CONTEST RULES:


1. This is a fun writing contest open to all adults. Entries must be received by US Central Time Midnight, February 1, 2017. 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 Stories must be written in English, original and unpublished up to the time the winner will be declared on or about March 1, 2018. Email stories and photos if any to Golfwellnet@yahoo.com. Stories should be no more than 700 words in length. 
The name of the story 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.



GOLFWELL'S 2nd ANNUAL INTERNATIONAL GOLF STORY WRITING COMPETITION​


Become an International Award Winning Author

Win Free Amazon Books of Your Choice

Win Kindle Edition(s) of Golfwell's Book(s)

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


Enter by Feb 1st 2018



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

                    2. Golfwell's Winning International Author Award Certificate of "Best Golf Story, 2018"

                    3. Kindle Edition of 3 Golfwell's Books:

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

                        "Golf Driving Techniques from Golfing Greats"

​                        "Walk the Winning Ways of Golf's Greatests"

                    4. Publication of your story in our next Golf Book and on this site giving you added exposure of your writing talent.


 Second Prize: 1. Your choice of up to $50 of Amazon Books
                           2. Golfwell's "Winning International Author Award Certificate, 2018"
                           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 Golf Book and on this site giving you added exposure of your writing talent.


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

                          2. Golfwell's " Winning International Author Award Certificate, 2018"

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

                          4. Publication of your story in our next Golf Book and on this site giving you added exposure of your writing talent.


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 the subject of your golf story.


Email your story, a short bio of yourself, and photos (optional) to TeamGolfwell@yahoo.com to enter.  Email us if you have any questions too!

                                             ________________________________________________ 


Here's the results of the last Golfwell Story Contest Winners:


First Place:  IMAGINED REVENGE, by Jerry Wilson

The seventeenth hole at The Valley gets your attention. It got Max’s. And it gave me a rare taste of imagined revenge.

I liked Max. He was nice to me. Understandable, because in spite of his prosthetic leg and his seventy-seven years, he could spot me four a side and still beat me, so my affection for him never extended to the point of sympathy. With Max, sympathy was neither needed nor deserved. He had accepted that his glory days as a football and basketball star were now a distant memory, but that only honed his competitive side in sports in which he could still compete--bowling and golf. He was merciless. I didn’t bowl, but sportsmen who did painted Max as a gloating bully, routinely mowing down opponents a third his age with a confident smirk. Although I was spared humiliation at the bowling alleys, I couldn’t escape his lair at Green Valley Golf Course. He pounced on me in the club house. “Hey, Jerry, how about a quick nine tomorrow afternoon? Or eighteen--whatever you can afford to lose.”

 “Sure, Max. I’m due to get lucky someday. See you tomorrow after work.”

The next day, I secretly sneaked out to the course early. A quick round before facing Max seemed in order. Nothing unfair or devious, you understand, just a little practice. I was striking them pretty well and the putts were falling; maybe this would be my day.

If a golf course is called Green Valley, it must adjoin a mountain. It does. The seventeenth tee is on top of it. From the tee, the green is a distant speck on the landscape two hundred vertical feet below. The hole measures two hundred eighty yards, but what would be manicured fairway on most holes is, on the seventeenth, a terrifyingly steep mountainside covered by a variety of sparse, unattended vegetation. Faint hearted and aged golfers take the adjacent winding cart path to the green. Bolder, more lusty players dare the more direct but challenging walk straight down the mountainside. Max didn’t know faint hearted. Heading down the mountain side, I began finding clubs that I recognized as his. A prosthetic leg in the weeds confirmed that Max had taken a spill. A few yards on, I saw him. And heard him.

Max seemed to have arrested his fall by grabbing a convenient, innocent little shrub, which he repaid for saving his life by thrashing the hell out of it with the only club he had left--a bent eight iron. The thrashing was accompanied by a background of frustrated tears and an impressive litany of blasphemous adjectives.

“Hi, Max. A little trouble negotiating the hill? Say, was that a forsythia shrub? Must have been kind of pretty. You don’t seem to care for it much. Think I would have used a wedge on it. Oh, you don’t have one.”

Max didn’t reply. Sometimes a look can say it all. It only encouraged me. These opportunities to get even happen only rarely. Besides, the rat had obviously been trying to sneak in a practice round on me!

 “I think I found all your clubs. Must have been quite a fall. Sorry I missed it. Could you do it again? Oh, and is this your leg? I’ll give it to you if you don’t start beating me with it, ha, ha.” (Unprintable response by Max. Heated. Very creative.)

To his credit, and to my secret admiration, Max wouldn’t hear of postponing our scheduled match. He reduced his profane outburst to a few whispered mutters, reattached the leg, grabbed a quick beer in the club house, and went out and beat me four and two.

I grudgingly admitted defeat, but I was secretly happy for Max. His victory wasn’t over me; it was over adversity. And his gloating was really justifiable pride. He showed me how to deal with misfortune. You ignore it. And when adversity throws you for a loop (Sorry, Max), you get back up--after a brief exhibition of raging profanity--have a quick beer, and carry on. 


***


Second Place:    A Skin Game, by Mark Youngs

A steady beeping grew louder and louder. Jerry  jumped with a start and the beeping settled down to a regular rhythm as he further awakened. Looking around the room in a stupor, he tried to get his bearings. Out the window he could see the top of a building with rows of windows. A sign saying Sunshine State Medical Center stood atop the roof. Looking over his shoulder he could see an IV bag hanging from a stand. He followed the tube down to where it was taped to his forearm. 

“What the hell?” he croaked, which made him cough and clear his throat. He noticed a door, open enough to see a toilet. The curtain surrounding his bed was pulled all the way back, leaving a clear view of the hallway door. The room was empty except for a stack of clothes on a chair in the corner, and a mason jar on a shelf under the wall‐mounted television.   He wondered why he was strapped to the bed. Near his right hand was a call button. He fumbled with it until he could hold and push it with his thumb. A voice came over a speaker.

“Nurse’s station." He laid his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. He could feel something was not quite right.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            *

Allen drove the cart, negotiating the moguls as they crested the rise in the fairway.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Jerry said looking out at a pond that appeared from nowhere.  “Did you know this was here?”

Allen pulled up to his ball, a good 30 yards short of the pond.  “Nope.  My first time playing here, too, Jerr.  You’ve been flyin’ by me all day. I’ll bet you made it down there easy.”

“Yeah. You’re hoping so, anyway”, Jerry said taking a swig of water. “Just my luck that I’d find some crap on eighteen, when I’m on the verge of taking you guys for a change.”

Both got out of the cart and stepped back to their bags. Allen pulled out his pitching wedge, while Jerry pulled out his three wedges and a ball retriever.  As Al got ready for his turn, and the other twosome was setting up for their shots on the other side of the fairway, Jerry walked on ahead to locate his ball. He had a good sense of where the ball should be, and he feared the worst, knowing he hit it pretty good.   “Man, what I wouldn’t give,” He thought. “Just to beat these guys one time.”

While he walked, he watched the other three shots. He could not see the green from down where he was, but guessed they were all looking pretty good. As Jerry approached the pond, he could see a ball lying at the edge of the water, less than half submerged.  He shook his head and took a close look at it.

“Ouch!” said Al. “That’s a tough break. “

Jerry decided to play it rather than take the penalty. He took off his right shoe and sock, stepped into the water, and with a mighty swing, blasted the ball out of the water and toward the green. Everyone watched the ball. Nobody saw the gator.

                                                      *

Jerry looked down at where the bandage ended his leg. Earlier the doctor had described the amputation just below the knee. He took it hard, but had pulled himself together before his friends came in to see him.

“Thanks for getting me in here so fast, guys. Not sure why I don’t remember anything about it, but can’t wait to hear the story.” He nodded toward the shelf. “One thing is really bugging me, though. The nurses have no idea what it is, but said you all brought it in. What’s with the mason jar?”

All three started chuckling.   “Well Jerr, it’s like this,” Al said. “We all hit some pretty decent shots into eighteen.  I was all set with a tap‐in for the win.  But, SOB that you are you holed out that water shot. You took the final eight skins, a clean sweep. Those are your winnings”   The mason jar represented all eighteen skins.


***


Third Place:                WITH DAD, by Janelle Fila

It’s a typical summer day: 7:21 a.m. and already muggy.  Gnats dance around my ponytail, hovering in the sweat trickling down my neck.  The driving range is empty except for a group of middle-aged dads in pressed khaki shorts and Oakley sunglasses.  A salesman’s wet dream, as if spending top dollar on Nike Vapor clubs makes you Rory effing McIlroy.  The wannabes immediately start ripping drivers.  I grab the wedge I bought used on eBay for 37 dollars. 

A golf cart motors past us, inspecting the shorn grass for unacceptable swirls or divots.  My dad had the same early morning ritual before every tournament.  I inhale the minty smell of grass and can almost feel the callouses on dad’s gloveless hands.  The deepening shade of his neck was as predictable as the Ohio seasons: pink like undercooked meat, tomato red, the cracked brown of old leather.  I only saw his vanilla chest at night when he undressed, folding the pea-green polo so he could see the Coach embroidered over the breast pocket. 
The assholes next to me aim for the mower.

The golf course employee pauses as a lukewarm breeze whispers through the grass.  He raises his hand in a half-wave and I wonder if he remembers my dad, if he has the same memories of awards and titles and championships won.  But he looks past me, his hand resting on his forehead as he shields his face from the sun. There is no recognition in his searching eyes.  My dad’s dead and I am his ghost.
 
To my left, three balls sail through the air, clumping around 160 yards.   I can almost see dad’s grimace as the amateurs swing for max distance, taking turns trying to out power their friends.   I swat a gnat away and keep swinging my wedge, dad’s coaching loud in my head.
    
“Resist the temptation, peanut. The high of one perfect shot isn’t worth the damage to your long-term game.”


I wish Dad were here with me, coaxing me to speed up my swing or put more torque in my hips, but since the scandal he couldn’t bear the sight of Eagle Stick’s raised greens and sandy bunkers.  I haven’t forgotten the belligerent yelling for every imperfect shot or the shame I felt for every second place finish.  But I do miss our early morning target practices. 

The last time I saw Dad he was packing boxes.  He wouldn’t let me help because I still wanted to play at the best club in the state, the club that fired him.  He moved north, crashing on Heather or Jennifer or Sabrina’s pullout, bleary-eyed and hungover as he bitched to Jack Daniel’s about the unfairness of life.  I heard he taught at other courses, flirting with Barbie doll trophy wives and sucking up to their rich husbands, beginners so soft they would never see an eagle unless the bird shit on their head.  I wasn’t surprised when I heard he died.  Skin cancer would have gotten him if the drinking hadn’t.  But everyone knew heartbreak was the true cause of death.
 
My arm muscles burn from my warm up swings.  Next to me, the amateurs’ drives peter out, first at 150 then 100 yards.  A man wearing a floppy safari hat demands a do-over.  He drops a ball on the tee, wiggles his hips, and digs his cleats into the grass.  The shanked drive barely rolls across the 50 yard line.  A curse explodes across the green.
 
My hands tingle as I reach for my driver.  A bee buzzes past my ear.  I take a deep breath and inhale the sweet scent of clover, jasmine, and honeysuckle.  I think of my dad and what might have been.  The men laugh and tease their unlucky friend. 

I crank my first ball straight into the sky, with an arc so perfect it’s like gliding down a rainbow.  The ball bounces just past the 200 yard marker.  After three seconds of shocked silence, the men whoop and holler.  The man in the safari hat swears.  I hear clapping, proud beats of calloused hands as they thump together repeatedly.  It sounds like it’s coming from heaven.

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