We’ve just wrapped up the Short Story Awards Contest for 2022, and we’re so excited to finally announce the winner!

We decided to host this short story awards contest as a way to support and empower writers everywhere, regardless of their experience or background, so we set out to make this contest as accessible as possible by making it international and maintaining a low entry fee. The result was an overwhelmingly talented pool of writers and outstanding stories to choose from.

How the Winner Was Chosen

We received hundreds of submissions across 11 genres. We picked the 11 finalists for each category, and then amongst the finalists selected the grand prize winner.

We were truly impressed with the number and quality of submissions this year. Our hats off to everyone who entered and participated in this year’s contest!

2022 Short Story Awards Grand Prize Winner

We’re pleased to announce that the Grand Prize winner of the 2022 TCK Publishing Short Story Awards Contest is…

“Blind Spot” by Colin Brezicki

You can read his inspiring short story at the end of this post.

Short Story Category Winners

We also want to congratulate the category winners, who were the finalists from which we chose the grand prize winner:

Creative Nonfiction or Memoir

The Yellow Bus of Torment by Emily Simon

General Fiction

Blind Spot by Colin Brezicki

Thriller

Granny Apple Smith by Kyle Panasiuk

Mystery

Six Sixteen by Arte L. Whyte

Science Fiction

Windswept by Angela Pope

Fantasy

Blazing Flames by SaniaZehra Abedi

Historical Fiction

No Visitors, Please by Brooks Carver

Romance

Sinking by Amy Carrino

Religious

A Visit to Nazareth by Antoinette Nneka Opara

Young Adult or Middle Grade

A Smooth Criminal by Ayaan Saeed Chaudhry

Children’s

The Perfect Nickname by Sophia Nikki Ghaeli

Read the Winning Short Story

You can read the complete winning short story below:

“Blind Spot” by Colin Brezicki

 

“Can I ask what you’re reading?”

He wasn’t aware of the woman on the treadmill until she spoke. The lilt in her voice sounded English.

“It’s a novel. About a composer.” Maintaining his stride on the elliptical he glanced up at the wall-to-wall mirror opposite, but her eyes were fixed on the TV screen suspended above her. A kitchen show—a mustachioed chef was lifting a roasting pan out of the oven. 

Stephen returned to his book.

“So who’s the composer?”

He glanced at the wall mirror again, but she was still watching the kitchen show. He felt annoyed at a second interruption, especially as she made no eye contact. “The book’s composer or the composer the book’s about?”

She frowned. “The one the book’s about.”

“Shostakovich.”

“Who?”

“Dmitri Shostakovich. Russian.”

“Any good?”

“I prefer Rachmaninov myself.” 

“So why are you reading it?”

“I meant I prefer Rachmaninov to Shostakovich. The book is by Julian Barnes.”

“Never heard of him. Canadian, is he?”

“English, actually.” Not wishing to prolong the conversation, he resumed reading. 

Hearing a beep on her treadmill he looked over to see her reduce her pace as the cooking show went to commercial. Her braided, snaky blond hair tossed up and down as she jogged on the spot.  

She looked at him in the wall mirror. “I find it odd you’re reading a book at all. I mean here, in a gym. Normally people watch the screen and listen to tunes. Maybe flip through a magazine. I’ve never seen anyone work out with a proper kick-arse book before.”

“I’d be bored out of my tree if I had to exercise without one.”

“So, you only use machines that let you read?”

“Pretty much.” He closed his book with emphasis. 

“And what other machines do you use besides half an elliptical?” The mild smirk complemented the sarcasm in her voice. 

“I ride the stationary bike. And I walk the track.”

“While reading your book.”

He nodded. “Yup.”

“Wouldn’t it be safer to read on a treadmill?”

“I nearly fell off the one time I tried. I’m more in control on a track that doesn’t move. I can concentrate better.” 

“You don’t walk into walls or other people?”

“I can see where I’m going.” He smiled at her image in the glass. “Peripheral vision. It’s an acquired skill.”

She shrugged and looked up at the screen. 

She was tall, slim, and obviously fit, given her earlier pace on the treadmill. A log sheet and a pen lay at the foot of the treadmill, so she was serious about her workouts. He returned to his book. 

But now he couldn’t concentrate. He glanced up at her reflection again. Pretty eyes—hazel maybe. No glasses, so contacts perhaps, or just good eyesight. Then again, she was watching a screen, not reading a book. “So do you only use equipment that lets you watch television?” 

She shook her head, eyes on the screen. “I do other machines as well—upper body, pecs, quads, pelvis, core, bum and thighs. Thighs are important. Mostly, I listen to music.” She indicated her earbuds. 

He nodded, a little taken aback by her detailed body inventory.

He hadn’t noticed a wedding ring. Not that it mattered. Yes, she was attractive, but he’d finished with all that.

Two more beeps brought her treadmill to a stop, and she stepped onto the floor. She draped her towel around her neck, then retrieved her log sheet and moved away.

A novel about Dmitri Shostakovich—great pick-up line, he mused. Except she had started the conversation—and her interruptions weren’t altogether cordial either. More like an interrogation. 

He looked up at the screen and watched the chef slice into a very rare prime rib.

Late thirties maybe, he thought, turning his head to watch her make her way to the weight machines. She had the air of a career woman. Self-assured. And there was the accent. He liked to speculate about interesting strangers. Did she read, he wondered. Conversations with women who didn’t read—men too, for that matter—tended to dry up quickly. He found that non-readers generally had little of interest to say after a while—not that his own conversation was all that fascinating to them, he supposed. He didn’t necessarily want to talk about books, but he found that people who read books—okay, kick-arse books—seemed to offer a wider range of interests and sound less dogmatic about things. Less likely to presume they were right about everything. It amused him to think he might be wrong about that.

Anyway, with two online dating disasters behind him he’d pretty well given up on the whole cherchez la femme thing. Like Pepe le Pew who got canceled for setting a bad example to kids. Fair enough, times had changed, though Stephen’s most recent relationships hadn’t lasted long enough for any real intimacy. He’d been too cautious, afraid of making an unwelcome advance. Both women were attractive enough, pleasant enough, but he had hesitated. So difficult to know the rules these days, though he’d never been a player. Not even close.

Neither woman was much of a reader, despite making claims to the contrary in their online profiles. With each, he ended up feeling stuck in a relationship he didn’t know how to end without awkwardness. And so, each time they had beaten him to the punch. 

Sorry, Stephen, I don’t think I want a serious relationship after all. 

Each time, he felt more relieved than rejected, and after the second experience he could feel himself withdrawing. If faint heart never won fair lady, so be it. 

Shostakovich thought himself a coward all his life. But he believed it was easier for a person to be a hero than a coward because it took only a moment to toss the grenade or pull the trigger and destroy ‘the oppressor’. Cowardice can last an entire lifetime, as a man sidles from one indecision to the next. To have to live with himself, knowing he’d never change, required a kind of courage too, Shostakovich decided. The coward dies a thousand deaths—all that. 

Stephen shut his book, switched off the elliptical and stepped down. Across the gym, he could see the woman stretched out on the floor, facing the wall. She was doing a scissors exercise with weights, her right foot slung into a stirrup, her leg moving up and down. She paused, released her right foot, turned over to face him and slid her left foot into the stirrup. 

He looked away.

Next day he went to the gym at his usual hour. Again, she was there, just starting up on the treadmill. He stepped onto the elliptical, set the tension and got into his stride. Glancing across to say good morning he saw she had already put in her buds and was watching herself in the mirror. Above her the TV screen was blank. He opened his book.

She was on her cool-down walk by the time he finished his own session. He stepped off the elliptical and moved to the indoor track to begin his thirty-lap walk. Each lap took a minute, so thirty minutes in all. And another forty-odd pages of his book. 

At the end of his first lap, he saw her heading to the weight machines. After a second lap she was into her foot-in-the-stirrup leg stretch. On his sixth she was lying on a bench, her back arched and a barbell balanced on her pelvis. After lap twelve she was spreading her knees on another weight machine. By lap twenty she was on the floor, bottom raised, and legs bent back over her head in what he assumed to be some kind of yoga position. 

At the end of his walk he had read only fifteen pages and couldn’t remember much of them. Tomorrow he’d come later in the day to avoid seeing her. 

But late the next afternoon she was there too, working the treadmill and watching a soap. He decided to switch routines, begin with his walk, and do the elliptical later. Again, though, he couldn’t concentrate, and the words on the page were like hieroglyphics. Still, he focused on them when he passed her. The one time he glanced in her direction she was staring at him. 

He wondered about her showing up at this later hour. Coincidence, surely. And what about all the days he’d been coming here before that and not encountered her?

He mounted the elliptical, set the tension and got into his stride. Tomorrow he’d come in the morning, right at opening time.

 

“So, what’s your book now? Looks like you’ve finished the composer story.”

She was standing in front of him, her arms raised as she tied back her hair. 

Earlier he had emerged from his changing room just as she was going into hers. He nodded an acknowledgement and went straight to the elliptical, hoping to be well into his book before she appeared. 

“Women Talking. Do you know it?”

She frowned. “Are you being funny?”

“No. It’s a novel by Miriam Toews. And she is Canadian.”

“Sounds like daytime television. So what’s this one about?”

“It’s kind of hard to explain.” More like impossible, in the circumstances. The novel was set on a farm in Manitoba where a group of Mennonite women were enslaved by their men. They were drugged at night and assaulted while they slept. Why was she so interested anyway? So she could say she’d never heard of Miriam Toews either? “It’s kind of dystopian…like Atwood. The Handmaid’s Tale—do you know that one?”

“I watched the series. You read weird stuff for a guy.”

“So what sort of stuff do you read?” He felt the challenge in his voice. 

“Not books about Russian composers or dystopian societies. Why don’t we have a coffee after our workout, and we can talk about things.”

What things did she mean? More than just books, he sensed. At least she was being friendly. “Sure. And you can tell me what you like to read.”

 

Her name was Courtney, and she did wear glasses. The dark frames intensified her gaze. She liked the name Stephen, she said. 

She lived in Queenston. “Right below Isaac Brock’s column.” She looked at him. “Brock’s Cock, I call it,” she added, and laughed when he nearly choked on his cappuccino. “Like in London we called Nelson’s column in Trafalgar Square, Nelson’s Prick. The English have an odd sense of humour, don’t you think?”

“I supposed you were English.”
“My attitude or just my accent?” She smiled.

“Maybe a bit of both. So, you’re from London?” 

“Wiltshire, actually. But I’ve lived in Canada for twenty years. I’m with a tech company in St. Catharines. What about you?” She examined the rim of her cup and licked off a coffee stain. 

“I grew up in Toronto. Went to York University. I work in The Falls now. Not much else to say, really.” 

She studied him for a moment. “Let me guess. You’re a teacher. I mean you’re a guy and you read novels, so you must be a teacher.”

“I’m just an accountant who likes to read fiction. It gives me a break from all those spreadsheets.”

“Married?”

“Divorced.”

“Children?”

“A son. My turn now?” 

“You had your turn.” She smiled again. “How long ago did you divorce?”

“Five years. You married?”

“Still my turn. Did you walk out or did she?”

“Nobody walked out. It was mutual, and we still talk. So, you were going to tell me what books you read.”

“What books would you like me to read?”

“I’m sorry?”

She laughed. “You get flustered easily. I’ve noticed that. Anyway, thrillers mostly. Some erotica. Lesbian fiction. Whatever’s hot.”

Lesbian fiction? He wanted to ask but refrained. He felt uncomfortable suddenly. “Reading’s getting to be a lost art, don’t you think?” He looked at her.

She seemed to be staring him down. “Aren’t you dying to know if I’m gay?” A half-smile now.

He shrugged. “Okay, so tell me. Are you gay?” He could feel his face redden. Where was this heading?

She laughed again. “Would it matter if I were? Though I sometimes think how much fun it would be to have relations with another woman. Have you ever been with another man, or thought about it? I mean, you might be living with one now for all I know. So, do you mind my asking—tit for tat, like—are you gay?”

Inside his shirt he felt a bead of perspiration drop cold on his skin. “Heck, no.”

“So you don’t like gays?”

“Not at all. I mean, I never said that.”

“Does the thought of being with a man disgust you then?”

“It’s not something I’ve thought about.” He was feeling agitated now. “Look, I’m not sure how we got here, to be honest.”

“How about sex with a lesbian? Or a tranny? Or how about one of each to make a threesome? Don’t men fantasize about things like that?” She picked up the biscotti from her saucer and dipped it into her cappuccino. Scooping up some froth she put the end of the biscuit in her mouth and bit into it. 

He cleared his throat. “Some men do, I suppose. I wouldn’t know.” He felt a quiver of arousal despite his confusion.

“What wouldn’t you know?” 

“Do you think maybe this is getting a little personal? I mean, we’ve only just met.” He took a gulp of coffee.

She pushed her cup to one side and narrowed her eyes as she leaned forward, her folded arms pushing up her smallish breasts. “Isn’t getting personal exactly what you wanted? I know you watch me on the equipment. You’re not very subtle, are you?” She was staring hard at him now.

He shifted in his seat. “I haven’t been watching you. I’ve seen you exercise—that’s not the same thing. You spoke to me first—both times—and then you asked me to have coffee so we could talk about … books I thought. You’re an attractive woman, but it’s not like I had designs on you.” 

“You find me attractive then?”

“Yes, I do. Is that wrong?”

“But you don’t have designs on me? What sort of designs might they be?”

His face felt hot. “The usual ones. I don’t know. Anyway, I don’t have them. Not with you—on you, I mean. Designs on you.”

“And what are the usual ones? Do you mean having sex with me?”

“I suppose that’s what I mean. Not that I want to, you understand.” Why was he defending himself? She was a nut-bar. She brought up the whole sex thing.

“So, you sneak looks at me doing my normal workout routine, but you never imagined having sex with me? How does that work?”

“Okay, listen. You’ve grabbed the wrong end of the stick here. I never had those thoughts about you.” 

“You’d like me to grab the right end of the stick though, wouldn’t you? Is that why you show up at the gym exactly when I do, even though I switch my times around so maybe I can work out without being leered at?”

“I came at different times to avoid you.”

“Why is that, Stephen? Did I offend you in some way?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“So what was it then? You arrive at the same time I do and yet you say you’re trying to avoid me? Do you find me too attractive to resist or something?”

“Well, what about you? Going on about Brock’s Cock and erotica and sex with lesbians and do I think about having sex with a man, which I’ve never done—thought about, I mean—and you suck on a biscotti like it was, you know, something else.” 

She sat back with a surprised look on her face. “Woah. Where’s this coming from? You asked me what books I like, and I told you. That’s all. And I can’t eat a biscotti without you thinking I’m coming on to you?” Her voice rose as she spoke. “I have to tell you, Stephen, I’m more than a little uncomfortable with this conversation right now.” 

He was aware of people at other tables glancing their way.  

He leaned forward, trying to control his voice. “I’m sorry you’ve taken this the wrong way. Really, I am.” His palms felt clammy. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel uncomfortable. 

I wasn’t—.”

“Are you kidding? You meet a woman you don’t know, in a mixed gym where she feels vulnerable anyway—do you know what it’s like for a woman to exercise in a gym where she knows creepy middle-aged men are ogling her? —so she has to make small talk with him to feel more relaxed. And you come on like mister nice guy who reads lit-erature and listens to la-de-da composers, but you’re just like the others. You think I’m coming on to you because my joking about a monument and dipping my biscotti makes you think I’m inviting you to come and dip yours?” 

He wanted to leave, but he couldn’t now. People were looking. “Listen, Courtney, please. Calm down. I’d like to….”

“Calm down? So, what, I’m hysterical now? Isn’t that what men say when a woman is plain fucking angry?” 

He wanted to make himself disappear. But she wasn’t finished. 

“You listen, pal. We take this shit all our lives. Men telling us what clothes we should wear so we look sexy. And what clothes we shouldn’t wear so we don’t look sexy. How much we should weigh, how we should wear our hair, what we should eat, how we should behave at meetings, and never to discuss personal things because men will think we want sex with them.”

“It’s not….”

“Sure, go on, tell me what it’s not, and I might just flip this table right on top of you. And you know I can do it—it’s not like you haven’t watched me sling weights around for the past week.”

He stood and grabbed his coat off the back of his chair. “It’s your lid you’ve flipped, lady.”

She lifted her purse off her lap and placed it on the table, looking straight ahead. “I think you’d better sit down, Stephen.” Her voice was calm now.

“Sorry, lady, but I’ve had enough of this bullshit.” He wanted to make sure people around them could hear him.

She looked up. “I have to tell you something.” 

Her tone was deadly serious. He looked around at the other tables. People turned away and pretended to resume talking. He sat down. “What is it?” 

She reached into her purse, took out her phone and placed it on the table between them. “Our entire conversation is in here. I thought it fair to tell you before you leave.”

“Christ, lady. And what do you plan to do with that?” He tried to recall anything incriminating he might have said, but his mind was spinning. 

“I could screw you over very nicely with this.” She smiled. “Seems your peripheral vision isn’t what you thought it was.”

“I’ve said nothing inappropriate. You’ve been twisting my words.”

“Oh, I haven’t even started on that yet.” 

“What do you mean?”

She smiled again. “I’m the I.T. girl, remember? I have the technology. I can rework everything here to say what I want it to, starting with those designs you never had.” When she saw him eyeing her phone, she picked it up and put it back in her purse. “Mine.”

He nodded. “So is it money you’re after?”

“I don’t need money. I just thought you should know how it feels.”

“I don’t get it.” 

“Of course you don’t. I mean how it feels to have someone control your life, pressuring you to conform in all you say and do. I can send you a copy of our conversation when I’ve finished playing with it. Would you like that?” She smiled. “I didn’t think so. I don’t imagine I’ll be seeing you at the gym again anytime soon.” She pushed back her chair. “Goodbye, Stephen.”

He didn’t look up as she walked to the door and out. Had she known all along exactly the times he’d be at the gym? She had the technology, she said. 

Oblivious to the people around him he stared into his tepid, flat cappuccino. He was mulling over a sentence from the Julian Barnes novel that had lodged in his brain. 

After Shostakovich finally capitulated to the power in the Kremlin, he considered ending his own life, but then realized he’d lost the self-respect even to do that.

And only himself to blame.

What’s Next

Here are our other upcoming writing contests that you can enter now:

• TCK Publishing Reader’s Choice Book Awards Contest 
• Nonfiction Contest
• Flash Fiction Contest
• Poetry Awards Contest

If you’re interested in more posts about writing contests, then you might also like:

• List of Short Story Contests
• List of Poetry Contests: Where to Submit Your Poems
• What to Do After Winning a Writing Contest: 5 Ways to Celebrate Your Win
• How to Enter a Writing Contest: 8 Tips for Success