Copyright TeamGolfwell, 2018

  Do you like to write creatively? Enter our International Writing Competition!


Become an International Award-Winning Author!

Win Free Amazon Books of Your Choice.
Win Kindle Edition(s) of Golfwell's Book(s).

Win publication of your golf story into Golfwell's next Golf Story Publication.

Become an International Award Winning Author 

Email Your Golf Story (700 words max.), a brief bio of yourself, and Photos if any to:

Enter by Feb 1st 2019 

First Prize: 1. Your choice of up to $125 of Amazon Books

                    2. Golfwell's Winning International Author Award Certificate of                                                                    Best Golf Story, 2019

                    3. Kindle Edition of 3 Golfwell's Books:

                    "Golf Fitness: An All-Inclusive Golf Fitness Program For Golfers Only"

                    "Golf Shots: How to Easily Hit a Wide Variety of Shots"

                    "Walk the Winning Ways of Golf's Greatest" 

                      4. Publication of your story in our next Anthology
 adding to your exposure.

 Second Prize: 1. Your choice of up to $50 of Amazon Books

                           2. Golfwell's "Winning International Author Award Certificate, 2019"

                           3. Kindle Edition of 2 Golfwell's Books:

                           "Golf Fitness: An All-Inclusive Golf Fitness Program For Golfers Only"

                            "Golf Driving Techniques From Golfing Greats"

                           4. Publication of your story in our next Anthology adding to your exposure. 

Third Prize:     1. Your choice of up to $25 of Amazon Books. 

                          2. Golfwell's " Winning International Author Award Certificate, 2019"

                          3. Kindle Edition of Golfwell's Book: "Walk the Winning Ways of Golf's Greatest"

                          4. Publication of your story in our next Anthology adding to your exposure.

HONORABLE MENTION: We give an Honorable Mention Award for exceptional stories submitted to our International Contest which is something you can use for your CV.

Team Golfwell also selects (in their own discretion) winning, exceptional and interesting stories for publication in their Annual Anthology of Golf Stories. 

Here is last year's

2017-18 Anthology which

is available on Amazon.

The Contest is open to all persons over 18 years of age.  Golf stories can be fiction or non-fiction and shouldn't exceed 700 words.  You may submit your Author Photo, a brief bio, and a Photo (optional) of yourself and/or the subject of your golf story.


1. This is a fun writing contest open to all adults. Entries must be received by US Central Time Midnight, February 1, 2019. You can submit as many stories and photos as you like.  Winners will be decided by Team Golfwell in its sole discretion.   All funds are US Dollars. First, Second and Third prize winners will be contacted and will receive an Amazon Gift Certificate not to exceed $125 for First Place, $50 for Second Place and $25 for Third Place.

2. Stories must be written in English, original and unpublished up to the time the winner will be declared on or about March 1, 2019. Email stories and photos if any to Stories should be no more than 700 words in length. The name of the story and your name should be on the front page of the story.

3. Ownership/Use Rights: Entrants retain the copyright to their stories. However, by entering this golf story contest you grant Team Golfwell a non-exclusive, royalty-free license to publish and reproduce in part or full in print or online media, and to display your full name, short story and photographs submitted through print or online media channels.

4. Team Golfwell, in its sole and absolute discretion,  reserves the right to reject and disqualify any submission that could be offensive or inappropriate or that does not meet the terms and conditions of these rules.

5. In connection with your submission, you affirm, represent and/or warrant that (i) you own or have the necessary licenses, rights, consents and permissions to use and authorize Sponsors to use all copyright, trademark or other proprietary rights in and to your submission to enable inclusion and use of the submission in the manner contemplated by these Contest rules.

6. The winner will be contacted by email by Team Golfwell, and must reply within one week to maintain eligibility. If the winner cannot be contacted within this time period or fails to respond to any attempted contact, such winner will be disqualified, his/her entry will be declared null and void and Team Golfwell reserves the right, in its sole and absolute discretion, to select another winner based on the judging criteria, in which event these provisions shall apply to such other eligible entry.

7. Indemnity: By participating in this Contest, you agree to defend, indemnify and hold harmless Team Golfwell its owners, successors, employees, and agents from any and all damages, injuries, claims, causes of action, or losses of any kind (including but not limited to lawyers’ fees) arising from your participation in the Contest, your violation of any term of these Contest rules, your violation of any third party right, including without limitation any copyright, property, or privacy right; or any claim that your submission caused damage to a third party.

8. Team Golfwell may, in its sole discretion, prohibit any person from entering the Contest whom it believes to be abusing the rules. Such abuse includes but is not limited to falsification of information and/or identity, plagiarism, racial discrimination, and bigotry.

9. Force Majuere clause: Team Golfwell is not liable for failure to perform their obligations under these rules if such failure is as a result of Acts of God (including natural disasters), Acts of War, civil unrest, usurped power or confiscation, terrorist activities, prevention by statutes, or interruption or massive and sustained failure of electricity, internet or telephone service.

10. By entering the Contest, entrants agree to allow Team Golfwell to publish their stories, names, photographs, and biographical information in all media, including but not limited to book publications, newspapers and online websites, without compensation, except for the prizes of this writing contest and entrants will also be eligible to receive Golfwell's weekly newsletter. Photographs of the author and bio information and/or subject matter may be submitted with entries.

11. In the event of any dispute, Team Golfwell's sole liability is an agreed $10.

12. These rules may be amended from time to time.

It doesn't take too long to write a good story. Photos add a lot as well! All kinds of golf stories are welcome, even sci-fi like this great story from Mark Eccleston:


By Mark Eccleston 

It's hard to know what to blame, really. The supercharged lightning storm that shorted the circuits of the spaceship - forcing it to stop for repairs? Or the angry farmer who mowed over the crop circle, a beacon from its own kind that showed a safe place to land? Anyway, here it was, having travelled 23,000 parsecs across uncharted galaxies, hurtling towards the leafiest part of the South of England. Then gently settling on a perfectly flat circle of grass - the eighth green of the Royal Hampshire Golf Club. Members only.

Colonel Edgar Branston was one of those members. He'd taken early retirement from the army after injuring his knee. The truth was, he'd slipped on a tin of luncheon meat while inspecting a storeroom. But if anyone pressed him for details about his limp, he'd hint at something more heroic. 'I was lucky... a lot of good men didn't come home,' he'd say, gazing wistfully into the middle distance. That usually shut people up.  

Now he devoted himself to the Royal Hampshire. He didn't play much - his bad knee had resulted in a fearsome raking hook. His three iron was more dangerous than any weapon he'd held in his four decades in the army. Still, there was much to do. Standards and rules had to be maintained, and as President of the club, the buck stopped with him.

Most days his maroon Jag would be parked up in his private parking bay by 7.30am. A quick cup of Earl Grey in the clubhouse and he was straight out onto the course, walking stick in one hand, binoculars in the other. Ready and prepared for anything; whether that was the local kids who sneaked under the fence to find lost balls, or a businessman trying to squeeze in nine holes before work, but who'd forgotten their golf shoes. He'd had two of those last week. 'I'm afraid it's zero tolerance,' he'd said, rubbing his tidy mustache and sending them back to the pro shop. 'If I let you off, it'll be anarchy.'

The week before he'd ushered one of the senior lady players back into a badly raked bunker. He watched her as she scored over the sand, her hips creaking, with no remorse. He knew where he stood. Unflinching. King Canute against the tide of collarless shirts, branded socks, and un-replaced divots.

When he got to the eighth tee he raised his binoculars towards the green, some 180 yards ahead. He gasped quietly, then carefully re-focused. His vision wasn't great these days, but he could clearly see there was something parked near the hole. Something big and silver. The size of a speedboat and the shape of a sunflower seed.

When he got there, he was out of breath. He'd walked faster than he knew he could, the twinge in his knee blocked out by the burning fury balled up in his chest. He strode round the silver object, sucking in air in short, shallow gulps. There was a circular outline of a door on the side. He rapped on it briskly with his stick. A sharp click and the door silently drew back to reveal a glaring oblong of bright white light. The Colonel closed his eyes and stepped back. When he opened them again, a figure was standing in front of him. Slim, black glassy eyes, muscular. And completely naked.

The Colonel raised his stick and squared up to the visitor. 'Well, you'd better have a darn good explanation for this. This is the Royal...' He never finished his sentence. An oily tentacle shot forward and wound itself around his legs, then dragged him back into the craft. A muffled squeak from the Colonel and the door clamped shut.

The newsletter for the Royal Hampshire had little to say about the missing Colonel. His stimpmeter had been found on the eighth green. His jag was eventually towed from the parking lot. Somebody thought he might have a sister in Eastbourne he'd gone to live with. That was probably it. Margaret, the Lady Captain, would edit the newsletter from now on. He'd have hated that.

Here is another story we received from Todd Sentell


By Todd Sentell 

More and more he was traveling to a familiar place in mind and location and to others sort of like him and the high speed at which he was traveling spooked him. The question was, Was golf it now? Was this his heart and soul now? Forever? Golf? Retirement golf every damn day?

He had good friends who had already arrived, but he wasn’t sure they were miserable yet.

The likely answer frightened him … it might make him feel guilty. Why? Four kids through college. None of them too weird, on dope, pierced in odd places. He was already a multi-millionaire next door. Wife happy with her stuff. At sixty-six, sitting in another new Land Rover, she beamed like a teenager. The thing cost as much as the starting salaries he had to pay the young hot shots. Three months later they said they needed more or they’d take it elsewhere. Things getting out of hand. Or feeling like it.

At home, maybe too much scotch at night. Definitely not pleased with the belly, the second chin. He was recently on the cover of a business magazine. The congratulations lasted for exactly two weeks then stopped. The quick flash of fame made him feel strange. The article mentioned he played golf. A lot.

Worn wood steps, six of them, leading up to the higher place, the first tee. Steps with rubber coating, metal-capped noses. Were these longevity devices needed anymore? What with the plastic spikes everyone was made to wear. Why not just plain old wood now? Sort of a cozy thing. Grow a little moss on them.

Discovered he left his phone in the men’s grill. Heart surged for a moment. Hey, who cares. Didn’t know why he had the damn thing anyway. Clients liked to call him on Saturdays. In his car. These days business knew no hours. If you wanted to do the deal you had to be available. Monday through Friday for that seemed okay to him. From the old school, and not apologizing for it. And voice mail. A good thing if you used it right. Get back to me on those two items and if I’m not available just leave me a message. But they’d call you back and only say they were returning your call. Everyone has an idiot in them. Made no sense. Back from even a short lunch and you had sixteen of them. Didn’t know what bothersome technology was next.

Not a new ball left in his bag, so he used the one from last Saturday. Always made him feel a little unpolished. On the first green, when balls are intently observed as they got nudged back and forth, you’d get asked, Is that the ball from last week? He looked at it in his hand. Week old memories. Cart paths left the best ones. The big bounces. The jokes. Path wedge.

High stepping.




The Chinese restaurant last night. Always too much food but you had to crack the cookie at the end even if you didn’t eat it. Always tasted like Elmer’s Glue anyway. Prepared for the usual, he got this instead: FLOG IS GOLF SPELLED BACKWARD. He must have made an expression.

“What?” she said. “Looks like you got a good one.” Hers said, YOU’LL KEEP DODGING THE BULLET.

“No. I’m all right.”

“That’s not exactly what I asked—exactly.”

He crumpled the fortune up and tossed it onto the table. When she waved at the waiter he grabbed his fortune and slipped it into his pocket. Couldn’t believe it. Years of Chinese food, and nothing like this. But it wasn’t really the Chinese who wrote these things. More like stand-up comedians with twenty-five characters allowed. This made them work harder for the kicker. Not much room for that sex humor they were spewing out these days.

She waved a hand in front of his face. “You’re not all right.”

“I am.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“What’s on all men’s minds?”

“That’s easy. Sex.”

“No. Golf.”

“You think about golf while you’re having sex?”

“Am I still good at sex?”

She lifted up an eyebrow. She lowered her old voice. She surprised him. “Yes.”

Nothing was higher than the clubhouse, except the first tee. Other tees weren’t so glamorous once you got out there. This one coated with ryegrass for winter play. Mower lines gave an impression of lining it up. Getting it together. A competition about to begin. He never knew where the ball would go. Not one hundred percent. It would go in front of him. That was ninety percent of it. But then, who knows? Had heard pros didn’t know all the time either. When you think about it, every shot pleases someone. He glanced at his watch. Teeing off a little late, as usual. But he couldn’t think of anywhere else at that moment he wanted to be.

Walking off the eighteenth green he was told that he wasn’t himself today.

No, an eighty-two is just about right. A putt here and a chip there and it’s a seventy-nine.

Not what he was talking about, but didn’t press.

Men respect each other’s time in the cave.

In the men's grill, a waiter handed him his ringing phone.

It was her. “Honey?”


“Are you coming on home?”

He dropped into a chair. “I don’t know.”



“I love you. I miss you, too. You. I miss you.”

He gazed out of the window at the fairway of the ninth hole. Caddie racing after a divot. Pine tree shadows made a skeleton scene. He finally said, loudly enough where his old friends heard him, “I love you, too.”