds another layer to this story. I love the idea that Mothman — or some other being — is a father, mechanic and cold-blooded murderer who eats people. It’s a compelling narrative with a rich, implied background, tied up nicely with that final serious but cheeky line.

BO: I loved the line, “Kara remembered leaving the woods pregnant last time.” I also enjoy the ambiguity of the beast or monster. Sometimes a story is stronger for the images and words not included.

Honorable Mentions

A Memory of White Fields
By Coulter Eagley

“Snow. You know snow, kid?”

The kid put a finger to his nose and made as if he were snorting a line of the powder.

“No! Not that junk! Jesus, kid. I’ll do you a favor and keep that between you and me. I mean snow, real snow. Guess not?”

The kid shook his head.

“Figures. Used to be, this time a year, it’s what we’d be getting instead a rain. See, temperature up there gets cold enough it’d freeze the water in the clouds, turn those thick droplets we’ve got coming down right now into tiny flakes of ice — and I know you know ice. Anyway, it’s where that junk gets its name, see, because to the eye those tiny flakes look like white powder.

Used to get enough-a those flakes comin’ down to cover entire fields, cities, you name it. We’d get buried in the stuff, and everywhere you looked you’d see white. When we were about your age we’d go and roll in the stuff. Ball it up, throw it at each other.”

The old man sighed. “Now you just throw mud. Look at you. Go get yourself cleaned up.”

The kid darted up the stairs.

“And next time don’t track it in the house!”

Judges’ notes:

ZH: I tripped a little over the use of dialect, but I could look past that to enjoy the sense of bitter humor and couldn’t help feel like there might have been a metaphor lurking behind the notion of “throwing mud.”

SM: It speaks to Eagley’s skill that you already know who these characters are by the second line. Since this is dialogue-heavy, it’s all about the characters, and the old man’s bitter, wistful musings are a brilliant way to relate to him and reflect on our current environmental situation.

BO: Dialogue is tough to excel at, so this submission won extra points for telling the story mostly in the characters’ words. I also like the premise of a discussion in the future about the snowy winters we are watching slowly disappear from our lives.

Jeru Town Diary
By Lance Miller

My name is Maria Mendoza. I turned 14 today and was born in 2030, the first baby born in Jeru Town. Mom and 62 women and children left Sandpoint and walked here after the floods of ’28 and ’29 raised the elevation of the lake 50 feet, and settled below the slopes of Jeru Ridge, above the Pack River. All of the men were gone by then, drafted and disappeared in the Colombo Venezuelan war of ’27. Then the Covid III pandemic hit, and someone convinced the “right” that vaccinations were a scam, and so a hundred million died. The virus was very hard on men. I still don’t know who the “right” was.

It rains almost every day. Mom says that there used to be a thing called snow in the winter, frozen rain that fell from the sky. There are 208 people living in Jeru Town. Some men and boys came down from Canada a few years ago. We built a hydro power plant on Jeru Creek and have all the power we need. We salvage materials down the valley, and our divers bring cool things back from Sandpoint.

I’m headed to the river to spear salmon with friends, then pick huckleberries. I’ll write more soon.

Judges’ notes:

ZH: I liked the dystopian satire elements that went just heavy enough to be evocative but not over the top. I also really appreciated that rather than just telling the reader “everything went to shit,” we get a sidelong perspective on events through the narrative device of the diary, which could very well be an artifact from an even more shitty future.

SM: Japanese media has a genre called iyashikei (“healing”) that’s often mixed with post-apocalyptic stories to create soothing, slice-of-life narratives set in a world reclaimed by nature. This story’s focus on the joy and peace in Maria’s daily life, contrasting with the backdrop of national tragedy, encapsulates that genre well and helps the piece resonate with a quiet hope, despite everything.

BO: Anyone who knows me well knows I don’t have a lot of hope for the future of humanity. This story scratched that itch. The author’s narrative effectively gives tells of a sketchy future, and imbues a tiny bit of hope (maybe?) with the promise to “write more soon.”

Last Yellow Button
By Jessica Bowman

She looked up at the shelf. Her Shelf of Things. She smiled when she thought of her things. Jars of things, all neatly in rows.

She grabbed a jar; if you hadn’t known any better, you would think she grabbed a jar at random. But today was this jar’s day.

She took the jar into the kitchen and selected her tray. The tray was essential to this task. It had higher sides than her TV tray and the monochrome enamel made everything easier to see.

She upended the jar onto the tray, being careful not to let any of them slip over the edge.

She grabbed a yellow button.

One…

Two…

Three…

Seventy-five….

Her phone rang once, twice… by the third ring, she had lost count of the yellow buttons.

She began to count again.

One…

Two…

Three…

Two hundred and eight!

There has to be two hundred and eight!

The last yellow button, the 208th one, is always her favorite. It’s a tiny button with four holes, she calls it her buttercup button, but only to herself.

She takes her jar of yellow buttons and puts them back in their spot on the Shelf of Things.

She counts the jars, 208, with a smile on her lips.

Judges’ notes:

ZH: I would have put this higher in the overall running for its play on the contest’s 208-word limit. Other entries in past years have tried to lean into that theme with far more mixed results. This one is uncommonly clever and I was grabbed by the dreamy, sing-song quality of the prose, which is a lot harder to pull off than it might seem.

SM: I appreciate how descriptive this story is and how Bowman manages to create an entire narrative out of one small activity. It’s difficult to make a story about counting buttons compelling, but Bowman adds enough little details — the buttercup button, the enamel — to make it warm and inviting.

BO: I liked the randomness of this submission, and the writer’s attempt to include a double 208-theme in the story.