Salamander 2025 Fiction Contest

SUBMIT: May 1 through June 1, 2025 | READING FEE: $20

SUBMIT ENTRIES NOW

Crossing

poetry
  The train seems heavier on the tracks tonight although the news is now old news—   the unexpected derision at the local hangout, the two girls who were drinking…

The Tennis Ball

poetry
  When I return to the dog, the first thing I see is the teeth. And then the dog disappears. But the teeth remain. Bared. Bereft of dog. The bared…

At the Orchard

poetry
  We sit beneath a giant maple watching pirouettes of yellow gust upwards, each leaf an illumined skin stretched across a pliable spine. My son spins an apple between his…

Lessons of Dark and Light

poetry
  Completely blind since  birth, Laura would stare for minutes into a close-held flashlight beam, press the heels of her thumbs into her eyes so she could ‘see’ the eruption…

On Earth

poetry
  At the bus stop under the horse chestnut, we tally the length of Boyhood against the babysitter's plans for later and, waiting, see the leaves have started to wilt,…

The 58th Street Library

poetry
  The first block stretched on with big doors and sometimes a doorman standing in front who smiled or touched his hand to his hat and I hurried past to…

In the Small Rotary

poetry
  where Route 100 meets School Street, two cows graze. I've heard Vermonters lend their cows to neighbors—and to the city, it seems—free food for cows, free mowing for the…

Genealogy

poetry
  I always knew that Grandma’s grandfather crashed on the cliffs of Newfoundland, and that we are here because he climbed the waves atop a freezing rock and stayed there…

Pastoral

poetry
Hampi Resort, India   brushstrokes of wind   blue-gray cacti and the thick teak trees   honeymooners in their hammocks drinking tea that’s mostly milk   black cows white cows…

Sad Girl on a Bicycle

poetry
  No one goes downtown. I see an empty square and name it after you. In the yard of the house you used to live in, the flowers shed petals,…

Steeplechase

poetry
Lower the shovel and flatten the ground. --Gerald Stern   Mostly, denial, the nerves in abeyance— add one day and a stoop sets in. I churn my shoulders to undo…

A Walk on the Beach

poetry
  On the beach the shark is dead: its marble eyes leak jelly, its underbelly, slashed, bleeds pinkly onto the sand and flies like copters circle round reporting on the…