March Mini Contest
– Word Prompt Challenge –
2025
Thanks to everyone who entered our March Mini Contest, and congratulations to the winning writers! Their stories are featured below.
Contestants picked 3 words from the word prompt pool (see image) then wrote a 500-800 word short story involving their chosen words.
Read on to enjoy the winning stories!
The Case of the Missing Alberts
© Scout Garea – Age 10, New Zealand
— Frog, Thief, Bucket —
“Mum!” Noah hollered, “I’ve lost my frog again!”
The rhythmic thump, thump, thump, of Noah’s footsteps down the stairwell echoed around the quiet room. Mum rolled her eyes, “Ha ha.”
“I’m serious,” he says, reaching the bottom of the stairs.
“Really? That’s the fourth one!” Mum exclaims.
My head snaps up from the book I’m reading,“Gross! We might have decomposing frog bodies all over the house.” I complain, perched on the barstool by the bench.
“It will give us street cred,” Mum says, “We’ll be known as ‘That House With The Dead Frogs’ and people will talk about us in hushed, reverent tones as they pass, like ‘Hey look, there are those people who murder innocent frogs, how edgy’.”
“Mum! Don’t you care at all about Albert-1, Albert-2, Albert-3 and now Albert-4?”
“Not especially, you’re the one who keeps buying them.”
I stifle a giggle, “I liked Albert-2,” I say, “He had some real character, or was it Albert-3? No, it was definitely Albert-2.”
Noah huffs, “No one ever cares about my stuff.”
I raise my hand, “I care that there’s a frog free-ranging in my house.”
Mum puts up her hand too, “Ooh, same here.”
He rolls his eyes, “Whatever, I’m going back up to look for Albert.”
“May the frog goddess Heket bestow luck upon thee,” I intone.
He shakes his head and huffs again, before disappearing back up the stairs.
As soon as Noah is out of sight, we spring into action; Mum shoves my bike helmet into my hand after grabbing it from under the bench, “Go, go! I’ll cover for you!” She whisper-hisses, ushering me out the door, head swivelling to keep an eye on the staircase.
I tip-toe quietly out the door, racing to the bike shed on the edge of the lawn. I reach it, prying the door open and wheeling my pale blue cruiser bike out from the shed.
I kneel down to grab the bucket tucked behind the shed, and I carefully place the bucket into the basket of the front of the bike, checking the lid is secure before hopping onto my bike and peddling slowly out onto the road.
I stay at a leisurely pace, keeping my hand on the bucket, the gravel and tar making small popping sounds under my wheels.
A light breeze splays my hair in a tangle around my shoulders, and soon the familiar smell of pine reaches my nose. Living two blocks away from a huge forest reserve comes with its perks, the smell of woodland if the wind is right, and it’s perfect for biking in, filled with small trails.
I park my bike near a bollard, crouching down to fasten the bike lock around the steel bar.
I take the bucket from the bike, carrying it into the reserve, where a cheerful little pond lies, and I kneel, placing the bucket down on the soft mossy earth, dirt sticking to my knees.
I slowly tip the bucket out onto the ground, watching as a small green frog hops out, his large protruding eyes staring up at me. He pauses for a moment so I shoo him gently toward the rocks outlining the pond, “Go on Albert-4, I’m sure the other Alberts will show you the ropes.”
Dawn Thievery
© Ruby-Bo Garea – Age 12, New Zealand
— Traitor, Dragon, Thief —
It was just before dawn when Asher crept out of his house, careful not to wake his father, the general of the Northern Army. It would only lead to more trouble than anyone needed at five in the morning.
Silently, he went out into the street, checked for any carriages, and crossed the gravel road. His bare feet stung on the cold stones, and he made a mental note to bring shoes next time.
Mr and Mrs Donahue’s house appeared around the corner, and Asher felt queasy as he came to a stop outside their fence. He looked behind him, at the rising sun, and thought to himself, Well, it’s now or never.
He squared his shoulders, gripped the iron bars, and began to climb.
Up he went, his hands numb and his legs and arms aching. A breeze blew, ruffling his hair, and Asher wished he had another hand so that he could button up his coat. He reached the peak of the gate and dropped down into the property.
The orchard was around the back of the house, and Asher made quick work of the job, plucking the glittering Serpentine Pears from the trees and stuffing them into the deep pockets of his coat.
He was far too alive, too awake, to feel truly guilty, but he knew that it would hit him later.
When he was done, a good nine or ten Serpentines in his pockets, he hauled himself over the gate and into the street again. By now, the sun was well and truly rising, and there were long, eerie shadows stretching across the ground.
Words were pounding in his brain, on an endless repeat, traitor, liar, thief.
It was against the village law to steal. He knew it, and yet he did it.
But, he supposed, it would all be worth it in the end.
He reached the outskirts of the village, with a big stone wall that marked the border between human and dragon territories. Asher scrambled up, and perched himself on the wall behind the old barber’s house, letting his legs dangle over the edge.
Traitor, liar, thief.
He was a traitor. To his village, to his family, to his friends. He felt a little sick as he sat there, waiting. Just as it was frowned upon to steal, it was even worse to either cross the border, or interact with any dragons from the other side of the wall.
Just as he was thinking about abandoning the whole idea, he heard a heavy flap of wings, and a dragon, easily the size of a school-bus, came flying into view from over the forest.
Asher smiled as the dragon flew closer, each beat of his wings as loud as a drum. Blue circled once, his long tail brushing the roof of a nearby house, before landing with a fwoosh on the ground in front of Asher.
Asher’s smile widened as Blue looked up, his great yellow eyes alight.
Blue was probably one of the most beautiful creatures you could ever hope to see. His powerful wings were the colour of deep ocean, and the scales that covered his muscled blue body winked gold in the early sun. His tail was as long as a door, ending in a blunt spike. His teeth were each the size of an adult’s thumb, and they were on full display as the dragon smiled.
“Hey, kid.” Blue said, and his tail wagged like a dog’s.
“Hey, Blue.” Asher replied. Blue came forward and nudged Asher’s palm affectionately.
“Got any treats?” The dragon questioned, eyebrows waggling.
Asher fished into his pockets and pulled out the ripe, shiny Serpentines he’d stolen from his neighbour’s orchard. He threw them one by one into the air and watched in fascination as Blue swallowed each one with a crunch.
“Thanks, kid,” Blue said, blowing out a breath. “You don’t have the faintest idea how good it feels to refuel with genuine Serpentine Pears.”
Asher grinned, and the sick feeling in his stomach melted away. Blue flashed one in return, and then said, “So, kid, got any plans for today?”
Before Asher could answer, a deep voice boomed down the street.
“Asher Edric Roddan!” The voice yelled.
It didn’t sound happy, and, with the use of his full name, Asher knew exactly who it was.
His father, the general of the Northern Army. The same Northern Army that was preparing for war against the dragons.
“Trash bags and kittens,” swore Blue, and, with a frantic nod from Asher, took to the skies, his silhouette disappearing rapidly into the distance.
Asher didn’t even have time to think about how trash bags and kittens were related.
He calmed his trembling, then stepped out of the shadows to face his father.
The Finale
© Talitha Borstad – Age 13, United States
— Circus, Apples, Thief —
I slip down the street and duck into an alley, hoping no one has time to notice a ragged young boy. Since the civil war and the famine, every factory manager is looking for extra workers, and children are especially easy to ‘hire’ for free. I just escaped from the Grenselheim Ironmongery. It’s run by Delwick Ralvor, the harshest manager in this province. He prides himself on never letting a worker go. I’m the first to make it out, and I don’t want to find out what he’ll do if he catches me.
I’ve reached the end of town. Barren fields stretch before me in the silver moonlight. Just a few yards away, a tent is set up. It’s brightly colored but patched haphazardly. Next to it stands a cluster of smaller tents.
I creep closer. Peeking into one of the smaller ones, I see a few wooden crates.
Three of them are filled with blankets, but one contains food. Though I’m not usually a thief, I take as many apples as I can carry from a burlap sack; they’ll last at least a couple days.
Then I hear footsteps. My heartrate speeding up, I turn in time to see a boy a few years older than me enter the tent. He wears a long, slightly threadbare black cape and a top hat.
“The apples are for juggling.”
“What?”
“We have a juggling act tonight. But you can have some bread.” He pulls a loaf of bread out of the crate and tears off a chunk.
I cross my arms. “Okay, who are you and what is up around here?”
“I am the ringmaster, and a circus is up around here.” He tips his hat and bows dramatically.
“A circus?” I ask. “Why a circus?”
“Well,” he begins, but then a girl a bit younger than me pokes her head into the tent. “Roderick! It’s time for the finale.”
“Oh, right,” he answers. “Mari, can you explain the circus to him?” He gestures to me.
“All right.” Mari nods. She sits down on a closed crate. I do the same.
“The circus used to belong to Roderick’s father,” she begins. “He left it to Roderick when he died.”
“And why are all the rest of you here?”
“Because it’s so much safer than staying in one of the cities.”
“Really?”
She laughed. “You’d be surprised.”
Another girl steps into the tent. “Mari, we need someone else to drive the wagon. Luke’s helping with the magic tricks tonight.”
“Oh.” Mari looks over at me. “Can you drive a wagon?”
“Yeah…”
“Great! It’s just for the parade.” She jumps up and motions for me to follow her. “Come on. We’ll go backstage.”
‘Backstage’ turns out to be a dimly lit portion of the larger tent, separated by a curtain from the small, grassy clearing that serves as a stage and a place for the audience’s seats. A group of children in bright costumes, between the ages of seven and fifteen, are pacing back and forth. I peek through a gap in the curtain.
Roderick stands in the center of the stage. He gestures to the audience. “Thank you all for watching!” he declares. “Now, for our finale…”
The children run around the curtain and onto the stage. Mari points to a wagon. “There you are. The horse knows where to go.”
Another boy jumps onto the back of the wagon and dusts something from a glass jar onto his hands. As we drive onto the stage, he snaps his fingers, creating bright sparks in the shadowy tent.
The flash powder is impressive, as are the acrobatic tricks other kids are performing. One is even doing cartwheels and handstands on a low tightrope.
Suddenly, I see a familiar face in the crowd. He’s scanning the stage, eyes narrow and intent. Delwick Ralvor.
I try to keep my face averted, but when I sneak a quick look, I see that he’s noticed me. He begins to push his way through the audience just as the parade finishes and everyone leaves the stage.
“Who is that man?” Mari wonders.
“Trouble,” I say darkly. “I can’t let him find me.”
“Oh, easy,” she says, laughing. “I’ll go tell Roderick.” She darts away.
A tall figure steps through the curtains. He takes one step, then freezes.
From a shadowy corner, there is the sound of a latch being lifted, and two huge shapes bound forward. Their roars vibrate the tent. Ralvor gasps, turns, and flees.
The lions quiet immediately. Roderick pats them each on the head. Mari smiles at me. “And that,” she explains, “is why you join the circus.”
THOR’S CHOICE: 🌟
DO NOT EVER tell Greek Myths to Kids
© Rose Whitacre – Age 14, United States
— Dragon, Thief, Apples —
Heracles crept toward the garden’s perimeter, slowly and painstakingly. He knew a single noise could mean death by fire—or worse. Perspiration trickled down the hero’s mighty brow.
Even heroes have things to fear.
You may be wondering what monstrous terror could strike fear into the heart of Heracles, the slayer of the Hydra, tamer of the fearsome man-eating horses of King Diomedes, capturer of the terrifying three-headed guard dog of the underworld, Cerberus, and the hunter of the Caledonian Boar… I could go on.
But wait.
I’ve made a mistake.
Heracles hasn’t captured Cerberus yet. Pardon me.
Back to the story. What fierce monstrous beast could make Heracles, slayer…
I’ve said that already, haven’t I?
Well then, where were we?
I was about to tell you what the monster was.
This unspeakably horrifying, indescribably terrifying, and unmentionably…
Hmm. What other —fying words are there to use?
Oh, well, I can’t think of any… but don’t you think that was a nice bit of alliteration?
Was it alliteration, or something else?
Right, back to the story again. The only monster that could make Heracles fear was the HUNDRED-HEADED DRAGON!
Heracles had fought the Hydra, but the HUNDRED-HEADED DRAGON was definitely a level up. Maybe two levels.
Actually, more like twenty levels.
Wait, if the Hydra had nine heads, and the HUNDRED-HEADED DRAGON had one hundred heads… Divide nine by a hundred…
…
…
The dragon was ZERO POINT NINE LEVELS HIGHER!
No, that doesn’t seem right. Maybe I should divide a hundred by nine?
That would be…
…
…
…
…
…
Oh, I give up. The terrifying HUNDRED-HEADED DRAGON guarded the magical golden apple tree in the Garden of the Hesperides. The tree produced magic apples, and the only ones who could enter the garden (or so the story goes) were—
—Oh! It wasn’t alliteration! It was parallelism!
Remember? The unspeakably terrifying, indescribably horrifying, and unmentionably something?
Right, back to the story again.
The only ones who could enter the garden were the nymphs and Titans and Olympian gods and goddesses.
(By the way, none of these things actually exist- this is just a story.)
(True stories wouldn’t have HUNDRED-HEADED DRAGONS and magic golden apple trees and nymphs and Titans and Olympian gods and goddesses. )
Heracles crept silently toward the garden. Even though he wasn’t a nymph or a Titan or an Olympian god or goddess, he could at least try to enter it.
There was still the dragon, though.
Even if Heracles managed to get inside, he could still be fried. Ooh! that rhymed! Get it? Inside and fried!
(He doesn’t get fried. What kind of a story would this be if the protagonist got fried?)
(The protagonist is the hero of the story.)
Heracles had to steal three golden apples from the garden and bring them to King Eurystheus to make up for something bad he’d done.
Well, Hera, the queen of the gods, didn’t like Heracles, so she cast a spell on him and made him…
Well…
Never mind. She made him do something bad and then made him do twelve very, very, very hard tasks to make up for it.
It doesn’t have to make sense. It’s just a story.
Hera was mad at Hercules because her husband, Zeus, the king of the gods… he… umm…
HewasnotthebesthusbandandHerac
Heracles crept stealthily toward the garden, found he couldn’t get, in ran away, found somebody who could get in (who was holding up the sky), got him to get the apples and held up the sky when he was gone then when the guy got back Heracles tricked him, stole the apples from him, left him holding up the sky, and ran back to the king who Hera had made give Heracles the weird tasks, finished one more task, got married, lived a kind of short life, and died from poisoned clothes that his new wife sent to him, and then disappeared to the Elysian Fields after he died which was like Heaven for heroes, and then his new wife was really sad because a bad guy tricked her into sending Heracles the poisoned clothes, and then a lot of other bad stuff happened, and Hera still wasn’t happy even though Heracles was dead, THE END.
…
…
(I’m NEVER going to tell Greek myths to kids EVER AGAIN.)
Finding Words
© Willow Brooke – Age 16, New Zealand
— Traitor, Bucket, Apples —
A traitor taught me to read.
I was sixteen, and from the time I was born I could not speak. I was a mute. Sometimes I thought it a curse, and sometimes a blessing. More often a curse.
My mother and I washed others’ clothes for a living, and I never knew my father. For most of my life, my village was cut off from the world until my sixteenth year, when a group of men came from the outside. They dragged other men in chains, bringing with them tools and stones, and began to build a road. They said it was the king’s orders, and that the workers were traitors sentenced to hard labour. They treated their prisoners cruelly, refusing them regular water breaks in the heat of the summer months. Many fell ill.
At last, unable to stand their suffering any longer, I took a bucket of water and a cup and went along the rows of men so they could drink without stopping their work. I knew they were all traitors and was wary of them. Though most were polite and thanked me, others looked at me in ways I did not like.
When I went down the line late one afternoon with the water, I saw a man I had not seen before. He looked up at me when I offered him the water and I saw he did not look hard and resentful like the others. Under the dirt and sweat, his eyes were kind.
After he had drunk he asked me, “What is your name?”
Nenya, my mind whispered. But I could not say the words. I shook my head.
“I’m Felix,” he said, reading my silence as shyness. I shook my head again, lifting my fingers to my mouth.
“She won’t reply,” said a man nearby. “She’s dumb.”
Truth, but the blunt words hurt me.
“Thank you for the water,” Felix called as I turned away.
*
The next time I saw him, he asked, “Can you read?”
I shook my head. No-one I knew could, so I had never learned.
“Would you like to?” he asked.
What was the point? I shrugged. Why?
“Even if you can’t talk, you could speak through written words instead,” he told me.
You’re a traitor. Why would you care what I say?
I looked at him and saw that he knew what I was thinking.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said quietly. “I defended someone who needed defending. I didn’t kill, or steal, or – anything. I swear.”
I looked away. I wasn’t used to trusting people who said they had done nothing wrong; too many people I had trusted once had betrayed me, lying and stealing. How did I know he wouldn’t do the same?
‘Try him,’ something whispered.
I met his gaze and nodded.
*
The day after, when I stopped with the water, Felix handed me a stone with some lines scratched on it. “It’s A,” he said. “The first letter of the alphabet.”
Each day he would give me a new letter and tell me its sound, and I found parchment on which I copied each one. I looked for things that began with their sounds and found apples, candles, doorways. He taught me how to turn the letters into words, and with each repetition, I felt my world opening up.
*
In two months, when autumn was closing in, I carried the water out as usual to the men. The road was nearly complete, and I knew they would soon be gone. Though the others were there, I could not find Felix.
As I stood at the end of the line, a man asked, “Looking for someone?”
I didn’t reply.
“Your man’s gone. People took him away, back city-ward. I heard rumours he’s been sentenced to death.”
I stood stone-still. He said he’d done nothing wrong. He couldn’t be killed. Why? Why?
I turned and ran.
*
My mother was out when I returned, and a piece of paper lay on the doorstep. I picked it up and unfolded it; letters were scrawled as if the writer had been in a hurry. I put the bucket down and leaned against the wall, sounding them out.
I promise I’ll return. I think I may be freed.
Felix.
*
So I waited, clinging to the hope that he would return. He had opened the door onto a new world for me, and I prayed that it would not be slammed in my face.
One day in spring, I opened the door to a knocking and saw a man outside. In a flash of recognition, I saw it was Felix.
Before he could speak, I took the parchment I’d been working on since he left from my pocket and handed it to him. Looking confused, he unfolded it. I watched his face as he read the words, and then he looked up and smiled.
“I feared you’d forget me,” he said. I shook my head, smiled.
I had written, “My name is Nenya.”
“Still round the corner there may wait, a new road or a secret gate.”
– J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings