• Each story had to take place (mostly) on Christmas Eve/December 24.
• Each story had to include a character who has an accident of some kind.
• Each story had to include the words AGAINST, TOOTH and ORANGE. (Longer variations were allowed.)

And wow, the teens may cringe, but the hundreds of entries truly did “sleigh all day”. Whether it was a nostalgic Aussie summer story, a snowy Northern yuletide or a Santa-themed romp, you delivered plenty of festive cheer and creativity – with our judges suffering seasonal whiplash as we were thrown from freezing to sweltering and back and again! (If you’re curious, 32% of this month’s stories came from the Northern Hemisphere.)

Perhaps it’s the silly season getting to us, but many of you also saw this challenge as an opportunity to create some mirth and mischief resulting in plenty of saucy and debauched plots. We admit that we were asking for trouble with ‘TOOTH’ as a mandatory word, giving us many delightful “Santa + Tooth Fairy” crossover episodes. (Some even roped in the Easter Bunny for good measure.) And it seems a lot of characters are getting ORANGES in their stockings this year (although, we did enjoy some spray-tanned Santas too!).

This month it feels appropriate that after the Top Pick, we split our story showcase into a NICE LIST and then a NAUGHTY LIST. They’re all great, but let’s just say the latter list errs more on the mischievous side! And the lists don’t stop there, with our longlisted authors following at the end.

Well done to ALL those who entered this month’s challenge. And a special congratulations to this month’s Top Pick story from Roger Leigh. Enjoy reading and happy holidays!

DECEMBER TOP PICK:

COMING READY OR NOT by Roger Leigh, NSW

Oh God it’s Christmas tomorrow and the turkey’s half stuffed which was supposed to make everything smooth and stress-free according to Jamie Oliver’s advice to prepare everything ahead of time but which failed to take into account me remembering halfway through mixing the toothsome individual desserts that I hadn’t finished decorating the tree at which I stood tinsel in one hand and fairy lights in the other looking at the empty space under the tree and realising that I hadn’t wrapped any of the presents which led to the discovery that I hadn’t brought half the presents sending me on an emergency dash to the shopping centre where the car ran out of petrol halfway up the ramp to the carpark and rolled back to crunch into a shiny orange four wheel drive which turned out to be driven by The Grinch who I could hear shouting even before I wound down the window so he could mansplain the function of my automotive braking system before we exchanged contact details which certainly won’t mean he’ll be getting a Christmas card from me and neither will the NRMA man who arrived half-an-hour later so overflowing with the joys of the season I wanted to punch his inane smiling face even though he did get me going again so I could wait another fifteen minutes for a park before wrestling my way through five million other last-minute shoppers to purchase a Squishmallows who-names-this-shit Squish-a-Longs 25 pack for Maria’s kids because you have to play the adoring aunt even if the little darlings will lose all 25 down the back of the sofa which at least won’t be the fate of the battery charger with batteries not included I bought for the man who has everything because he says he loves irony which presumably accounts for him pissing off to the golf course for it’ll only be half a round love with his mates who he won’t see again until the New Year because Cliff is taking Maria to The Maldives which I’m not against because it’s just absolutely totally fine that Maria will be sat drinking mojitos around a hotel pool over the holiday while I supervise her little darlings and the annual festive fiasco at my house which I walk around now to survey the unfinished turkey and the melting individual desserts and the half-decorated tree and the pile of part-wrapped presents before returning to the fridge to open the bottle of Sémillon which was supposed to be saved to go with the turkey tomorrow but from which I now pour a glass as big as my head and retire to the balcony to recline in the dappled shade from the Sydney Red Gum enjoying a gentle breeze wafting in off the sea and the hiccupping chortle of a family of kookaburras and

Oh God it's Christmas Day.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Phew! Aaaand breathe. This may not have been the only story to deal with the chaos of this time of year (oh, there were MANY). However, the ingenious delivery style of this piece in one breathless single sentence perfectly captures the tone and relentlessness of everything that needs getting done in the run up to the big day. Along the way, there are many hilariously relatable moments and even the ending sneaks up on you in a realistic way – as in “oh, suddenly the day is here!” So, we raise a glass of Sémillon to this story and all those still with a lengthy list of things to do. It’s coming, ready or not!

THE NICE LIST:

THE STEADFAST SOLDIER by Martin Smith, VIC

A soldier stood in steadfast guard on Christmas Eve, resplendent in his uniform, all orange and blue. But not as blue as his mood within.

Like every previous year he’d drawn the short straw and had guard duty during the staff Christmas Eve party. Not only did he miss out on the fun and frivolity, but it meant he had no chance of improving his non-existent love life.

He released a hiccup, as he was a little legless, having taken a tipple of eggnog to dull his melancholy. How could anyone get to know the real him, he lamented, or that beneath his stern, steadfast, tin-hearted demeanour he was a funny, fun-loving kind of guy, a born romantic? If only he could mingle to find a soulmate, his heart of tin would surely melt to a molten love.

Part of the problem was the lack of new blood. There was Angel, a real diva who acted as if she was above everyone else, Candy, a pallid redhead of a seductive, stick-thin curve and a sickeningly sweet personality, and Jacqueline, whom he swore had ADHD for she always popped up out of nowhere and scared the living shit out of everyone when they least expected it. Last year, he chatted up Bonnie Bonn during his rostered break. Alas, despite his best one-liners, not a single spark ignited between them. Later, he’d seen her getting hot and steamy with Frosty and going off like a cracker.

He sighed. Would he ever have his happy ever after?

But then he gasped! He clutched his hands against his chest as his heart raced, for ahead he saw a paper-thin ballerina. And beside her stood the most handsome soldier he had seen. He had the same uniform, the same swarthy looks, the same granite jaw, and he, too, had been lumped with guard duty. Oh God! What a hunk! To hell with all that heteronormative shit. Nothing like a man in uniform to melt a tin heart. Here was a soulmate to like, to love, to lust. Here, now, and for happy ever after.

He gave a toothy smile.

An identical toothy smile returned.

He gave a slow “once-up-and-downer”.

An identical slow “once-up-and-downer” returned.

He gave a saucy pout.

An identical saucy pout returned.

Good God! he thought, they’re a perfect match. If the sexual chemistry between them were any stronger, it’d be Guy Fawkes Night.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and steeled his nerves. Happy ever after, here I come!

But when he opened his eyes, the love of his life had vanished.

A crash came, and he looked down and saw shards of glass scattered about the floor.

‘Mum,’ a girl’s voice shouted, ‘the ornamental mirror on the Christmas tree fell off and shattered.’

‘Noooo!’ the steadfast soldier cried. A tear trickled down his cheek, for he was doomed to spend another loveless year in the shoebox in the cupboard, crammed in with his fellow Christmas ornaments.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We kick off the ‘nice’ list with a tale of unrequited love. Or on reflection, we should perhaps say shattered dreams, as we are introduced to some familiar tree decorations and a particular nutcracker soldier going out on a (tree) limb to search high and low for his perfect someone. And just when it seems he has found his special match, Narcissus-style, , it ultimately mirrors a classic tale of heartbreak. Looks like it’s back to the shoebox for another year, but we’re sure he’ll soldier on.

LUCKY NUMBERS by Tiffany Harris, USA

I was born on December 24th between Newports and scratch-offs, under tinsel that hadn't been changed since July.

Minutes old, and time’s already ticking against me. Blinking holiday lights cast shadows across the clerk's gold tooth. It winks back. My barcode slides from the printer, fresh ink still settling into my fibers.

The man buying me has dirt under his fingernails and a coat sleeve he keeps fiddling with, like it might mend itself. Eight quarters make a silver pool on the counter while Nat King Cole roasts chestnuts overhead. His wallet holds three dollars and a school photo. The girl in it needs braces.

He whispers six numbers to me under his breath: 41, 35, 28, 23, 17, 4.

Birthday numbers, he tells no one in particular—his mother's, his daughter's, his own.

***

Everything goes sideways when the delivery truck skids.

Wooden crates splinter, scattering oranges that roll past my buyer's splayed finger. His skull meets concrete. I land in a white blanket stained by citrus and blood. Somewhere, a bell rings for midnight mass.

The truck driver stumbles out, young and shaking. Vomiting everywhere. His truck leaks chemicals that turn snow into soup.

The man who bought me doesn't move.

A receipt skips across the parking lot like a startled bird. His glasses have fallen three feet away, one lens spiderwebbed–crunching like rock salt beneath passing tires.

Angels sing about heavenly peace through broken speakers.

A choir of sirens crescendo onto the scene.

***

EMTs swarm like efficient ants, their boots leaving dark prints in white powder. Numbers spill from their mouths: blood pressure, pulse rate, time until Christmas.

One drops his cigarette in the snow bank where I'm half-buried. The ember sizzles close enough to singe my edge.

They load him onto a stretcher. His arms limp over the side, dripping melted snow.

The truck driver keeps touching the cross around his neck, chanting decimals of guilt.

Nobody sees me dissolving into slush. Smearing away birthday wishes, fading between crushed oranges and cigarette butts. Under tinsel that will outlast us all.

***

December 25th clocks in like any other day. Not far from me, a single orange rests frozen in the gutter, brightening as snow builds around it.

Through the window, the man lies wrapped in tubes as winning numbers scroll across his room’s mounted TV.

Different numbers than mine. Numbers that mean nothing to anyone anymore.

His daughter visits, wearing those crooked teeth, a small wrapped present tucked under her arm. When his eyes flutter open, she grins wide enough to make her braces irrelevant.

She's colored him a picture–stick figures holding hands, standing in front of a Christmas tree.

He reaches for her with trembling fingers.

Time to count what matters.

Three stories down, a white Christmas settles over forgotten tinsel. Right where my body’s becoming pulp. But I hang on for one final countdown.

Five crooked teeth. Four freckles. Three paper snowflakes.

Two warm hands. One shared smile.

Zero distance.

Six numbers that finally add up.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Once again, a non-human protagonist takes centre stage (or ‘center’ stage in this American setting!) and it’s one of the odder characters – that of a lottery ticket. We follow its existence, from a printed birth to an unfortunate resting place, with plenty of human-based action witnessed along the way. And just when we think the numbers will have ended up being the winning ones, we are instead given a completely different set of numbers to linger on – and perhaps a reminder of the actual figures that mean more than printed ones at this time of year. 

THE HOPE OF PEACE by James Bird, NSW

Condobilin was a world away. It was all Robert could think about when he was able to think. His little sister, her toothless grin, freckles across the nose. His mother, probably dressed in a smock and apron. He had heard that his father was in a hospital in Cairo, waiting to be shipped home. He was lucky — he had lost only one leg.

Robert tried to imagine the Christmas tree back home in the corner of the front room. His mother had written that they would hang a picture of him and his dad on the tree to make it feel like they were there.

But that was when Robert could think. That was when the night sky was not shattered by lightning, not from storms, but white phosphorus. The incessantness. He… they sat in the mud, orange with the mix of blood, waiting for the next shattering explosion. They could only wait but were never ready. Robert jumped every time; they all did. Urine seeped down his leg. His back against the trench wall, one hand holding his helmet, the other his gun, its butt in the mud.

With each jump, they looked at each other with a nervous laugh. The flash of light just long enough to expose the terror on their faces — but they were men.

_____

Arfurt was a world away. It was all Karl could think about when he was able to think. His wife of five months; the reality is it had been two weeks, then he was shipped. Her last letter had brought what would otherwise be uncontainable joy. He was going to be a father, but would he? His greatest fear was that their child would come into the world fatherless.

Karl tried to imagine the wooden tree he had carved for her from Belgian elm. She had written that it sat by her bed so she could go to sleep each night and wake each morning filled with the joy of his gift.

But that was when Karl could think. That was when the night sky was not shattered by lightning, not from storms, but white phosphorus. The incessantness. He… they sat in the mud, orange with the mix of blood, waiting for the next shattering explosion. They could only wait but were never ready. Karl jumped every time; they all did. Urine seeped down his leg. His back against the trench wall, one hand holding his helmet, the other his gun, its butt in the mud.

With each jump, they looked at each other with a nervous laugh. The flash of light just long enough to expose the terror on their faces — but they were men.

______

Then, at midnight…all quiet — the silence was shattering; the darkness, blinding.

“Boys, look”, the call came down the trench. Robert cautiously poked his head above the revetment. There, two hundred yards away, was a small fir tree illuminated by torches from the other side.

The Hope of Peace had come.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

If you’ve ever read the book or seen the film All Quiet on the Western Front, you’ll understand that every war has two sides to its story. Sure, the machinations at the top might be objectively good and bad, but the soldiers on the front line know none of this. And here, the heavy use of repetition illustrates this World War I trench Christmas tale effectively. Both Robert and Karl, despite living in small towns thousands of miles apart are revealed to share similar hopes and fears, as well as the same patch of mud and barbed wire. An original take on the classic legend of the 1914 truce.

TULIPS AND BUTTERFLIES by Tatiana Samokhina, NSW

Her

She stands barefoot, her toes confident against the sunset-covered asphalt. The Martin Place Christmas Tree blinks its lights, a lazy metronome. Tick-tock, tick-tock. She giggles and presses her fingers together, her arms flying up to her chest. She stomps, and applauds, and claps, and when she calms down, her cerulean tulip skirt – a hue of forget-me-nots – freezes in an inflated adoration. Her hair uncombed, strands hang onto her forehead like lianas, and, frail, she seems too out of place in the cackling-gaggling crowd. Maybe that's why, when her thin lips open, releasing another short, refreshing giggle, he stops – and stares at her with bated breath.

Him

She knows he's there, on her right, watching and silent. She turns around, her dark-orange eyes – a mandarin peel – study his bulky face: a falling-out nose and rounded cheeks – a little surprised, a little flushed, a little embarrassed.

“Hi,” he mumbles, caught.

She beams. “There was an accident.” Her voice floats through the incandescent December air. “Christmas Eve's an interesting day. Every year, something happens.”

“What accident?”

“I lost my butterflies.” She nods.

He hesitates. Everyone's watching the tree; he's watching her. Her arms as slender as her lips, her tight satin bodice twinkles to the beat of the Christmas lights. She smells of tulips and pollen and summer – a fulfilling, fragrant scent. It encircles her, still barefoot, still too out of place in the crowing-squawking crowd. He gasps.

Tulips

“Move!” A man pushes between them. He crosses the road, swinging bags overflowing with gifts. His bearded face disappears into the gloom of the metro tunnel.

She flinches. “Odd. Why are people so angry here?” On her pale cheek, a freckle flares up.

“Where are you from?” A coy, muffled question.

“Botanic gardens.”

“Oh,” he falters. “Okay. I'm from Darlinghurst, close by. You probably know.”

“Yes,” her voice – smooth nectar. “Very pretty. Especially Riley Street with its jacaranda. I prefer tulips; they’re not as sweet, but I appreciate the purple beauty.”

Silence. It doesn’t loom; it’s very faint. Fresh and as surreal as she is, in her dress, barefoot, by the fluttering Christmas Tree.

“Want me to help look for your butterflies?” he offers, unexpectedly for both.

Under her eyes, a sly wrinkle. “I never said I haven’t found them.”

Butterflies

When she says, “You have spinach on your tooth,” his face turns tulip-scarlet. He scrapes the spinach off his incisor and peers down at the asphalt.

The crowd’s noisy. She’s peaceful.

“Want to go out for coffee sometime?” he blurts out.

His question hangs in the air – the spot where she stood only a second ago is empty. He looks around. Right, left. Right, left. No, she isn’t here. She isn’t.

He sighs. A deep, sorrowful sigh.

Then – a faint movement. When he looks up, deep between the shaggy branches of the Christmas tree, he sees them: a flock of cerulean butterflies flapping their wings, circling an as-if-pinned tulip – surreal and slender.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We appreciate a good meet-cute story, and this Christmas tree adjacent one was circled with just enough intrigue and magic to give us butterflies. Already there seems to be an ethereal and fleeting aura about ‘her’ as she dances beneath the metronomic lights. So it’s no surprise that she catches the attention of ‘him’ and their shy interaction unfurls like a flower in the sunlight. Her home of the Botanic Gardens suggests early that his advances may prove fruitless, but hey, there’s a cafe in the Gardens, maybe they can meet there sometime? Magical realism is at the core of Santa’s story, so we liked that this gave us a different vessel to believe in at this time of year.

A VISIT TO ST VINCENT’S by Eugenie Pusenjak, ACT

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through Emergency,

The patients kept arriving, with untimely convergency.

The nurses were doing their best to triage,

“No ma’am, you must stay, you can’t be discharged!”

The uncomfortable plastic chairs were all filled,

With the bleeding, the bruised, the concussed, and the ill.

Why all this fuss? What was the reason?

Quite simply: Christmastime is the accident season.

There’s Uncle Frank, who, when prepping the feast,

Dropped the turkey on his foot and roared like a beast.

Now he sits waiting, with a fractured big toe,

(He’ll never again defrost while drinking Merlot!)

And poor Auntie Dot with a front tooth in pieces,

After sampling Rocky Road that was made by her nieces.

And Grandpa’s Christmas will be somewhat sadder;

When putting up tinsel, he fell off the ladder.

There’s Cousin Aggie, why’s she here? (Great question!)

Too many mince pies, it seems, led to indigestion.

And the Mulligans from next door, all in a flap;

Their toddler chewed the fairy lights: cue an ominous *zap*.

The guy over there in orange high-viz?

A cork to the eye from opening the fizz.

And the lady here with the twisted lumbar?

A nasty encounter with a remote-controlled car.

Then, amid all the chatter and moans and yells,

Came the clopping of hooves and jingling of bells.

There entered a man, all dressed in red,

(Thankfully not demanding a bed!).

The stump of a pipe he held in his canines,

Clearly ignoring the ‘No Smoking’ signs.

He had a broad face, and a round little belly,

Like he’d stepped from a Hallmark movie, out of the telly.

Everyone knew it was dear old St Nick,

Come to comfort the wounded, the frail, and the sick.

He stroked his white beard, hitched up his belt buckle,

Opened his arms, and said with a chuckle:

“My dear friends, I see that you’ve been through the wars.

And it’s hard to be merry when your head is sore,

When your finger is sliced and your ankle is sprained,

But let’s grit our teeth against all the pain.

I know many here are feeling quite queasy,

So, indulge me please, whilst I say something cheesy.

Things are never as bad as they seem.

And soon you’ll be eating your trifle with cream.

In years to come, your Christmas fails,

Will form the basis of many a fond family tale.

Now Dasher, now Dancer, now Cupid, now Comet!

Let’s splint the bones and clean up the vomit!

I thank you all for your patience and endurance,

And I sincerely hope you have private health insurance!”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Yes, we did naturally receive a number of ‘twas the night before Christmas’ style poems – and there were some truly excellent ones! So much so that we’ve chosen to showcase this one in our nice list and to end on another in our naughty list. Considering we asked for an accident to take place, the hospital setting made perfect sense here as we are reminded that Christmas is not just the silly and festive season, but also accident season! What follows is a comedic conveyor belt of ways you can injure yourself at this time of year – but it qualifies for the nice list thanks to Saint Nick swooping in to save the day (although that final line did make us chuckle and wince knowingly!). Clever stuff.

UNTITLED by Lyn O’Dwyer, QLD

We always left in the dark, before sun-up. Seven of us packed in the station wagon, roof racks stacked high. Us kids took turns by the open windows, hair batting our ears, or in the back, stretched out beside the dog. The miles peeled away behind us, dry paddocks, tangled fences, bark-torn gums. We’d pull over in truck stops and drink warm, orange cordial from plastic flasks, thongs sticking to the tarmac and the sun threatening to turn us into crackling. One of us always managed to skin a knee or slam a finger in a door. We spread towels on the seats to stop us sticking to the vinyl and whinged about the heat.

Mum handed us vegemite sandwiches from the front. The crusts were curling and the butter melted but we scoffed them anyway. Sometimes, Dad bought us icy poles at a servo and we’d stand in the shade with sticky juice running down our arms. Once, he pulled over and told us, “I’m going to see a man about a dog,” and went off behind some bushes. I cried because he didn’t bring back a puppy. We played I Spy until the words got stupid or we were limp from the effort. Drove on and on through the bareness until our bums were numb and everyone was grizzly.

The dry gave way to cane fields and Queenslanders and the smell of sun on wet season. Then we’d pull off the highway at the honesty fruit stand where Mum always bought mangoes and headed straight into the setting sun, all of us squinting but hyped, knowing we were close. Turned left again on to the dirt road and rumbled across the cattle grid, past the chicken sheds and the giant poinciana tree, decked out in flamenco ruffles, and arrived at the fibro shack.

Nana and Pop would already be out front, open armed. We all spilled out to be crushed against bellies and kissed on our heads, with cries of “You’ve grown so big!” The house smelled of baked ham and fruit cake. Uncles would be standing around the sizzling, spitting barbecue, beer cans in hand, a halo of insects round the porch light. We’d each have a sausage on bread and cycle through the bath like an assembly line. Us kids, with wet hair plastered to our skulls, wearing our shorty pyjamas, fresh from the packets, would bunk down on lilos around the tree, empty pillow-cases and stockings at our feet.

Back then, we all believed in the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy and Santa, so none of us could sleep for the butterflies and tingles. Laughter and clinking glass drifted in from out back and we giggled in the dark until an adult shouted for us to shut up and go to sleep. Eventually, the day’s miles caught up with us and we’d be out like lights, until the first kid’s squeal at the crack of dawn on Christmas Day. It was all so worth it.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

Dripping with nostalgia (and sweat), this story will hit a nerve with anyone who made (or still makes) annual pilgrimages this time of year – even more so if they were in summer, where the only ice is in the esky! From the pre-dawn start to the packed station wagon with scorching vinyl seats to the passing summer landscape and retro snacks, this really does take you back to an earlier time in gentle fashion. The car games, the fibro shack, the smell of the barbecue, sleeping on the floor and so much more – it’s all here. And even if you live in the snowy north, there is enough common ground of holidays past to raise a beer can (or mulled wine) to this reflective piece.

O HOLY NIGHT by Melanie Jardinera, VIC

Santa has it easy, in my opinion. One night of work a year, and he gets all the perks: adoration of happy families, drowning in offerings of milk and cookies, a fleet of flying reindeer whisking him through the stars. Joyeux Noel.

As for me, it's not that simple. I work 365 nights a year, and my presence is greeted with emotions more ambiguous than joy. Some kids are excited to lose a tooth, sure. It's part of growing up. But there are tears, too, at this strange bruised bloody phenomenon, the baring of the tender root. The body, subject to its own inscrutable rhythms and tides, rising and falling.

Anyway. Here we are, another Christmas Eve, and while Santa bellows hearty ho-ho-hos across the night sky, I have business to attend to. A deciduous maxillary lateral incisor belonging to seven-year-old Jacob Heathmont. Newly detached after its owner decided to experiment with biting an unpeeled orange and now singing its plaintive siren song, beckoning me to come gather.

Jacob lives on the scrubby outskirts of town. I pick my way through midnight streets, houses dripping with gaudy Christmas lights. Transfixed by their hideously insistent cheer, I fail to look where I'm going and trip over a nativity scene set up on the verge, cursing as I stub my toe on Baby Jesus' crib.

By the time I limp my way to Jacob's dark bedroom I'm in a grinch-foul mood.

Jacob is small and pyjamaed, clutching a faded teddy bear against his chest. Quiet as I am, he sits bolt upright.

“Dad?” he says. A slight quiver in his voice. Then, squinting into the shadows where I stand in silence, he says, hesitantly: “Santa?”

“Sorry, kid. Santa will swing by later. I'm just here for the tooth.”

“You're… the tooth fairy?!”

“Actually, technically I'm an interdimensional extra-terrestrial cursed to roam your planet collecting fallen calcified chompers of children in exchange for gold and silver, for reasons which are too complicated to explain in the short time we have together. But yeah. Close enough.”

He's quiet, contemplating this. Then squints at me again.

“Do you grant wishes?” he says.

“What do I look like, a genie?”

“Can you do magic?”

“What exactly are you needing here, kid?”

He's quiet for another moment. Then: “All I want for Christmas is for my parents to stop fighting.”

Inwardly I groan. This is above my pay grade. But: “I'll see what I can do.”

In the next bedroom his parents are asleep, Dad snoring in a fug of rum-breath, Mum in troubled sleep on a tear-stained pillow, bruises emerging like evening stars on her puffy face. I remember them, both of them. Collecting their milky teeth while they slept in gossamer-innocent dreams. You humans break my heart sometimes.

I limp back next door. “I'm praying for world peace, kid. Truly. In the meantime you wanna come on a Christmas adventure with me, raid some houses for stray cookies?”

He gives me a gappy grin.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

As we said upfront, the temptation to bring the tooth fairy into the storytelling mix was too great for many of you, and we loved the narrative voice of this disgruntled ‘interdimensional extra-terrestrial’ as they lament on their job satisfaction in comparison to the bringer of joy. We loved the professional description of the ‘deciduous maxillary lateral incisor’ and the interactions this fatigued fairy has with young Jacob. It’s not all fun and games however, with a child’s wish that even our magical narrator cannot grant. Skillfully written, this story’s mix of heart and mirth makes it the ideal candidate to move us from the nice list to the naughty one…

THE NAUGHTY LIST:

THE DOWNING OF FLIGHT 327 by Mark Hendrickson, USA

December 25, 2024

American Airlines passenger flight 327, on approach to Boston's Logan Airport from New York, was struck yesterday shortly before midnight by a private cargo sleigh driven by well-known saint and philanthropist Kris Kringle. Of the 280 passengers aboard the flight, only three survived, having been caught in midair by Mr. Kringle's service reindeer. Mr. Kringle was unharmed in the incident. Additional casualties occurred when passenger bodies and debris fell through roofs of houses along the flight path, injuring several occupants.

A spokesman for the FAA, which monitored the aircraft, described the orange sleigh as having “slammed against the plane like a ballistic missile through tin foil at 30,000 feet.” Some officials privately blamed the incident on Mr. Kringle's advanced age and recent air traffic budget cuts.

Military officials from NORAD, however—responsible for tracking the sleigh—cited the complexity of calculating relativistic speeds within Earth's atmosphere and the inherent difficulty of translating these observations to civilian air traffic control personnel in real time. “We’re fighting tooth and nail to understand what happened here, but this is science and magic; it will take some time.”

Kris Kringle (aka St. Nicholas, or “Santa Claus”) gained worldwide acclaim for his philanthropic work with children and was canonized by the Catholic Church in the third century. The Vatican declined to comment.

Mr. Kringle has stepped down as CEO of his worldwide delivery service pending investigation, leaving his lieutenant, Krampus, in temporary command. Amazon and FedEx delivery services stepped in to aid in the delivery of toys and supplies in the aftermath of this disaster.

This is a developing story.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

We did warn you – and immediately out of the (airport) gate, we’re hit with a disaster that feels scarily realistic. That’s thanks to the news reportage style of this piece, unfolding the day after but cleverly describing the tragic events of the night before. And really, it was only a matter of time before this aging driver hit something as he criss(mas)-crossed his way across the planet on this important night of the year. Some extra effective touches included the ‘private cargo sleigh’ description, the budget cuts and the Vatican declining comment. Yes it’s dark, but we love how this one is fully committed to the (developing) story, which feels almost plausible (Clausible?) in this age of 24/7 news.

A NORMAL WORK DAY by Michał Przywara, Canada

Santa’s reverie was broken when his face smashed into the sleigh’s dash.

“Christ!”

He patted his smarting nose, fearing it too was broken, but with his red suit he couldn’t tell if there was any blood.

“Are you okay?” Rudolph said, appearing by the sleigh’s door.

“Rudolph! What the hell!”

“Sorry!”

“I could have died.”

“Santa! I hit a Prius.”

Santa glared at him. Then he shimmied out of the sleigh and onto the bungalow’s roof – and wouldn’t you know it! Right by the chimney, there stood an orange Prius, its passenger-side door dimpled. The sleigh had a dent too, and there was glitter all over the snow.

“How did they park a Prius up here?”

Before Rudolph could answer, they heard scraping coming from the chimney. Then, one hand appeared, and then, another, and a moment later a woman in a pink tutu hauled herself out. A pink tutu, smeared with soot and cookie crumbs.

“I should have known,” Santa rumbled with a glare. “Tooth Fairy.”

She blinked up at him and took the scene in. “Oh! My car! What the hell did you do!?”

“You can’t park here on the 24th,” said Rudolph. “It’s against the rules! This is a Christmas loading zone.”

“Can’t park my ass,” she replied.

Santa drew himself up, sniffed. “This is the most important night–”

“–for you. For the rest of us, it’s a normal work day, and let me tell you, teeth don’t take vacations. And here’s another thing – for a guy that only works one night a year, you’re awful lippy.”

“Hey! Easy now! I’ll have you know, during that one night I have to visit every-friggin’-house in the world. And there’s so much prep before we start. Like, year-round.”

“Oh? And are you on call 24/7?”

“Lady, ‘on call’ would imply my shift ever ended.”

Rudolph’s ears wilted as the argument rose.

“Bee-ess,” said the Tooth Fairy. “You just order a bunch of elves around for three-hundred-and-forty-six days–”

“–three-hundred-and-sixty-four–”

“–whatever. And then you work one. Oh, and what kind of work is it? Why, it’s literally bringing joy to children! Whereas what do I do? I collect their bloody teeth, which is cold comfort, because let me tell you – those teeth are a constant reminder of their mortality, a painful nagging that with each one they lose, they inch ever closer to their inevitable death. And what do they get for it? A lousy quarter.”

“You have no idea how heavy my bag of gifts is. No idea how easy you have it. I’d love to see you try my job.”

“Yeah, well,” she said. “I’d love to see you try mine.”

They glared at each other. Then the glares softened. Santa offered his bag of toys, and the Tooth Fairy tossed him the keys to her Prius.

“Come on, Randolph!” she said. “Let’s go spread some joy.”

“It’s Rudolph!”

“Whatever.” She jumped in the sleigh, and off they went.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

Want to get the reader’s attention in flash fiction? Have Santa’s face smash into the sleigh’s dash in the first line! Literally starting with a bang, this story proceeds to explain the reason for the prang and the double-parked, double-booking sees us once more face to face with our good friend the Tooth Fairy! Once more, the Fairy is loaded with sass (we also love that she drives an orange Prius!) and there’s a clear rivalry at play as each tries to outdo each other in the “my job is harder than yours” stakes. All it takes is for a bluff to be called and suddenly we’re in job swap mode. A hilarious rooftop romp!

THE TWELFTH DAY by Liana Black, QLD

The drumming began, drilling into my skull one rom-pom-pom at a time. Orange sunlight poured through the venetian blinds of my bedroom window, the stench of manure and pond scum curdling in the thick Brisbane, December air.

What is it today?

My pyjamas clung to my clammy body as I peeled myself from the sweat-pooled bedsheets and edged toward the window. Fingers shaking, I lifted a slat in the blinds and closed one eye to focus my vision through the small gap.

The moo of a dairy cow bellowed. Dozens of white wings flapped with fright.

When will this end? How will it end?

“Carol!” A man’s voice cried out, loud enough to wake the neighbourhood—just in case the drumming drummers or the mooing cows or the squawking flock of feathered foe hadn’t pulled them from their holiday slumbers already. “Merry Christmas Eve, my love!”

My body hit the floor.

I crawled to my bedside table and reached for my phone.

“Triple Zero – Police. What’s your emergency?” The operator’s calm tone was angelic amidst the farmyard insanity roaring outside my suburban home.

“I’m being stalked. He’s outside right now.”

“Your name?”

“Carol Sings.”

“Carol, do you know this man?”

“No.”

“I’m sending a unit to your location. Does he have a weapon?”

“I don’t know, but he has a whole aviary and a herd of cattle in my front yard.”

“Cattle?”

“It started eleven days ago with just a pot plant on my doorstep. I thought it might be an early Christmas present from friends, but there was a toothpick stuck in the dirt with a note. ‘From your true love’. When another arrived the next day, I thought it might be a shipping error. But then there was a third and these three fucking chickens in my yard. And if I’m being honest, they had a bit of an attitude.”

“The chickens?”

“Luckily, my neighbour’s sister has acreage at Gatton, so she took them away. But again, the next day, another tree and three more chickens. On the fifth day, at least there was some jewellery, but the day after that, he’s back at it again with more birds. Six geese. Then, seven swans.”

“Carol, I’m going to request an ambulance as well. Have you been going through a stressful time lately?”

“I’m not crazy. You just don’t know what I’m up against here. Saturday, I wake up and there are EIGHT COWS in my front yard. So, I’m ringing the RSPCA like, do you guys take COWS? They trampled my Christmas decorations, shat all over the garden.”

“Have you taken any drugs recently, Carol?”

“But that’s not the worst of it.” I swallowed. “The last two days, he’s brought a…”

“A what?”

“A flash mob. People dancing and leaping in the street.”

“I’m sending all units.”

“Now today, it’s a marching band of drummers, and he’s actually here, declaring he’s my true love. I’ve never met him. I’m not even straight.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

We’re going to start off by saying that yes, we KNOW that the traditional twelve days of Christmas start on the day itself and go till early January, but we certainly weren’t going to let that get in the way of a great story! Here, in true retail sale fashion, this exhausted narrator (with the great name of Carol Sings) has a suitor who has been love bombing her for the twelve days leading up to Christmas. We join the action on the final day as drummers are rom-pom-pomming poor Carol awake and it's clear she has had quite enough. As the emergency call escalates, we learn of the famous gifts her mystery admirer has been bestowing upon her. And really, when you think about it, it truly is quite maddening how anyone would WANT all these gifts. (Leave the gold rings, take the rest!) Add to this the juxtaposition of a Northern song touching down in a hot Brisbane December and it’s chaos of the very best kind!

TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE… by Simon Shergold, USA

He was desperately trying to keep a lid on things, but the Easter Bunny was fucking furious. He was so angry he was having trouble picking the lock on the barn door, his paws shaking and the sweat running into his eyes despite the cold. He wasn’t used to working in these temperatures and he thought fleetingly about the watery spring sunshine that he loved so much. The Tooth Fairy, hovering just above his left shoulder, noticed the sudden lack of focus and gave him a sharp nudge.

Bunny narrowed his eyes at Tooth, his rage barely contained. The blood pulsing at his temples the way it had at the Fictional Characters Annual Awards ceremony just one short week ago. The Lifetime Achievement Award was his, the council had assured him.

‘And the winner is … Nicholas …’ the rest lost in a roar of applause as old fat boy lurched up from his seat, belly nudging the guests as he squeezed his way through the tables, to collect the gold statuette. Revenge was all that was on Bunny’s mind.

For her part, Tooth was equally bitter. Lifetime achievement? The lazy sod only worked one day a year and just look at the team he had. The ultimate glory taker. Tooth was a one-woman band, on call every night for 364 years now, never once taking a sickie. She knew the judges were unhappy with the tax charges hanging over her head, but surely they realised that keeping that amount of cash in used notes and small change was a vocational necessity, not embezzlement? She silently seethed, as Bunny finally clicked the lock and pushed against the door, nudging it open.

Dasher was waiting for them as arranged, another poor soul overlooked in Santa’s endless quest for good publicity. He’d played the long game, going deep undercover in the middle of the sleigh pack since 1939, when that orange nosed bastard (it wasn’t red, no matter what anyone said) had him sidelined. The three strange comrades stood grimly determined in the shadows of the barn.

With a nod of his antlers, Dasher led them towards the sleigh. It was kept in the repair shop this close to take off, a red digital counter blinking away as the clock ticked down. It was Blitzen’s turn to keep guard tonight and normally she would have been circling the sleigh, her breath forming vapour in the cold night air. However, Dasher had slipped her a doped carrot or two and Blitzen’s gentle snores told the intruders all was well.

What happened next has become part of folklore, even in this place. Some say the weight of the snow made the roof collapse. Others say it was an elf booby trap. The local paper said it was ‘the act of a higher power’. Like everything in this town it was covered up, the façade of perfection to be maintained at all costs. Just don’t lose a tooth on Christmas Eve and expect a penny.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

Yes, the Tooth Fairy is back (we really were asking for it, weren’t we?), but this time our main character is the Easter Bunny! And EB is set on sweet sweet foiled-wrapped revenge as once more Santa has been stealing the limelight from his magical friends. Okay, the same grievances are aired (“only works one day a year” etc), but the dark streak running through this is brilliant – a Fairy being investigated for tax fraud for all the cash jobs, the double-crossing reindeer Dasher. Barnstorming and bold, we simply couldn’t resist this team-up we never knew we needed.

MIRACLE ON SITE 34 AT WOOP WOOP CARAVAN PARK by Athena Law, QLD

Was the night before Crimbo, and in the caravan park,

all was real quiet, the dogs had had their last bark.

The pillowcases were hung in the annexe with care

hoping that bloody Santa soon would be there;

The kids were all squashed up in their bunks

With threats of “no pressies” if they tried any junk

And the missus with her Baileys and me with my beer

Had just settled down for some pre-Crimbo cheer,

When outside the dunnies there was an uproar

Had someone hit my bloody VX Commodore?

Out the van door I ran but something went wrong

I tripped down the steps in my fancy new thongs

But there in front of me, a fair-dinkum sight

A sleigh pulled by reindeers above me in flight

Across the gum trees they made a bonza big loop

Then down they came in a big magpie swoop

Driven by a bloke in red trackies drinking a Fanta

I knew straight away this old bugger was Santa

Laughing like a ratbag, his whip wildly he threw,

He whistled, and shouted, and called out to his crew;

“Now, Charlene! now, Scott! Now, Boomer and Bazza!

On, Brucie! On, Matilda! On, Sheila and Shazza!

Now, across the top of the caravan park in a hurry!

Park up on that big one while I sneak a quick durry!”

So on top of our van they landed with a thump,

Sleigh fuller with toys than my trip to the dump.

I could hear tinkling and tapping above on the roof,

Praying that my TV antenna would not meet with a hoof.

As I unzipped the mozzie screen door of the annexe

Then entered old mate, beard covered in ash flecks

His trackies were Adidas and his Crocs were fur-trimmed,

A plump bloke he was not, in fact he was much slimmed.

A strange flamin’ galah he was, a jolly short man,

And I laughed when I saw him, nearly dropping my can.

He winked and he grinned, he was missing a tooth,

He was the real bloody deal, I shouted out Strewth!

He held orange plastic bags spilling gifts from the tops,

And he looked just like my missus coming home from the shops.

But his face, it was merry! his eyes–how they twinkled!

His cheeks were so red! his skin–oh so wrinkled!

He spoke not a word, but looked around for a tree

Instead, finding the tinsel-wrapped, Great Northern esky.

Then laying his finger against his red nose,

And giving a nod, up into the air he rose;

He jumped in his sleigh, to his crew gave a “Hey”

And away they all flew like my wages on payday.

But I heard him shout back as he flew the sleigh clear,

“Merry Chrissie to youse all, see ya next year!’

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

As promised, we end on another rendition of the famous poem, this time perfectly capturing the sights, sounds and smells of a true Aussie Christmas! It might not have the timeless magic of festive classic Miracle on 34th Street, but this caravan park ditty serves up extra helpings of relatable fare – including the VX Commodore, mozzies, crocs, gum trees and plenty of bonzas and fair-dinkums that all  ring true-blue in this part of the world. Strewth, we couldn’t think of a better way to send off this collection of festive stories here at the Australian Writers’ Centre. So Merry Crimbo, all youse Brucies and Shielas. Bloody oath!

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we include an extra LONGLIST (approx top 10–15%) of stories that stood out from the submitted hundreds, were considered for the showcase and deserve an ‘honourable mention’. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, take a moment to celebrate! (And to ALL who submitted stories, we’d LOVE to see you again NEXT YEAR!)

THIS MONTH’S LONGLIST (in no particular order):

• BLOTTO IN THE GROTTO by Jenny Lynch, WA
• A CHILD IS BORN by Jim Harrington, USA
• SANTA’S LITTLE HELPER by Karen Element, NSW
• HOLLY RAISES THE STAKES by Nissa Harlow, Canada
• CONGA LINE by M.J. Bolton, QLD
• WHY’D THEY PUT ME IN CHARGE? by Ilya Belegradek, USA
• THE ELF by Amelia Gibson, NSW
• THE LIST by Richard Korst, USA
• THE TOYMAKER’S HELP by Stephen Lowcock, NSW
• CHRISTMAS EVE by M C, VIC
• DON’T GET ME STARTED by Maria Santos, VIC
• MY ‘CHRISTMAS TO DO’ LIST by Leonie Jarrett, VIC
• THE UNBORN CHILD by Bruno Lowagie, Belgium
• UNTIL THE MICE SLEEP by Maddison Scott, VIC
• TAFFETA by Martyn Tilse, QLD
• THE TRUE MEANING OF CHRISTMAS by Sarah Edmunds, WA
• GIFT EXCHANGE by Gale Deitch, USA
• A PAUSE FOR MRS CLAUS by Madeleine Armstrong, UK
• THAT MAGICAL NIGHT by A. Chan, SA
• A GIFT IN THE NIGHT by Ken Wetherington, USA
• MAKEOVER by Stephen Hickman, VIC
• I KEEP WALKING by Amelia Curtis, VIC
• ST. NICK by Glen Wade, Poland
• A CORPSE GOES TO A BALL by Racheal Jones, USA
• AN OUTBACK CHRISTMAS by G.L. Foster, VIC
• ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS by Nico Mara, Ireland
• OH LITTLE TOWN OF ‘GET ME OUT OF HERE!’ by Judy Hogan, NSW
• MERRY ELFING CHRISTMAS by Wendy Adams, TAS
• FRIDAY ON MY MIND by Mike Condon, NSW
• UNTITLED by Hashinee Weraduwage, VIC
• A VISIT FROM ST. NICK by Adele Orsen, USA
• THE VISITORS by Lee McKerracher, NSW
• CHRISTMAS EVE HALL PASS by Ryan Klemek, USA
• THE CHRISTMAS WIND UP by Susan Mclaughlin, VIC
• HARRY AND LARRY SAVE CHRISTMAS by NLCollins, NSW
• RODRIGO IS APPROACHING WITH YOUR ORDER by Jennifer Lindner, USA
• THE GREAT PRAWN HEIST by Sarah Elavia, VIC
• BLOODY CHRISTMAS EVE by Ellen Geohegan, USA
• FALLING 4U by Andrew Harrison, NSW
• THE PHALLIC SAMURAI AND HIS LAST MAGIC SWORD by Chris Sadhill, USA
• GAVIN SAVES CHRISTMAS. THAT, AND HIS CAREER by Pam Makin, SA
• THIS ISN’T A CHRISTMAS STORY by Mileva Anastasiadou, Greece
• HO HO HOMICIDE by Keely Crilley, NSW
• THE ESCAPADES OF RALPH, THE ELF by Lorraine Brockbank, NZ
• MARY’S ACCIDENT by Pete Gailey, NSW
• BLADDER INCIDENT, NORTH PLAZA MALL, 10AM, 24TH DECEMBER by Jeff Taylor, NZ
• SERENDIPITY by Baśka Bartsch, NSW
• BLACK IS THE NEW ORANGE by Peter Byrne, WA
• CHRISTMAS EVE by Susan Hobson, QLD
• TEETH AND TOYS by Bronwyn Hudson, NSW
• LOST CHRISTMAS by Georgina Maxine, QLD
• FINDING COVER IS TRICKY by EB Davis, ACT
• THE SEASON OF GIVING by Freya King, QLD
• GREEN TEA FOR THE HEART VALLEYS by Chloe Paige, VIC
• WHEN TRACY HIT by David Weiss, ACT
• DELIVERANCE by Ryan Butta, NSW
• PRODIGAL SON by Maggie Lewis-Stevenson, USA
• DON’T TOUCH THE ELF by Suzanne Wacker, QLD
• CHRISTMAS FOR THE TOOTH FAIRY by T.A. Dylan, NSW
• THE GAMBLERS by Lucy Schofield, NSW
• MORNING AFTER GROUP CHAT by Ryan K Lindsay, ACT
• THE POST OFFICE by Jeannae Bierstedt, NSW
• CHRISTMAS EVE STORIES by Runaway, VIC
• LITTLE FIBS by Cheryl Lockwood, QLD
• OFF THE SHELF by Melanie WInklosky, USA
• A SURFBOARD FOR CHRISTMAS by Marie Low, NSW
• NOT EVEN A MOUSE by KE Fleming, NSW
• HOLIDAY SWEATERS by Rachel Howden, NSW
• THE TRUE HISTORY OF JACOB MARLEY, DECEASED by Dennis Callegari, VIC
• LETTING THE TEAM DOWN by Immy Mohr, NSW

• Each story had to include a character who arrives somewhere LATE.
• Each story’s first sentence had to contain only four words.
• Each story had to include the words SKIP, KICK, BLUE and DISAPPEAR.
  (Longer variations, e.g. “kicking” or “skipped” were acceptable.)

This month, we were exploring the concept of being LATE. And we did indeed get a mix of stories about what LED to lateness as well as what occurred DUE to lateness. There were a lot of missed trains, buses, planes and boats (including the Titanic) and even White Rabbits. But MOST stories fell into the ‘Births, Deaths and Marriages’ category – late arriving babies (or periods!), late arriving brides/grooms and plenty who were late for their own funeral!

Here were some of our favourite four-word opening sentences:

• Run, puff, run, pant. (Grace Cox, NSW)
• It thundered putrid indignation. (Rayza, VIC)
• This gentle ebbing softness. (Noni Croft, NSW)
• He arrived, drenched, alone. (Yayu Uppsurya, China)
• “Hold the lift, please!” (Johani Maree-Moens, France)
• He’d met God before. (Ernest Malley, VIC)
• “Is this your card?” (Rhiannon McKenzie, ACT)
• My hearse is lost. (Robert Fairhead, NSW
• Time travel is hard. (Paul Dunn, NZ)
• Inside out, zipper jammed. (Juliette Poole, QLD)
• “Fat Emma’s singing again.” (A K Scotland, NSW)
• “She’s on the cliff.” (Kathryn Phillips, NSW)
• I needed Carole King. (Robyn Knibb, QLD)
• A slip or push? (Fiona Botterill, QLD)
• The audience never knows. (DSM Christensen, VIC)
• Please make me beautiful. (Carnelian Easton, NSW)
• Just Five more Kills. (SL Turner, NSW)
• “Gee whillikers, Blue Bustard!” (Eugenie Pusenjak, ACT)
• Like a wrecking ball. (Jade Cezanne, SA)
• Only four words. (Well played, Chad Frame, USA)
• Surprisingly, eternity lasts forever. (Cheryn Witney, SA)
• Felicity’s going to crochet. (Fiona Green, VIC)
• “Your feet need bandaging.” (James Vee, WA)

Well done to ALL those who entered this month’s challenge. And a special congratulations to this month’s Top Pick story from John McParland! You can read John’s story, along with other showcased stories and longlisted authors below. 

NOVEMBER TOP PICK

SCAPEGOAT by John McParland, NSW

“We find the defendant…”

Oh lovely, a dramatic pause. Just what I need right now.

Though, considering the ridiculous nature of the case against me, a delay is only poetic.

Three years ago I had the most charmed morning of my life. Everything just fell into place and I actually arrived at the bus stop early for the first time ever. I was the last person in the queue that the driver let on. Behind me, a gentleman called Mr Jones would have been the last patron instead, if not for my promptness.

That was where my problems began, as Jones claimed that my punctuality made him late.

Jones was a train driver, and arrived at the depot 17 minutes after his shift started. That meant the 8am blue-line out of Littleton departed behind schedule.

The blue-line was how Ms Aldren got to the Kaufman residence where she worked as a nanny. She was 23 minutes late that day.

When Aldren arrived, Ms Kaufman could finally leave for her job at the fire station. She was 34 minutes late.

Kaufman’s tardiness meant Engine 5 was late to the scene of the Northwood warehouse fire, causing it to spread to nearby residences. Namely, Mr Lister’s.

Lister was the board secretary for BioMed. Distressed at losing his home, he incorrectly tallied the votes on a controversial proposal tabled at that evening’s meeting, causing it to pass.

Ratified, the deeply unpopular measures spooked investors, tanking the share price.

Realising their error, it took BioMed three weeks to correct the decision and set the record straight. This ended up delaying their yearly paperwork filing to the commission.

Late on their submissions, the regulator suspended trading on the pharmaceutical company as a formality. The market incorrectly assumed the worst and panic selling set in.

Like dominoes, other organisations began to fall, the ripple effect ultimately crashing the medical industry and the world’s economy at large.

Businesses collapsed, pensions disappeared, families were torn apart, and lives were lost.

When the dust had finally settled, $17 trillion had been erased from the global economy, 163 million people had died, the Amazon rainforest was ablaze, and Sweden’s government had inexplicably fallen.

Somehow, all these people, agencies, corporations and governments had kicked the culpability-can down the line until some investigator found me to pin it all on. I tried to blame it on my neighbour’s dog Skip, whose barking that day woke me up before my alarm and led to my fabulous morning of timeliness. The courts said it would be crazy to prosecute a dog.

I, apparently, was the saner choice.

Now, I could spend the rest of my life behind bars because my being early made other people late and somehow that broke the world.

How any of this could possibly be my fault is beyond me. Yet here I sit, as the forewoman continues to dawdle by silently dragging out her moment in the spotlight.

God, I wish she’d hurry up.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

As absurd as this premise is, we loved the way it played with the effect one event can have on so many others. In particular, in a sea of stories about being late for a bus (and kicking yourself as it disappears into the blue), this one featured a protagonist who actually got to his bus stop early! Obviously, the universe had other ideas, and the fun of it all being his fault has old-woman-swallowing-a-fly style consequences as the ripples get bigger and bigger. We also enjoyed that the verdict is not passed down in the story itself, but here it was all about the long-winded journey, not the destination. Well done!

TIME IS MONEY by E B Davis, ACT

Death was running late. 

Walter Wiseman tapped his fingers on his hand-crafted Elwood Tasmanian Blackwood desk. At 116, Walter was the world’s oldest billionaire. At least he had been, an independent review into his finances had him now being the world’s oldest millionaire. 

Over the past decades, Walter’s wealth had seemingly disappeared without reason. Walter looked at the antique grandfather clock in his study, he had the face converted to digital when it had started skipping minutes. The light blue digits showed 8:06 AM, Death was due at 8:00. This wasn’t good. For Walter time is money, and he never wasted money.

 Walter had spent his whole life building his fortune. Family and friends had fallen by the wayside as he believed there were better ways to spend his time. Time spent with them didn’t bring any profit, so was wasted time. Walter still worked as CEO for his multimillion-dollar company, despite the board trying to retire him years ago. Time is money, and Walter couldn’t trust anyone with his money.

Knock, Knock.

Walter looked up as death walked through the door, it was closed but that didn’t matter to Death, as he floated through the door as if it was fog. Death had only knocked as a sign of respect to Walter. Death was a tall skeleton in a long black robe, his white skull was just visible under his hood.

‘Sorry I am late; traffic problems’ Death apologised, his voice sounding like it was echoing around a large cave.

‘I thought you were not bound by the same restraints us mortals are.’ Walter replied, his voice a bare whisper compared to Death’s.

‘I am not. There was a 32-car pileup that I had to manage’ Death raised an eye socket where an eyebrow should have been. ‘Mondays, am I right.’

‘I get you, they are killers. My monthly payment, as per normal.’ Walter indicated a black leather bond briefcase on his desk. Death slowly walked over and lifted the lid. The briefcase was filled with piles of $100 notes. Death picked up a stack and flicked through it slowly. After a calculation, he turned to Walter.

‘You are short. This will only cover you for 25 days.’

‘What? That can’t be right. I checked it three times.’ This was true Walter always triple-checked his avoiding kicking the bucket payments.

‘It was fine, for last month, but costs are going up. There has been a rise in the cost of living.’ As Walter looked at Death, Death’s unwavering eyes just stared down, two pinpoints of burning red light.

‘OK,’ Walter sighed as he pulled another two piles of cash out of his desk. ‘I will ensure I have the full amount next time.’

‘See you in a month Walter, same time as usual. Death turned and left with the briefcase.

Walter breathed a sigh of relief, he hated these meetings, but they were needed. Then started his workday, a bit late, which was a shame, because time is money.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We had a lot of stories about dying this month, as you’d expect. Even a bunch that featured Death as a character – another favourite. But what made this one stand out was the cleverness of the concept. After establishing (very bluntly) who he is waiting for, we meet Walter, seemingly still going remarkably strong for a 116-year-old. Once Death arrives, the real fun begins – the traffic excuse and the “Mondays, am I right?” quip, followed by a brilliantly literal take on the rise in the cost of living. Paying off Death with a ‘living allowance’ is a great story idea, and this piece played it well!

DEAD by Michael Booth, VIC

I knew he died. I could just feel it, but I ran through the doors anyway like rushing would change the outcome. I glanced at my watch and saw it was 20:38. I panicked a little more because of the conversations I have with myself about all the things I could do differently to save time. I could’ve taken Harkness Street instead of West Road. I could’ve double parked and paid the fine later. I could kick myself for all the things I could’ve done differently in life, but right now, I needed to run. I was already getting puffed out, I couldn’t stop though because I would only have regrets if I did.

I approached the elevator and pushed the button, and pushed it again, then another 15 times rapidly. How long did it take for a stupid elevator to reach the ground floor? I saw the door to the right and disappeared through it while I kept running. My chest was burning by this point, I had to keep going. I took the steps, 2 at a time and just as I reached the top step, I misjudged the distance, caught it with my foot and went forward. I put my hands out to break the thud as I hit the floor, then ended my heroics with a slight roll. I caught my breath and got up again, only 2 more flights of stairs and I’d be there. I didn’t want to go as I knew how uncomfortable it would be, or rather, how uncomfortable I would be, but I knew my family would never forgive me if I didn’t go in to see him.

I approached the doors and stopped; I needed to at least seem calm before I went through. 20:40. I imagined I was blue in the face and forced my breaths to slow just enough so I could breathe through my nose and not make it obvious how out of breath I was. I heard a loud voice on the other side, and I knew my son was dead.

I braced myself for what was ahead. How could I face my wife? Look her in the eye as if it didn’t matter? I decided to skip the dramatics and open the door. A couple of people turned to look at me, then quickly turned away. I gave a polite smile and walked over to where my wife was sitting. I took the empty seat beside her and whispered “Sorry”. 

She glared at me and said, “Danny really wanted you to be here. He had the opening scene, the big death scene, and you missed it. You’re going to have to apologise and make it up to him.” 

I thought for a moment and replied, “I know I will, but he’ll be OK. I’m getting him the dog like we discussed.” My wife shushed me with a motion of her index finger, and we sat quietly until the end of the play.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

A great first sentence sets up immediate expectations as we’re plunged into a breathless race against time, across town and across our main character’s own trail of regrets. In fact, it’s action aplenty as we see him jump, tumble and run to meet his wife. The brain says hospital? Rest home? Accident scene? But then an impressive reveal that we didn’t see coming and suddenly the first sentence makes sense. A nice idea, brought to a satisfying conclusion – and one that many parents can relate to!

DAWNING by Rosie Francis, Italy

I'll never forget it. My wife's frightened face, all contorted and pale, as she shook me awake that morning.

‘He hasn't come!', she hissed.

‘What are you talking about?' I rubbed my eyes, and glanced towards the clock.

‘It's 5.30am!' Her voice cracked with panic.

‘Maybe he's running late?'

‘No. He's never been this late before.' Janey put her head in her hands. ‘Sam, he's not coming', she whimpered.

I kicked off the doona, hurried over to the window and looked out into the blue pre-dawn sky. No tracks. Not a footprint or sign of disturbance anywhere.

I sat back down next to Janey on the bed, desperately trying to think how to make this nightmare disappear. We looked at each other helplessly.

Then a shadow seemed to pass over her face and I knew what was coming.

‘I don't want to ask this,' she said, ‘but I feel I have to.'

She looked into my eyes without blinking. ‘Have you been good? Have you been good for the whole year Sam?'

‘Yes, I have,' I said without skipping a beat. ‘I've had a great year. I was nice, and honest, and .. and generous. We both were, right? And Chloe too.'

She nodded slowly.

I felt like I was about to vomit. Of course this was my doing. I was dishonest and I lied. And now my wife and little girl are paying for it. I didn't trust my knees to stand, so I lay back down on the bed and closed my eyes. How did I think I would get away with it? Did I really think he wouldn't find out? I felt tears sting my eyes.

Janey lay down beside me. ‘Chloe will be awake soon. What do we tell her?'

‘I'll explain that there was some kind of horrible mix-up. That he somehow thought we were at the beach house. It's a lie I know, but what can we do?'

We held hands and lay together, waiting for the sounds of the morning birds and our sweet Chloe's waking up. Instead, it was the soft jingle of a sleigh that broke the dawn.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This really was a delightful read. The earnestness and fear on the parents' faces in light of the ‘visitor’ who hasn’t arrived is palpable. Sam and Janey are in full panic mode and it peaks at the hilarious “Have you been good?” inquisition and self-reassurance in the pre-dawn bedroom. Not once is the jolly man’s name uttered, but all the clues are sprinkled joyously throughout this piece. We’re very curious about what secrets Sam is sitting on, but he’s clearly been good enough to end it with the sound they were so desperate to hear. A timely piece, with equal parts drama and comedy – a real gift!

TYPHOON by John Scholz, SA

The island huddles, waits.

Kids rejoice at a promised school shutdown tomorrow. Night falls slow and secretive behind a thick grey black blanket. The forecast announces that my arrival will be on the east coast at eight pm. But I am unpredictable, late, spinning a dogleg and gathering strength over the superheated blue Pacific.

Skyscraper waves smash the shore. At nine I cross the ragged east coast, my size now greater than the island itself. I kick over a mighty phone tower as if it’s a child’s pop-stick construction. In a village I kill a mother of four with a flung sheet of roof.

I breach the central range. Taking my time. Bashing down villages with furious breath, and hot fat waterfall rain. I wash away a flimsy school. Forty three houses, in bits, and a body, make their way to the sea in sudden, limb gnarled rivers.

The capital trembles, waits.

Shops close, even the resolute Seven 11s and Family Marts. Flights cancel. Scooter riders huddle into handlebars and plastic rain jackets plastered to their bodies like oiled skin.

Dawn and I arrive in the city together. A female reporter tries to deliver a dramatic on location report to her TV breakfast news, but I blow her eyes shut and the words from her mouth.

A man clad in white plastic walks a small white dog through a sodden park. As if to say, my dog always gets a walk at this time, and you will not stop us. He weaves under wildly shaking trees through horizontal rain. Skeletonised umbrellas and fractured branches skip down streets. A line of parked scooters falls in a domino dance, and lie like half stranded tadpoles. A tree uproots, canters across the park, almost taking the man and dog with it, but they dodge, and disappear beneath concrete awnings.

Apartment blocks hum, windows shiver like shiny puddles. I throw trees and bits of shanty across the streets. An ambulance sirens its way around these obstacles. A video billboard, brightly advertising make up and then a new Disney movie, is vividly the only thing alive on the blown streets.

I bend to the north west, giving another finger to the forecasters. I’m exhausted now, my breath shattering into fragments of yellow and green smudges on maps. Out over the blue again, regathering its heat.

The island mourns.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Telling this tale from the typhoon’s perspective adds a powerful layer to this story, filled with tension, drama and chaos. Beautiful descriptive prose is used throughout, such as night falling “slow and secretive behind a thick grey black blanket” or “skyscraper waves”. They help you fully get a sense of the colour and scale of this natural event. The use of first person present-tense POV keeps everything very immediate, from kicking over towers to killing innocent victims. Also teaming up with ‘Dawn’ as another character adds to this personification – a new perspective on such a storm. Finally, the bookended first and last lines wrap up this impactful piece perfectly.

SEVENTEEN MINUTES by Michelle Cook, UK

I am so sorry.

Not sorry I was late for our wedding, Darren. That was a surmountable problem. Once the driver had ditched the bloody tractor, we skipped on through the torrential rain and did our best to make up time. It came down to minutes in the end. Just seventeen tiny minutes. The most important of my life.

No, I’m sorry I ever met you. Sorry I spent so many years trying to make a life with you. Sorry you never let me know you already had one. A full on wife and kids. I found this out afterwards, of course. When the weeping was finished, I did some digging. You disappeared from London, abandoned them to come up north. Poor cow, she looked like I’d kicked her in the stomach when I turned up at her door to introduce myself. Julia. She’s nice. You’re an idiot.

And I’m sorry for Tina. My so-called best friend, so keen to step in with the consoling hugs… and the rest.

Bet you didn’t know I was there. Of course you didn’t turn around. No one did. All our tiny congregation, the few friends and family you let me keep, occupied checking watches and murmuring. They didn’t see me in the back, white dress covered in a rain coat. The only clue I was the bride was your mother’s sapphire bracelet—my something blue—rattling as my hand cupped my mouth in shock. The way Tina looked at you, I just knew.

It all fits now of course. Julia, me and Tina. How many more in between, before… since?

I hear Tina’s pregnant. Congratulations, I guess. It almost makes me feel bad for what I’m about to do. Almost.

But… my finger presses the bell anyway. Tina opens the door and yes, I can see her compact little bump. She smiles nervously, her hand flying to her belly. Protective. “Sally.”

“Tina. Hi. Can I come in?”

She hesitates, your future in the balance. But we were friends long before you came along.

“Yes.” She steps aside.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The first half of this story plays out as a reverse love-letter of sorts, an address by our narrator to her ex, Darren – a brutally honest litigation of the clues she missed and events she witnessed. Being late for her own wedding turns out to have been a blessing rather than a curse, or at least now in retrospect, as she seeks to rebuild her life and previous friendships. Using all the tropey power that weddings can provide, this story packs a salty punch. All it needs now is a soundtrack by ‘Panic at the Disco’!

PATIENCE by Wes Hawkins, WA

Is that him now?

The apartment echoes with approaching footsteps, but then they recede. It’s probably just Mrs Hamilton from next door, coming home from bingo. I shift the weight of the cardboard box on my knees to relieve the sciatica, and I wonder.

Where is he?

The box contains my precious things, the very last items to be packed. A small crystal vase catches my eye. A wedding present, so delicate, but still in one piece after decades. Geoffrey was always late, but the most memorable time was for our wedding. The priest remarked that it was the only time in his experience the groom arrived after the bride. My anxiety that day was tempered by the knowledge that this was classic Geoffrey. He finally dashed in, mumbling something or other. The guests visibly relaxed, although I could sense my mother’s eyes rolling, and we were wed.

A gold frame glints from the box. A photo of Geoffrey, proudly holding our son, just a few hours old. I still remember him rushing into the birthing suite to find little Geoff Junior suckling sleepily, wrapped up in his blue blanket, his tiny fingers wrapped around my thumb. Geoffrey was so upset, kicking himself for missing the birth. I was too tired to care.

He’s really late now. Not even a message. The apartment looks so big when there’s no furniture. Shapes on the walls define where artwork used to hang. I’m sitting uncomfortably on a packing crate, and I wriggle to get some relief.

Another photo frame — Geoff Junior and I. Geoff, in his graduation gown, proudly holding his degree. A wonderful day. Geoffrey caught up with us afterwards for dinner — held up in traffic, it seems. We joked about how we would get him photoshopped into the picture, but it never happened. He was a good man, really, just so bloody disorganised. The number of times I would be by myself at weddings, parties, waiting for him. I’d be so embarrassed I’d just want to disappear. And then he’d wander in, always dazed and apologetic, and he’d somehow make everything right again.

It’s quiet. All I can hear is the muffled sound of the kitchen clock, wrapped in tea towels, from somewhere inside the crate. Time is ticking. My orientation meeting at the nursing home was due to start fifteen minutes ago. Where is he?

The largest item in the box; an urn. I remember collecting it, a week after the funeral. I remember the hushed tones of the receptionist as she explained there was a delay, but Geoffrey’s ashes will be ready soon. She must have wondered why I was smiling. Of course, he’s late. My Geoffrey.

Urgent footsteps outside now, someone is practically skipping up the stairs. The door bursts open.

“Sorry, Mum, I got caught up with…” He looks around the room, shocked at the starkness.

I hug him and hand over the box.

“It’s fine, sweetheart. I know how to wait.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

A quieter piece now, as a mother waits to leave her home of many years. At first, it’s unclear who it is she is waiting for – especially as we learn of her beloved Geoffrey’s serial lateness. Late for the wedding, late for the birth of their son, late for parties. We see it all play out as she reflects on a life now packed up around her. The detail of the delayed ashes is a lovely way to continue the theme and gently confirm what has happened, as the son arrives – also late. This is not a high stakes story filled with conflict or shocking revelations and decisions, but in its muffled clocks and boxed memories, it tells a story of a lifetime of patience – sometimes just as noble a pursuit.

SUPERLATE-IVE by Eugenie Pusenjak, ACT

“Gee whillikers, Blue Bustard! What kept you?”

The Blue Bustard surveyed the scene. A runaway ice cream truck had slammed into an empty trolleybus. No deaths thankfully, but the driver had a broken arm, and gallons of ice cream were now puddling the streets of Urbanopolis.

“Looks like a sticky business, kid.”

For once, his trusty sidekick, Woodcock, was not amused. “I couldn’t stop the truck by myself. You’re the one more powerful than a locomotive. All I’ve got is this lousy x-ray vision!”

The Blue Bustard rubbed the back of his muscled neck. “I’m sorry, Woody.”

“Golly, BB, you disappeared on me. I kept looking up in the sky. I saw a bird. A plane. But I didn’t see you! Also, do you realise that–”

“Look, would you let me explain?”

A crowd had gathered. A few opportunistic children tried to scoop up the melting ice cream. Others simply gawked at him and Woodcock.

“Take a powder, people – the show’s over!” declared the Blue Bustard. Capes swirling, the two superheroes strode away.

“Listen, I was out on the streets covering that story about the missing gerbils, when I heard the cries for help.”

Woodcock nodded. The Blue Bustard’s alter ego was Ernest Evans; a reporter for the Daily Platypus.

“But I was wearing my suit. Vest, tie, fedora, tortoise eyeglasses. The whole shazam. Or shebang, rather. I needed somewhere to change.”

“Why didn’t you go back to the office?”

“I was five miles away. Too far. No time. I’m the Blue Bustard, not the Blue Streak!”

“So, what’d you do?”

“I found a phone booth on the corner of West and Thirty-Eight.”

“That’s swell!”

The Blue Bustard shook his head. “I couldn’t go in. There was a queue!”

“You should’ve skipped it. This was an emergency!”

“Certainly not. Can you imagine the new slogan? ‘Rudeness, Impatience, and the American Way’. It would never fly. No pun intended, Woody.”

“So, then what?”

“I tried the men’s room in a nearby drug store. Unfortunately, it was out of order. Burst pipe.”

“Couldn’t you have fixed it?”

“It looked like a job for a plumber, not for the Blue Bustard.”

“Holy crapola, Blue Bustard!”

“Quite. So, then I ducked down a blind alley, where an inebriated panhandler tried to make off with my tights.”

“But you got them back.”

“He tried to be the Man of Steal, and failed.”

“Golly.”

They crossed the street and headed towards Siegel Park. A dame did a doubletake, and a gang of kids whispered and pointed. All part of the gig, thought the Blue Bustard.

“Finally,” he continued, “I found a storage closet off a garage. Dark as a Knight, inside. But I changed clothes without any problems. I raced over, but was too late.”

Woodcock raised an eyebrow. “Changed clothes without any problems, huh? Hooey!”

“Hooey? How so?”

“You’re the strongest, gutsiest hero this city’s got. But this time, you were distracted.”

“Distracted? Not me, Woodcock.”

“BB, you’re wearing your underpants on the inside!”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

Yes, it had a great opening line – and the playfulness and originality of this story (well, sure, it’s very derivative of all superheroes, but you know what we mean!) can’t help but grab your attention and draw it in. The language (“whillikers!”, “take a powder, people!”, “swell!”) is delightfully quaint, as are the dangers – such as an icecream truck hitting a trolley bus. Hearing the Blue Bustard relay his excuse for running late to gee-whizz sidekick Woodcock is a pun-filled ride through the streets of Urbanopolis. (Fun use of ‘blue’ and ‘kick’ too!) And the final underpants gag is simply a cherry on top of the melting icecream. But the missing gerbills? Oh dear! Silly, stand-out fun, and the ideal way to end this month’s showcase as, capes swirling, we stride away…

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we include an extra LONGLIST (approx 5-10%) of stories that stood out from the submitted hundreds, were considered for the showcase and deserve an ‘honourable mention’. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, take a moment to celebrate! (And to ALL who submitted stories, we’d LOVE to see you again for next month’s challenge!)

THIS MONTH’S LONGLIST (in no particular order):

• ADVANCED CALCULUS by Sukanya Singh, India
• ONE OF THOSE DAYS by Lena Jensen, SA
• TIL DEATH DO US PART by James Maley, WA
• THE CLOCK TICKS by Melanie Hawkes, WA
• DELIVER ME by Judd Exley, WA
• THE LATE JACOB by Carol Gageler McMinn, NSW
• BLUE by Erica Murdoch, VIC
• FOREVER LATE by Leigh Rodgers, NSW
• AN IMPORTANT PERSON by Kit Holmes, WA
• MORE TIME AND A OUIJA BOARD by Robert Fairhead, NSW
• OUT OF TIME by Rachel Howden, NSW
• APARTMENT FOUR by Melissa Mantle, NSW
• TUPPERWARE PARTY by Kerry Cox, WA
• RIGHT TIME, WRONG PLACE by Danielle Barker, NSW
• HER FINAL VISIT by Kay Lea, WA
• IN A MAKESHIFT CRADLE by Michelle Oliver, WA
• MENSES by Harriet Hay, WA
• FAREWELL MY BROTHER by John AD Fraser, SA
• BRAIN DRAIN by Jenny Lynch, WA
• ‘SHOULD I STAY OR SHOULD I GO NOW’ by Matt Cannin, VIC
• THE NEW NEIGHBOUR by Stephen Martin, VIC
• FORGET-ME-PLEASE-NOT by Tatiana Samokhina, NSW
• BEHIND SCHEDULE by Marilyn Filewood, NSW
• JUST ANOTHER DAY by Camila Stupecka, QLD
• HOW DID YOU FEEL? by Heather Maywald, SA
• BETTER LATE THAN SEVERED by Rayza, VIC
• BLUE, NOT PINK by Deidra Lovegren, USA
• THE ART OF BULLSHIT by Jo Skinner, QLD
• LAST CALL by Martyn Tilse, QLD
• TWIN SOULS by Emily Koniditsiotis, NSW
• QUIET QUITTING by Clarissa Kwee, ACT
• CHRYSALIS by Greg Eccleston, NSW
• SANDRA’S CHANGE OF PLANS by David Klotzkin, USA
• THE FLOOD by Chloe Paige, VIC

1. Each story had to take place in some kind of THEATRE/THEATER.
2. Each story had to include somebody shouting.
3. Each story had to include the words UNCOMFORTABLE, RECORD and SHRINK. (Small variations accepted.)

Surprisingly, there were remarkably few characters shouting “Fire!” in a crowded theatre. But there were plenty of record-breaking performances (recorded for posterity), shrinking violets in the spotlight (and appointments with their ‘shrinks’) as well as a plethora of uncomfortable moments.

ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE…

When we have location prompts, it’s always fun to see how that specific setting is used. And with “theatre”, there was a lot of variety. The word literally means a “place for viewing” – making it ideal for telling a visual story for your reader. And we had no shortage of theatre types in the stories we received. These included:

• A stage theatre!  Yes, this was the most common setting – the sort where you might go to see a play or musical, perhaps a famous stand-up comedy act etc. These stories took place in the audience, on stage and backstage, with plenty of variety, from auditions to opening night. Sometimes the theatre had seen better days, haunted by its past (and actual ghosts!).
• A movie theatre. The next most popular setting was that of a cinema. Typically, these stories (wisely) revolved around the moviegoers themselves rather than what was on the screen, but as the final showcase piece will reveal, combining the two was effective. As well as the usual indoor theatre, we also had a scattering of outdoor cinemas and even a couple of drive-ins – a great setting!
• Operating theatre. We probably expected more stories to take place in this setting. That said, around 10% of the submissions were of a medical nature, with some scalpel-sharp wit and gruesome operations on the table!
• The theatre of war. Here’s one we hadn’t expected, but still received a small number of stories about. The need for the ‘theatre’ aspect meant that they were often told in a broader ‘big picture’ sense than a smaller scene, but they were highly effective pieces in most cases.
• The amphitheatre. Whether it was all Greek and set during an ancient backdrop or a contemporary story among ruins, this outdoor setting captured the imaginations of many of you this month!
• The theatre of life! We always encourage you to think outside the box with our prompts – there really are no ‘wrong’ answers as long as you’re having fun and exploring your creativity. To this end, we saw some intriguing takes on ‘theatre’ – some more figurative in nature, but still engaging in content. Hooray for originality!

Well done to ALL those who entered this month’s challenge. It was clear that many of you went “all in” on your concepts. And a special congratulations to this month’s Top Pick story – it belonged to Jackson Irvine. You can read Jackson’s story, along with other showcased stories and longlisted authors below. Please enjoy – and we hope to see you back for the next challenge in November!

OCTOBER TOP PICK

TIME TO SHINE by Jackson Irvine, QLD

You have to be realistic in this business.

“Can someone please tell me WHERE THE HELL APRIL IS!”

Brian, our esteemed director, is pacing back and forth in the large communal dressing room. It’s rare to hear him raise his voice compared to some in the industry. His moments of unhappiness never go far beyond clipped tones and curt sentences.

To be fair, the complete non-appearance of his leading lady, on the opening night of his much-anticipated production of Macbeth? We should probably be grateful that shouting has been the extent so far.

My hand moved the phone from my ear, and my body gave an uncomfortable shrug in Brian’s direction. Several cast members are ringing April for the third time, the others trying to recall precisely when they saw her last night.

Marching over to my cracked wooden stool in the corner of the room, Brian fixes me with his firm gaze. “You’re the understudy, so I need a straight answer Hannah, no bullshit. Are you ready to play Lady Macbeth?”

“I’m ready,” I reply with a calmness that surprises me.

Brian nods, some of the crimson fury leaving his face. He looks around at everyone else. “Someone help Hannah into the dress. Stace, do her hair up as quickly as you can. Twenty minutes until the curtain rises people!”

A part of me wants to scream at the top of my lungs from elation, the validation of so many years of dreams, effort, pain, and sacrifice. How many auditions throughout my twenties, just one more hopeful in a sea of desperate, brunette women? Just getting by with waitressing, bartending, and enduring sleepless nights of anxiety and despair.

I felt it back in my first school play. Your performance strips everything except you, the audience, and the stage. The connection more intimate than any lover, so transcendent it’s like you’ve touched God himself. In that moment, your entire being shines brighter than all the stars that could make up infinity.

I didn’t care about money, a husband, children. My parents still did their best to record my performances with the battered old family camera, even as their worry for my future grew ever upward. I had known what I wanted from life to my death for a long time, all from that simple school play.

Still, you had to be realistic. So many had their dreams, some more talented, some just luckier. When I first learned I was to be the understudy for April, it felt like I had once again been pushed from the heights of my dream.

Lady Macbeth was willing to do anything for the sake of her ambition, and I surprised myself with how far I was willing to go for mine. Perhaps guilt will come later like it did with her, suffocate, shrink and consume me until my untimely end.

They will find April’s body soon enough. Until then, nobody will stop my light from shining.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There are two theatre standards on display here. First, the use of the Scottish play – a common ingredient in many stories this month! But second, the clever addition of that unsung swing waiting in the wings – the understudy. Sure, the lead is in the spotlight, but here in the murky waters of flash fiction, perhaps it is their shadow who has the greater motivation and therefore the better story to tell. There’s a gentle nod to Hannah’s own backstory, just enough to know how much she wants this. The final paragraph confirms that she wants it a lot – and mention of her own likely untimely end hints at the continuing a long tradition. Standing ovation… brava!

A LIFELONG DREAM by Axel Francis, NSW

Edward Lewis sits in the fourth row dead centre, as he has for the last 73 years. Remembering that first night as a young boy, seeing the theatre for the first time. Eyes wide, astounded at the actors on stage. From that very first day it was where he wanted to be, but he never grew the confidence nor the courage to take that first step as an actor. “The theatre’s not for you my son.” His dad would say. “Textiles, that’s where you want to be.” He remembers his father striding along the factory floor between his workers and machines. “One day all this will be yours.”

And it was.

But Edward still came to every Saturday matinee performance without fail. He leans back in his seat, taking in the excitement from his audience peers, the buzz coming from the orchestra pit at the foot of the stage as the musicians warm up and tune. Inhaling deeply, perfume and cologne mostly, but if he concentrates it comes. A smile wipes twenty years from his face. The aromas of grease paint, oil from the old foot lights that haven’t been used in years, even dust from the curtains themselves. The real smell of the theatre.

He flexes his shoulders back into the cushions, closes his eyes and lets the theatre encompass him for the last time. A solitary tear makes its way down his cheek.

They will start installing the screen tomorrow. Boarding over the pit, and bolting speakers to the walls. Progress they have called it. He has seen it often enough over the years in his factory. Now it has forced its way in here, after shrinking ticket sales and record losses for the theatre.

The Lights softly dim as the curtain rises. Voices quieten as people settle in for the show.

The actors take the stage, project their lines to a rapt audience, then take their final bows.

The curtain descends, lightly kissing the stage floor, swaying back and forth with a soft caress. The glow from the wall sconces slowly brightens the room. Edward stays seated, a soft smile on his lips as the audience get to their feet, arrange their jackets, blouses and bags, and awkwardly shuffle their way between the rows.

A young woman offers Edward a hand to help him rise from his seat.
“Sir?” She asks, placing her hand on his. “It’s time to go.”
His other arm falls from the armrest into his lap. She gently shakes his hand to wake him.
“Sir?” She’s feeling uncomfortable now, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach. She removes her hand and stands upright, surveying the theatre crowd as they make their way towards the exits.
“I need help!” she shouts, trying to be heard over the din. “Is anyone here a doctor?”
She moves towards the aisle, seeking aid.
The soft glow from the lights bathes Edward’s face in a golden hue. A smile forever transfixed on his lips.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There’s something about theatres that conjures a certain flavour of nostalgia. And in the case of Edward – the boy who swallowed his dreams and followed his father’s footsteps instead – that nostalgia is the final taste he gets. Two life stories are told here; one of a man, the other of the golden age of theatre. Ultimately, both say their final goodbyes amid the golden hue. Well paced and well written.

A SUMMER STORY by Wendy Stackhouse, WA

A strangled sob escapes her as she catches sight of the tiny white bundle lying on the sand. “What did you do,” she screams at him, and tries to get past. He raises the stick and looms over her as he beats her about the head, each blow echoing across the sky. The blows become more frequent – thwack, thwack, each one followed by moans, moans that become weaker as she shrinks to the ground.

The noise alerts people nearby, one of whom manages to catch hold of a policeman. When the officer arrives, he is shocked to find a broken and beaten woman lying prostrate on the ground. Garish lipstick coats a mouth open in a silent scream, and her matted hair is tied back with a dirty handkerchief. When he pulls out his notebook to record the scene, her assailant appears and begins to beat the officer around the head and shoulders, raining blows on the poor man as he yells at him, “That’s the way to do it!” Vainly the policeman attempts to ward off his attacker, but the man is too strong, and before long his body joins that of the woman’s, motionless on the floor.

The man stares vacantly into the air and shouts: “I can get rid of anyone I like!” “No, you can’t,” a voice comes out of nowhere and angrily he shouts again, “Yes I can!” “No, you can’t”, this time a chorus of voices joins in and turning red in the face the man again screams “Yes I can!”

Across the sand, the noise awakens a sleeping crocodile, and silently the reptile begins to slither towards the man, who is totally unaware of the danger he is in.

Again, shouts can be heard, telling him to look behind him. At first, he ignores them, but then he finally does turn around and finds the crocodile inches from his legs. The man begins to beat it over the head with his stick but it is too late. Loud cheers and jeers echo around him, but this time he has met his match, and with a roar the animal drags him across the sands and disappears from view. It returns moments later and one by one drags the lifeless figures of the woman and the policeman out of sight.

Loud clapping and cheering fill the air, as the red and white striped curtains slide across the puppet theatre. Some of the children are crying, uncomfortable with the violence and the huge crocodile. To cheer them up their parents take them by the hand and lead them to the nearby ice-cream stand, leaving their fold-up wooden chairs behind. Tomorrow a new audience will come and sit on them to watch the show, as Punch and Judy once again continue their age-old battle.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

What starts out as quite a disturbing scene soon reveals itself to be a tale as old as time. And yet, when you think about it – WHY is it a long-standing tradition for such a tale to be peddled to children at the seaside? When stripped back to its bare plot, it is rather disturbing indeed! Anyway, that aside, this was a fun take on the ‘theatre’ prompt – and surprisingly one of just a few stories to choose such a smaller ‘puppet-sized’ setting. (As a footnote, we suspect Punch and Judy have likely been cancelled in 2024.)

THE PRICE OF DISCRETION by TJ Edwards, NSW

Sleep deprivation is a form of torture, so they say. After seventy-three hours, I’m sucking back my eighty-first cigarette to cover up the dishwater taste of my twenty-third coffee. My mouth is a well caffeinated ashtray and my body shutters and trembles.

I stare at the chalk outline.

Twenty-four, dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair… bright smile. The photo in my hand shows a young woman staring into the camera, her teeth so white in contrast to her features. So full of life. Three days ago.

“Sir, you’re not supposed to smoke in here!” A young usher storms down the aisle and produces a cup filled with water. I stare at him until he fidgets then, uncomfortable in the silence, he backs away and leaves. I take another long drag, grimace, then sip my coffee again.

Four hundred red fabric seats. Three levels. Multiple points of exit and entry. I glance at the photo. The chalk outline. Drag. Sip. A vibration in my pocket sets my teeth on edge and I fumble the cigarette between my fingers holding the coffee and fish my phone from inside my trenchcoat.

The screen shows my shrink calling. As the vibration stops, the tally of missed calls increases by one. Lucky thirteen. Hell, it was either him or Charlie from AA. That reminds me. I drop the phone into my pocket, retrieve my flask and give the coffee a nip… or two. The next sip is smoother, probably the alcohol killing whatever germs were doing the backstroke in it.

“Ahem.”

Instead of turning around, I lean back as far as the chair will allow and see the Jeeves-looking theatre director in the aisle where the usher had been moments ago. In his hand, a cup of water. I take a deep breath, steady my nerves, and drag the cigarette down to the filter before depositing it into the cup.

“Thank you.” He bows, turns, and leaves.

“Yer welcome.” I wave a hand over my shoulder, then retrieve another cigarette from my pack and light it. When I lean back again to savour the tar hitting my lungs, I spot something on the balcony above me. Blood? I glance down to the chalk mark and up to the balcony again. Murdered up there? Fell down here? I record the observation in my notebook and head up.

The door to the balcony is stiff and despite the knob turning, I can’t push the door open. I down the majority of what’s left of my coffee, drop the cigarette into the dregs and toss it aside. When my shoulder hits the door, I feel a weight slide forward. With enough space, I lean my head in and discover the body of a young man.

“Oi, Jeeves,” I shout into the hall. “Thought you said you cleared the place?”

“We did!” He appears and glances to the propped open door. “Oh no… is it?”

“Yep.” I say, letting the door swing shut. “Means your fee just doubled.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The thing that stands out most in this story is the strong narrative voice throughout – a clearly defined character that is a culmination of all the detectives in all those taped-off crime scenes throughout time. All the classic caffeine-fuelled nicotine-stained tropes are on display and it’s a fun take on the theatre setting as simply the backdrop for this crime genre. 

THEATRE OF THE MIND by Jared Hansen, NSW

ACT 1
SCENE 1: The Alleged Living Room
(The room has seen better days, or at least you'd hope. Blinds are shuttered, doors are creaky. There is a lounge and a broken chair redolent with symbolism. A pine table peeks shyly out from under reams of loose leaf paper and a couple of adrift plates. MATTHEW JINGLEWOOD, a nearly-budding genius, reclines on the lounge pen poised over a notebook.)
(ENTER GIRLFRIEND, stage diagonal holding a bag)

GIRLFRIEND:
Matt, I'm leaving.

(Beat.)

MATT:
No, no.

GIRLFRIEND:
I am.

MATT:
No, that won't do. That's a very weak entrance. It's trite, it's been done We need to establish character.

GIRLFRIEND:
Excuse me?

MATT:
We need to establish character or context or nobody will pay attention.

GIRLFRIEND:
Matt, this is serious.

MATT:
Yes, that's part of the problem. You can't open too heavy. We need some witty banter.

GIRLFRIEND:
Matt, this isn't a play.

MATT:
That's what I'm saying. The structure's all wrong.

GIRLFRIEND:
You're obsessed. This is why I'm leaving. You're not a playwright.

MATT:
I'm wrighting right now, aren't I?

GIRLFRIEND:
No, you're just bossing me around. You've really let the Glebe Occasional Players get to your head.

MATT:
Well, they said I was the number one entry in their contest.

GIRLFRIEND:
They said ‘only'.

MATT:
Yes, and then I applied deductive reasoning to their claim. I like that line. An undergrad crowd would chuckle at that and pat themselves on the back for getting it.

GIRLFRIEND:
I think they'd probably feel more embarrassed.

MATT:
See, we're getting there now, this is witty banter! We're established how charming we are.

GIRLFRIEND:
YOU'RE INSUFFERABLE! YOU NEED A SHRINK.

MATT:
No, no. It's too early for shouting. You need to save that energy for the next act. I do like ‘You need a shrink', though. It's raw and frank, and bringing a therapist character in always works a treat.

(MATT scribbles furiously. GIRLFRIEND snatches the page off him.)

GIRLFRIEND:
I am speaking off the record. And I don't want to co-write your psychotic break.

MATT:
How about a producer credit?

(GIRLFRIEND reads the page critically)

GIRLFRIEND:
Hang on… have you been naming me ‘girlfriend' this whole time?

MATT:
I didn't want to get too attached to a name. You know, I've had a feeling we'll need to recast.

(Beat)

(EXIT girlfriend)

MATT:
Yes, good from the top. Just bring that same energy!

(ENTER Nobody)

(Uncomfortable silence)

MATT:
On second thoughts, maybe we could work with ‘I'm leaving'. I think that was a better launching off point. Can we try it again? Or maybe it's

(Curtains)

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Anatomy of a break up, right here! A clever use of the theatre prompt brings a highly original structure to the fore in which this scene plays out as a script. Some nice meta moments throughout (“I’m wrighting right now, aren’t I?”) and back and forth ‘dialogue’ makes for an engaging scene. We’re not sure what ACT 2 will look like, but the GIRLFRIEND character is likely to be absent. It is indeed ‘curtains’ for this relationship!

MY SEMI BRILLIANT CAREER by Dennis Callegari, VIC

My first theatrical experience, aged seven, was when I was chosen as the Dragon in a dramatic retelling of the story of Puff the Magic Dragon, based on the popular record by Peter, Paul and Mary. I don’t know why my teacher at primary school chose me for the role. Did I have a strong voice for a seven-year-old? Was I particularly good at roaring?

‘Puff’ was a serious production. There were props and scenery, and I had the full dragon costume complete with a big green papier-mâché head.

Disaster struck at the dress rehearsal. I remember feeling uncomfortable as I stepped out onto the stage, and when it came to speaking my lines I froze completely. On the night of the show, another small boy took my place. He was the one who roared disconsolately; he was the one who shouted out Jackie Paper’s name, not me.

End of Act One.

My second experience in the theatre was the exact opposite. It was four years later; my school – the same school – was celebrating its 50th year, and everybody in the school community was invited to perform at a special gala evening. There was even a prize.

Four of us decided to put on an original play, and this time I wasn’t just an actor in the play, but the playwright and director as well. No sign of stage fright. The plot, as I remember, was of a burglary gone wrong, and was highly influenced by old TV reruns of ‘Get Smart’.

Scenery? Props? We had none, except that we were all dressed in black, wore cardboard masks over our eyes and had a big paper bag marked ‘$$$’. The crowd thought we were hilarious – or at least that’s how I remember it . . . but that evening’s prize went to the pimply teenage quartet who mangled the latest pop song.

End of Act Two.

The final act in my theatrical career was a Reader’s Digest condensed version of Gilbert and Sullivan’s ‘The Mikado’ at high school. The production was very nearly the real thing, complete with a professional director, proper costumes, sets, props and an actual band of musicians.

I don’t remember volunteering to join the cast, and certainly I never would have if I’d had to sing solo (for which the audience should be eternally grateful), but my not-too-big, not-too-small role as Pooh-Bah suited me perfectly.

I did feel sorry, however, for the poor kid who had taken on the demanding role of Ko-ko, the Lord High Executioner. He would shrink down in terror inside his faux-Japanese costume every time it was his turn to speak, but every time he did, he fought back out of it bravely.

The show, as they say, must go on.

As we took our final bows at the end of our final performance, I recall wondering if I would ever be on stage again. But as you can see by looking at me, I never was.

Curtain.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

Like the previous script-based story, this once more explores the idea of ‘acts’ – but here we are treated to the full ‘three act structure’! The narrator’s three distinct experiences on stage are perhaps a mirror of many readers, who dabble at it in the papier-mache school days and again in high school, before never treading those boards again. (Just a ‘stage’ we go through…) Simple anecdotal storytelling, yet relatable and honest throughout.

NIP ‘N’ TUCK by Jenny Lynch, WA

“Mrs Fotherington-Smythe… hello there. Mind if I call you Abigail? I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Doctor Butcher. I’ll be your surgeon today. I’m filling in for Doctor Shyster. I hope you don’t mind, but he had a small matter of urgency at the local litigation court.

But don’t worry. To make up for the inconvenience and to compensate you, Doctor Shyster is shouting you a free anaesthetist, Doctor Kip. He’s fresh out of medical school but I guarantee he’ll have you away with fairies and in La La Land before you can say Rip Van Winkle.

I note on your records you’ve ordered the whole kit and kaboodle — the Ugly Duckling makeover package. I hope you don’t feel uncomfortable, but the surgery today will be captured on video. I will be submitting it for my final assessment at medical school. Hopefully, thanks to you, if all goes well, I’ll be a fully-fledged, licensed plastic surgeon this time next month!

Now, I’ll help you remove your hospital gown, so I can fully assess the situation and see what I’m up against. I’ll be drawing some lines here and there with my permanent marker pen, but don’t worry, you won’t notice them once the bruising sets in tomorrow.

Okie-Dokie. Let’s start at the top and work our way down, shall we? Hmm, yes, reading Doctor Shyster’s notes, I agree a facelift is definitely in order. As he so eloquently put it, you have the kind of face only a mother could love. But I’m guessing at your age, your mother has long since passed. I’m sorry for your loss. But, anyway, I’ll start with the Rhytidectomy, which will lift and pull back the skin on your face, jowls, and neck. I’ll also use a bit — well, quite a bit, actually — of Botox, to plump out your lips. You’ll obviously have to treble your lipstick budget, but hey, them’s the breaks. I promise you’ll finally get the hang of ‘keeping a stiff upper lip’, and I guarantee you’ll never, ever, frown again. But don’t worry, everyone will gradually get used to your new resting bitch face.

Now, what to do about your nose? I mean, geez, it’s rather large. You look like you could be the love child of Barbra Streisand and Jimmy Durante. But fear not — a Rhinoplasty will change the size and shape, and your new schnoz will be as cute as a button.

I see a breast augmentation is required. I mean, when life gives you lemons, why not have a little procedure that can turn those lemons into melons? I promise I can make mountains out of molehills, and I suggest the ‘Dolly Parton’ look. That’s a 40DD in layman’s terms.

Then finally, the Abdominoplasty — the tummy tuck — with liposuction, will drastically shrink that muffin top and belly flab.

The total cost today will be $240,000. Will that be cash, card, or Afterpay?

Abigail? OMG, we need a crash cart in here! Does anyone know CPR?”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

This is a riot from start to finish – with the bumbling Doctor Butcher having absolutely NO filter whatsoever (we loved all those names, by the way). As we take a tour of the poor Mrs Fotherington-Smythe’s body, it’s a hilarious laundry list of procedures and sassy judgement. Hilariously unprofessional and what we hope will NEVER happen in a real operating theatre – but great fodder for an entertaining story! That final sentence… brilliant!

LIFE IN 35MM by Maddison Scott, VIC

I love the smell of napalm in the morning.

I opened the projection room and was met with a smell that was so familiar, I’m sure it clung to my skin. Mildew caked into the exposed ventilation pipes, dust swept across the linoleum floor, the faint scent of oil and butter that coated everything in a salty layer of film. Even in the dark void before the projectors clicked to life, I could navigate that machinery like I was dancing with my own shadow.

You had me at hello.

The first time I threaded a film, I knew. The cells slid over the gate, the xenon illuminated still images into moving pictures, the platter sucked the film back into a perfect disc ready for the next audience to devour.

When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad.

Growing up, I used a diary to record every movie I ever saw. They were my cure-all. When my parents fought. When I was sick or uncomfortable. When there was a thunderstorm. I saved my pocket money for a year to buy my first VHS tape.

I’m the king of the world.

Through the porthole, humanity unfolds like a studio logo at the beginning of a film. From above, I watch first dates, last dates, popcorn fights, midnight marathons, alcoholic sing-a-longs, sex acts, heart attacks, laughter, wonder, screams, tears.

I see dead people.

1999, Cinema 4, Back Row.

“No, he can’t be,” she whispered, gripping my hand. Tears streamed down the beautiful woman’s cheeks, her bottom lip quivering so violently I could see it in the dark theatre. Of course, I already knew the plot twist. I’d watched this scene many times through the porthole. Seeing the devastation in her eyes—the empathy for a fictional ghost—I realised this was the woman I wanted to marry.

Houston, we have a problem.

The film burned across the screen like a hellish claw ripping through snow. The acrid odour of melted plastic met the shrink of film tearing through the loop, tugging at the sound head, whipping back to the platter. I had to splice several seconds of Tom Hanks’ distorted face from the reel that day.

Nobody puts Baby in the corner.

The news came in a letter. I was redundant. Unneeded. My manager didn't even look me in the eye. Thirty-five years boiled down to a one-shift goodbye. I broke down the reels one last time, packed up the trailers and ads, boxed the splicers and tape. Said goodbye to the mildew, the dust, the oil. As I locked up the projection room that final night, I shouted into the abyss…

There’s no place like home.

The movies look smaller from down here. The projection room, a tomb. Digital projectors make no sound, have no soul. The beautiful woman beside me grips my hand.

The end credits roll.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We loved the way that this story chose to include famous film lines to segment each stage of the piece – not just as a structural gimmick, but a meaningful detail for someone who had literally witnessed all of these moments from the projector room. In that respect, this story has strong parallels with the film Cinema Paradiso – both pieces providing a love-letter to cinema and once again (like Edward in his theatre from the earlier story), a farewell to the traditions of yesteryear.

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Encore! Encore! Each month, we include an extra LONGLIST (approx 5-10%) of stories that stood out from the submitted hundreds, were considered for the showcase and deserved an honourable mention . Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, take a moment to celebrate! (And to ALL who submitted stories, we’d LOVE to see you again for next month’s challenge!)

THIS MONTH’S LONGLIST (in no particular order):

• THE PRINCESS by Ilya Belegradek, US
• A BOY BECOMES A MAN by Sally Farmer, NSW
• THE DAY GRAMPA GOT STUCK IN A BOX by Bill Boyd, NSW
• WHAT IS IT GOOD FOR? by Caroline Trescowthick, VIC
• ROMAN HOLIDAY REGRETS by Lauren Goodwin, SA
• THE STAGE IS SET by Amanda Fisher, NSW
• THE GHOST OF MRS SLOANE by Audie Lewis, Portugal
• MURDER by Anne Carpenter, NSW
• A STAR IS BORN by Simon Shergold, USA
• A THEATRE BUILT FOR DRAMA by Andrew Shaughnessy, Canada
• WE PLAY OUR PARTS by Mel Jardinera, VIC
• TSINDOS BISTROT 1987 – A LOVE STORY by Steve Cumper, TAS
• WAITING IN THE WINGS by Sophie Pell, UK
• YOUR DIFFERENT LIVES by Isaac Freeman, SA
• REFLECTIONS by Freya King, QLD
• A FEW OF MY FAVOURITE THINGS by Lynn Gale, UK
• WHAT DO YOU CALL A GROUP OF ACTORS? A TRAGEDY by Kevin Jin, NSW
• MATINEE by Michał Przywara, Canada
• OH YES HE DID! by Eugenie Pusenjak, ACT
• JUST GOING THROUGH A DIFFICULT STAGE by Madeleine Armstrong, UK
• THE FIRST DANCE by Sarah Edmunds, WA
• THE MAGICIAN by Ryan Klemek, USA
• SMILE by Thomas Moloney, VIC
• MAGICAL MOMENT by Kathy Stevens, USA
• THE PROCEDURE by Claire Pales, VIC
• THEATRE OF WAR by Dee, UK
• GHOST LIGHT by Alyssa Buchthal, USA
• INTERVIEW WITH A FALLEN STAR by Meredith Kingsley, VIC
• DR E. TARKANIAN, COSMIC SURGEON by Ben Hogan, WA
• THE EVER AFTER by Lynn Abramson, USA
• THE LEGENDARY ADDISON YORK by Alison L. Robson, NSW
• THE USHER by Ed Friedman, USA
• DIFFICULT TO DIGEST by Sarah Fisher, QLD
• GROUNDED by A.M. Obst, UK
• ETERNITY by Tessa McCarthy, QLD
• VAMPIRE by Joshua Kepfer, USA
• A FIVE-ACT PLAY ON HUMANITY by Robert Fairhead, NSW
• THE SHOW MUST GO ON by Sarah Fox, Canada
• RECORDS FROM THE WORST TIMES™ by Ryan K. Lindsay, ACT
• THE EVOLUTION OF LIGHTING by Melanie Wittwer, NZ
• STAR OF THE SHOW by Louise Walton, NSW
• ANOTHER LATE SHOW WITH NICK SCRATCH by Paul Lewthwaite, UK
• THE LAST DANCE by Byron Churchill, Canada
• THE RED CURTAINS by Elizabeth G. Arthur, QLD
• A REAL PERFORMANCE by Christina Kershaw, UK
• ONE SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE PICTURES by Rhonda Valentine Dixon, QLD
• MAGICAL INNOCENCE by Miriam Drori, Israel
• STAGE by Matt Goddard, UK
• CURTAINS by Nikki Reid, VIC
• MY KINGDOM FOR A CUSHION by Claudia Nicholson, Greece
• THAT SUMMER by Ella Herdman, NSW

• Writers had to use the image above in ANY way as inspiration to tell their story!
• What you wrote was UP TO YOU – but participants were told to imagine that if your story were to ever be printed somewhere, THIS image would make sense appearing alongside it. 

We’ve run picture prompts in the past, but this one was arguably one of the most open assignments we’ve ever given you. No words, no actions, no character traits! Some loved it and others… not so much! (With a few even using their entry to TELL US they weren’t happy about the task – you know who you are!)

EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY… RIGHT?

So, why a picture prompt? Are we secret sadists that swoon when storytellers suffer? Not at all. For starters, it’s always a good day creatively when you’re challenged to peek out beyond your comfort zone. And the key word here was INSPIRATION. We didn’t necessarily need a description of this EXACT scene including the clothing and complexion of its inhabitants. What we were looking for was a story that captured this ‘energy’ in some way.

Remember that the ‘blank canvas’ of the image was intentional – we wanted YOU to build off it (rather than merely describe it). Here were some of the many directions we saw your stories take:

• A waiting room – Well, yeah, we did see that one coming! A lot of stories (a LOT) saw this as a doctor’s office or perhaps the waiting room for an interview or audition. People went to great lengths to describe how dull the scene was. (Fun fact: the location of ‘Centrelink' came up a lot!)
• The pearly gates – It’s always a fun trope when St Peter and the gang are involved and yes, we saw plenty of newly (and not-so-newly) dead people waiting to see if, to quote Mister Mars, they’d been locked out of heaven.
• The fiery gates – Ah yes, sometimes the door led to hell too!
• Donors – From blood donations to ahem, body donations, this altruistic angle popped up from time to time.
• Headmaster’s office – Some big ‘naughty chair’ energy saw stories set in a school, usually with parents or teachers awaiting their fate!
• Whodunnit? – The idea of a murder mystery was a fun one and we saw a few original takes on this. (At least one including Cluedo-style characters!)
• Androids and AI – It’s on everyone’s mind these days, and the blank stares from those in our photo surely inspired writers to think that some or all of those ‘assembled’ were not human.
• Competitions – From ‘Don’t Laugh’ challenges to people who could sit completely still the longest, this idea was given some fun takes. (One memorable competition is showcased below!)
• “It’s a photo” – This might sound obvious, but many used (or got stuck on) the idea that this was an actual photo, allowing for some flexibility, longer timelines and nostalgia.

In general, those who were successful (in our judges’ eyes) took the image and delivered a new perspective or a take that was relatable to the reader. Sometimes it incorporated a common trope, but twisted it in an enjoyable way. And on that note, it’s time for the showcase stories – including this month’s Top Pick from Tatiana Samokhina – congratulations! Tatiana’s story, along with our shortlisted stories and longlisted authors are all showcased below. Well done to ALL who attempted this unique challenge – we hope to see you back for the next challenge in October!

SEPTEMBER TOP PICK

HAVE WE? by Tatiana Samokhina, NSW

Have we crossed paths before?

Maybe we sat across from one another on a sticky metro seat.

There’s a salty tang lingering around you – ocean molecules evaporating from your then-girlfriend’s virgin-brown hair in the stuffy, hot underground. Her yellow puffed sleeves itch at her skin, and she wrinkles her nose but keeps reading. She’s about to sneeze, and you can feel it – her shoulders lift and hunch forward, her chest expands; she’s a filly, she’s a storm. You fish a tissue out of your pocket and hand it to her. She covers her nose and droplets of her saliva never reach me, sitting in front of her as well, but neither does your gaze.

Maybe we hustled and jostled and pushed our elbows at the Town Hall Square on New Year's Eve five years ago.

An old man, his buttons gasping on his tight shirt, steps on your foot, and you want to snap, you want to swear, but there are hundreds of people, if not thousands, and you’re pressed into the man – a glossy, slick sardine. You breathe in his sweat, and his flimsy glasses are so crooked that you snicker and forgive. Fifteen strangers, ten backpacks, three hats across from you – my brother hiccups into my shoulder and tugs at his white collar as if it has superpowers. I giggle. My voice spills like grains through the crowd, maybe even pinches you on the cheek, but you're still fifteen faces away, cringing, your toes burning with the imprint of the man’s foot, and you simply don't notice.

Maybe we drove to the same beach on the same sultry Sunday.

We run out of the fluffy spume, my friend and I, both salty, both glinting, sunscreen beads slide down our skin. We laugh and hold hands, and somewhere between the ocean and blanket, I stumble and fall. Fine white sand clings to my knees, my thighs, my long, dark hair. My friend's pigtails, wavy like the rare summer clouds, peek at me from above, and she hops onto me for a sand-fist fight. We wallow, welter, loll about.

Then you walk past.

Your friend's clean-shaven, you're covered in stubble, and I can almost feel its sharp ends. My fingertips prick, and I lose, I surrender. I groan quietly, annoyed. Sand is now in the corners of my mouth. I rub them hard, but a grain slips between my lips, down my tongue, all the way inside. The sand you'd just walked on. I stand and look at the ocean. Where are you? Maybe you're underwater, drinking the water I swam in only minutes ago.

I lie on my back, a wide-brimmed hat shading my eyes. You walk past again, heading back to your tent. You glance at me, slightly curious; my hazelnut freckles smile politely – or wink – but you keep walking past.

Have we crossed paths before? We probably have. But have we chosen to linger?

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This month’s top pick answered the picture prompt in the true spirit of what our judges were hoping for – a story that used the image as inspiration rather than literally. By using this group of random strangers as the base for its world, this piece is free to visit other locations and situations, all underpinned by a shared theme of almost-connections. Many writers may recognise the concept of “sonder” – that person you make eye contact with in a passing train carriage, whose story is completely different from yours. This idea is exploited to great effect here – with some lovely sensory details and a crackling air of expectation and anticipation that feels at home with this universally relatable tale of random encounters, fate and what-might-have-been. 

OPEN CASTING – CHOSEN ONE by Christian Weir, UK

Jules huffed, why did Gorethrax have to be invading on a Friday? Not only was the city at threat from his orcish hordes, but it was always much harder to find a Chosen One to protect the city on a weekend. She felt a tweak of hopelessness at the sight of the mere 7 candidates who had heeded the call.

“Welcome and thank you for responding to the casting call.” She beamed with professionalism. “We only need one today, and it is quite urgent that we find who is up to the task. So, shall we find the Chosen One!?”

Jules checked the sign-in sheet, “Linda? Would you like to tell us about yourself?”

The young woman in purple stood bolt upright, “I. Am. Spartacus.”

“Okayyy, I have you down as Linda?”

An older gentleman raised his hand.

“Sir?”

Pressing hands down on his knee he creaked to his feet, “I am also Sparticus.”

Jules furrowed her eyebrows then nodded, “Okay, thanks. Any other Spartaci here?…No?… Gladiatorial uprisings are on the 3rd floor.”

The Spartaci shuffled out in unified embarrassment.

Jules shot an eye to her watch. A bright yellow topped teen stood.

“You don't have to stand.”

“Oh.” The teen heaped down. Then sprang up again. “How about a coming of age Chosen One?” She fluttered like a dandelion as she spoke.

“Sorry. This isn’t a development opportunity. Gorethrax is expected in… 5 hours…”

The yellow teen ran from the audition hall.

“If I may.” A caped man boomed as he hovered to his feet. “I am Io.”

“Oh Io… of course, you did the Zanthar invasion.”

“Indeed citizen” he heralded.

“Now if I recall…there was an issue around. Um…collateral damage.”

“AH!” cried Io, bringing a fist to his chest. “My past is too tragic to mention. I shan't burden you other than to say that there was no cost too high to stop the Zanthar.”

“Okay… As an agency we are measured on costs, buildings… civilian casualties…the paperwork alone…”

“My tortured Soul!” Io blasted through the ceiling, bringing down dozens of bricks, pipes, and declarations of Spaticus(ness).

Three candidates left.

“We come as a team.” Said the turquoise topped man, putting his arm around his partner. She continued, “We do wisecracks, and Brazilian Capoeira?”

“Can I see some?”

“Wisecracks?”

“Nono, the Capoeira please.”

Gorethrax? More like…eh…Borethrax.” The man sounded surprised with himself. His partner started to dance.

Jules considered the budget. Maybe she could afford both. “And have you been Chosen before?”

“First time!”

The woman spun and kicked and flailed. It was going well enough – given the tight schedule – until she over rotated…

!KERPOW!

… and knocked out the only other candidate.

Jules thanked Kothran that everyone had signed the liability waiver.

“Sorry, I didn’t stretch!” said the woman.

“No collateral damage! Out!”

Then just like that there were no available Chosen Ones.

Jules huffed again. It was typical that this responsibility be thrust upon her.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We did see plenty of candidates awaiting selection in our stories this month (for obvious reasons), but none quite so delightfully mundane and paperwork-laden as this one in the face of the city’s demise. Not only had Gorethrax chosen an inconvenient time to invade, but getting good help is proving difficult for our protagonist Jules. From “we have you down as Linda” to the declarations of Sparticus(ness) and the hilariously random appearance of Brazilian martial arts, this story is a fun ride, playing off the office and superhero tropes to perfection.

BACK AGAINST THE WALL by Melanie Hawkes, WA

Bum number 9,457 just sat on me. Yes, I'm counting. There's nothing much else to do so I may as well amuse myself. It's tiring sitting around all day. I'm fulfilling my purpose in life, along with my six brothers and sisters. Seven is quite an odd number, if you ask me. Even if you didn't ask, I'm going to tell you what I think anyway. 

Hundreds of us were cut from bits of this and pieces of that. Then we were put in boxes and shipped to far-away lands. I didn't like the ocean voyage. Legs are made for land, and I have four of them. I'm 100% certain that I don't belong at sea.

Anyway, we made it to land, got loaded onto a truck and taken to a giant store. It was freezing in the warehouse, and I longed to get out of my box and on display. I was jealous of the stock on top and beside me that disappeared first. We all had to wait our turn. 

One day I was having a nap when I started to move. Is today my lucky day? There was a slight jolt as I moved off the shelf. It was a smooth ride before I heard seven beeps, then another jolt as I moved again. An engine started and we were off, hopefully to my forever home.

There were huffs and puffs as we were offloaded. It serves them right for trying to carry more than one of us at once. After living inside a cardboard box for over a year, it was nice to see the light at last. They took a while to put all seven of us together – and I was second last – but I could finally stretch my legs. 

Our new home is quiet but smells funny. There are no pets or children, just adults wearing funny white coats. That suits me fine. Hopefully I'll live a long life without premature ageing like a lot of flat pack furniture does. 

If you look closely, you'll notice one of us is different. It seems we weren't all cut from the same branch. Different pattern or mould used? Or did someone at the big store pull someone's leg and mix parts up? Either way, that lady doesn't seem to mind. It's a full house today. Every seat has a bum on it.

I creak under the weight of my guy. How come I always seem to get the heaviest people? I hope they call him soon, and that he doesn't need to come back for more treatment. At his age, why doesn't he get false teeth and be done with it? Give me a break, please! 

“Hey, quit your whingeing,” the floor speaks up. “I never get a break. People walk all over me!”

“Fair point. I'll shut up now,” I respond. And I go back to doing my job with my back against the wall. 

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

With seven characters in the picture, most naturally told to tell their story about one or more of the people. However this piece chose to recognise that it is the chairs in the image that have the most interesting backstories of all. With a memorable opening sentence, we’re left under no doubt what we’re dealing with here and all that remains is to take a seat and hear all about the journey that led to this establishment. The final admonishment from the floor was a fun bonus too, and the original perspective of this piece helped it get over the line.

SHARED SECRETS by Kevin Raines, USA

We sat side by side, seven strangers, in small uncomfortable chairs in a large uncomfortable room. Each moment of silence became increasingly weighty and awkward, so it was a relief when the door finally opened. A woman in a lab coat entered and handed out random one-letter name tags, A to G.

“Thank you for participating,” she said. “As you’ve read in your paperwork, this experiment will last three hours, after which you will each receive a $10,000 honorarium.”

Amidst the grins of greed and need, Participant B raised a hand. “Can you tell us about the experiment now?”

“Certainly. You’ve heard of artificial intelligence?”

We murmured agreement.

“Artificial intelligence has a fatal flaw. It cannot emulate true holistic human intelligence. This project is a research program to develop Hive Intelligence. Has anyone heard of Hive Intelligence?”

She waited for us to shake our heads. “Of course not, because we’re inventing it. Hive intelligence is a means of temporarily merging multiple human minds to achieve exponential gains in intelligence. In today’s experiment, we’re going to give you an extremely complex unsolved multi-dimensional problem, and you’re going to collectively solve it as one interconnected hive mind.”

There was a long pause before Participant G spoke. “You’re going to combine our minds? The seven of us?”

“Precisely. During our recruiting process, you each tested as geniuses in a distinct area of thought: math, philosophy, literature, and so on. Our technology will combine your individual realms of genius into one supermind.” The professor launched into a long explanation of the process, using words like electrodes and synapses and electroencephalosynthesis.

We all absorbed this information before Participant F piped up. “So how do you isolate the genius elements of our brain?”

The researcher shifted uncomfortably. “We don’t. Your minds must be completely combined to achieve holistic superintelligence. That includes all of your reason, your knowledge, and your memories.”

“Everything?”

“100 percent.”

“So … my bank information is going to be known to everyone?”

We all laughed, but the woman didn’t. “Well, yes. All of your individual knowledge and memory will be shared collectively. Change your passwords afterwards.”

There were murmurs of concern.

“Our private memories will be shared?”

“Our sexual kinks?”

“Our family secrets?”

“Illegal drug use?”

“Everything. That’s why the stipend is so large.”

Sweat appeared on my palms. I really, really, really needed this money.

We all pondered the things in our minds that no one should know, and compared the risks and benefits of participating. At long last, Participant E spoke. “None of us will likely see each other again.”

Participant A nodded. “We can all use the money, and we all have secrets. I say we make a never-to-be-broken pact that none of us will ever reveal anything about the others.”

There were hearty yeas all around, dollar signs in everyone’s eyes.

I glanced around. “Even if one of us is a serial killer?”

Everyone laughed, and we intertwined fingers in a pinkie swear.

I pretended to laugh with them.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Artificial intelligence featured heavily in many stories this month, but here we see things have been taken a lot further than “one of us might be a robot” levels. In fact, we’re getting busy creating a human super-brain to combat the inevitable robot uprising! The dialogue and back and forth between the seven participants gives great insights into each of their personalities and fears, but our protagonist appears to be more worried than the rest. It’s only in the final lines that we realise why – a fantastically satisfying ending for such an ambiguous and unassuming sentence!

SPILL THE BEANS! (PILOT EPISODE) by Louise, Freya and Jinn, NSW

It was silent but deadly. Nostrils flared, faces greened, but nobody budged. That was the name of the game: last to move won the Victory Bean.

If they also guessed the culprit.

“And that is a stinker!” Stank Fankly announced. “You could chew that air biscuit!” The game show host hooted as the sulphurous stench swallowed the row of contestants.

Knuckles turned white and frozen eyes watered.

But they sat firm.

On Stool 1, Melina held her breath as her bowels gurgled. The first contestant to break wind snagged a cool $5,000, tripling if nobody guessed them. But Melina was sniffing after the hot goods. That Victory Bean held $80,000.

“They've all smelt it, but who dealt it?” Stank boomed. “That's what I love about this game, folks! The strategy! The stealth—not even a squeak today! This’ll be a hard fart to outsmart!”

Melina's lungs struggled. She ruled out the white-haired man on Stool 6. His aged bowels had gone off in the studio lunchroom like a deflating balloon, with a suspected trot from Toot Town to Squirtsville.

“And thanking our sponsors, Pappy's Nappies! Excreting air in a chair is no easy breeze—NO! Stool 5 is out! A hand to the nose, I don't blame her! Smells like cabbage stew in a Dutch oven!”

The audience “awwwwed' from the safe hall.

Stool 5 could be faking. Melina finally inhaled. Her wide nostrils unfurled, quivering like an undecided sphincter in the toxic smog. Flashbacks flickered.

***

Her fiancé.
Accepting her, freak nostrils and all.

“I nose—um, KNOW you're self-conscious, babe. But you make me so flappy—HAPPY.”

Liar.
He'd wanted her paid-off mortgage.

***

She tensed, hoping she hadn't twitched. Hints of seafood and rancid fruit clawed Melina's sinuses.

***

The wedding altar.
His one nervous ‘parp’.
Melina's emotional sniff.
Floating whiffs of her sly maid-of-honour's prize-winning cherry-pie.

He confessed at the reception.
It WAS her nose.

***

“Stool 2 has Gone With the Wind! It's a KO to the schnozz!!”

***

Booking a nose job.
Cancelling.
It wouldn't heal the hurt inside.

***

But the hope of her putrid ex-fiance watching her success on ground-breaking primetime TV perked up Melina's limp nostril flaps like a stingray on the hunt.

There. A tangy whisper of anchovy.

“And another elimination! Stool 6 is—someone better check his pulse…”

Three left. Only one person here had eaten pizza with anchovies.

“There goes 7! 3 is teetering…”

Cloying breaths, vision blurring…

“…and crashes into 4! Folks, Stool 1 wins!”

Melina stumbled into the safe hall, gulping clean air. Stank followed, hollering the round's statistics while the contestants recovered.

“And now, the lingering question… Who dealt it? Melina, it’s time to—”

The audience read the prompter. “SPILL! THE! BEANS!”

“Right.” Melina's nostrils hot-air-ballooned confidently. She knew foul play when she smelled it. “The rules were broken. It was Stank Fankly!”

“Me? No!”

“Whoever denied it supplied it.”

The audience cheered.

Stank grinned. “She's got me there. Congratulations, Melina! What a nose!”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

A game show was a great idea given the nature of the picture prompt. And by making it a breaking wind game show, it provided the perfect reason for why everyone is doing their best not to show any emotion. Filled with descriptions so chunky you could carve them, this fluff piece never claims to be high literature. Instead, it relishes in the reek, trades in the toots and sends up the stinkers to great effect. Of course, it’s not just a conveyor belt of fart synonyms (although “air biscuit” and “toxic smog” are delightful) – it also manages to dish up a cheeky ‘who-dealt-it' as our hero attempts to win the big prize. A silly topic, expertly navigated.

THE END OF QUOTIDIAN GODS by Kristof Mikes-Liu, NSW

That’s me at the end on the right. It’s supposed to be a nostalgic group photo, a pre-retirement celebration, but I couldn’t even bear to look at the camera, let alone smile. (Actually, none of us were up to smiling. That says a lot given the two characters next to me have reputations as party animals.)

Me? I’m the Sunday God. Call me Domingo, Seventh Deity of the Week. Day-ity if you’re a punster. Same thing though. We’re each a Day of the Week’s essence. We’ve scaffolded the passing of human time for what, two millennia? And now they tell us the times have outgrown our relevance.

They say we hamper productivity, then shoot side-eyes at Friday, Saturday and me.

Rest is subjective, they say, then add that they’ve already made concessions on hours of sleep per night. I for one know that people remain wide-eyed on my Day anticipating what’s ahead.

There’s no sense in closing workplaces for Weekends, they say, and I know that’s the clincher. People can rest in their own time, and only if they so choose: Productivity must remain continuous. They want an entire planet of shift workers, and the only way to do that is to decommission us Seven.

Sure, we protested. But we couldn’t work through our differences. Monday was all for getting to work, and Tuesday and Thursday followed suit. Wednesday tried to get us to see the positives, completely missing the fact that her Hump Day status relies on the existence of an end to the Week. Get rid of Weekends, and Hump Day’s just another Dump Day. Poor Friday was a mess: she couldn’t separate their proposal from the existential conflict of being both an ending and a beginning.

Saturday and I, we should’ve known better. Our bickering over which of us was more ordained from Heaven than the other stopped us from getting our point across. I mean, really, more ordained from Heaven? Are we just two alphas fighting over which of us is God’s Gift, while Rome goes up in flames?

I overheard an official say they were banishing Retirement next, because it, too, hampered productivity. And yet, somehow, we’re celebrating our retirement. We even received gold watches. For what?! To mark the historical moment where shiny metal commands more value than time? We’re not retiring. They’re retrenching us.

At least Saturday and I are on better terms now. Gods of religion from either of our Heavens have lost traction. More and more people worship the Big Machine in the Cloud; it’s the epitome of twenty-four/seven and its reach goes far. Sixth Day and I will commiserate rather than gloat, remember good times and sip Irish Breakfast or Darjeeling first flush and nibble on cucumber sandwiches. Maybe the other Day-ities will join us in time.

Humans, though. They’re already getting busier and busier. Rome’s still gonna burn, and take the world with it. That’s a given, but the world’ll be too caught up in its busy-ness to notice.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

One way to approach an assignment such as this is to think about what things might come in ‘sevens’. And personifying our characters as days of the week was a clever way to add interest to what was essentially a blank canvas. Told through the eyes of Day-ity Domingo (Sunday), we have fun playing off the personalities of each day of the week to great effect. Getting fast and loose with God mythology, this story uses humour to excellent effect and once more proves that using the image simply as inspiration allows you more freedom to tell your story.

A LETTER FROM COUNCIL by Michaella Curtis-Morris, VIC

Knock knock.

Putting on his lucky green shirt, Brian Sidebottom made his usual cup of green tea – two sugars to sweeten the leafy taste, and a dash of milk because it used to annoy his wife. She passed away three years ago, but he liked to make sure her ghost was still equally frustrated by his tea drinking habits.

Knock knock.

The banging on the door became more furious as Brian finally looked up from his small mug. Making his way to the door, he pulled aside the curtains, locking eyes with a rather cranky looking man in a collared shirt. Brian opened the door and immediately had a piece of paper thrust into his hand. The man said nothing, and having completed his mission, promptly left.

Brian looked down at the letter in his hand. It was a rather boring envelope with a grey border and a small grey logo in the corner. In the centre of it sat the name: BRAIN SIDEBOTTOM.

Being seventy-two, Brian had been spelling his name for approximately seventy years and was almost certain that his name was not spelled “Brain”. Reading the logo in the corner, Brian decided that he must make his way to the council office to rectify the mistake. Taking his coat off the hook by the door, he kissed the photo of his wife goodbye and began his short journey to the local council office.

The journey to the council office was in fact very short – as it was only two houses down the street. The glass sliding doors opened quickly and Brian walked in very slowly. There was a large line at all of the desks, but Brian knew he was far too important to wait in a line for half an hour. He approached the furthest desk, placing the letter down on the metal.

“Excuse me?”

The woman behind the desk took no interest in Brian, still occupied with resolving the previous taxpayer’s issue.

“My name has been spelled wrong and I expect compensation.”

Sensing the anger in his voice, the woman took the letter and stared blankly at it.

“Brain Sidebottom?”

“It’s Brian.”

“The one who’s been sending all the letters about the bins?”

Brian puffed up his chest, most proud of his bi-weekly rant to the council in paper form.

“Why yes, I am.”

The woman sighed again.

“Did you read the letter?”

Brian stopped. Of course he didn’t read the letter. How could one possibly be expected to read a letter with such an egregious error on the envelope?

Taking his silence as an answer, the woman slid the paper back to him and shooed him away.

Offended, Brian began his walk home. As he walked, he finally opened the envelope:

Dear Mr. Sidebottom,

We must ask that you please STOP sending us letters. We are a local council and cannot supply you with seven recycling bins. If you still require them, please approach someone else.

Sincerely,
Your Local Council.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There is something delightfully relatable about this suburban story of local bureaucracy, with Brain–– sorry, Brian a lovely drawn character who clearly has a lot of time on his hands. On the surface, this is an older gentleman getting a letter and taking a walk. And yet, we learn a lot about Mr Sidebottom as the story unfolds, including his attention to detail, love of routine and late wife. The cherry on top here however is that unlike most other stories, it employs the image as its final frame – a perfectly placed pictorial punchline that works as the ultimate response to “if you still require seven recycling bins, please approach someone else”! Seeing our protagonist return with six others (as pictured) elevates this piece from Brian-y to brainy.

USE YOUR INSIDE VOICE by Athena Law, QLD

That’s what my mum always used to say to me, even if we were outside. She said grandma taught it to her. ‘It’s called manners darling,’ she’d smile as she patted me on the head.

So, I stopped using my outside voice altogether. I only used my ‘inside voice’ outside – speaking softly in the park or the playground. But then something strange happened. My quiet voice began shrinking; from a mumble to a murmur to a hum until one day it disappeared altogether.

Mum was so proud of me when her friends commented: ‘Goodness, what a well-mannered young lady,’ but then at the doctors her own voice would grow into a shriek. ‘What on earth is wrong with her? Where is her voice?’

I didn’t know where it had gone myself. There was just silence. But early one morning a little whisper tickled my brain. A voice from the inside.

‘Darlink, it’s boring being good, isn’t it?’ It sounded like Natasha from that old cartoon. ‘But it’s good to be bad, isn’t it?’ I nodded and agreed with her, as I made my way to the kitchen to tip cereal all over the floor.

Another brain tickle, a different one, a boy! ‘Cereal is best served with milk.’ I also agreed with this sensible boy (who I decided to call Tom), and so did Natasha.

‘Wait!’ A pretty sing-song voice. ‘Don’t listen to them, you and I could be making a cake.’

A cake? I put the milk bottle down. Natasha, Tom and I leaned in.

‘You’ll need a bowl, some flour, rice, sultanas, maybe four eggs?’ Lila was so clever. And pretty, I could just tell.

‘Room for one more?’

‘Oh, this is my brother Lenny, he knows a lot about cooking.’

‘I do. So you’ll be wanting six more eggs and chocolate chips and some tomato sauce. That’s right, into the bowl.’

‘Put in ze cereal from the ze floor.’ Natasha chuckled as I scooped it up.

Tom coughed. ‘Might I suggest using an implement?’

‘Everyone quiet!’ A new voice. She spoke quickly, just like my friend Amy. ‘Get in, get it done, get out. Don’t get caught.’

A hubbub in my head as everyone said yes to Amy.

‘Young lady.’ Gravelly and grouchy, a real Grandpa. ‘Where does your Dad keep his beer? Add one of those.’

The hubbub of approval again.

Another new voice. Posh and smart. Peter. ‘Focus now, let’s get that oven switched on. Turn this dial to volcanic, that’s right.’

Natasha, Tom, Lila, Lenny, Amy, Grandpa, Peter and I were admiring our swirling gloop of red and brown when mum walked in and began screaming: ‘NAUGHTY NAUGHTY NAUGHTY!’

‘I didn’t do it all by myself!’ I shrieked.

‘For God’s sake, how many times have I said to use your inside voice!’ she shrieked back, before noticing I had spoken for the first time in months, staring at me with her mouth open.

‘I am Mother,’ I smiled. ‘ALL of them.’

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Yet another clever way to use our characters is seen here as those multiple voices inside a child’s head. The concept of the inside voice is brought to life through the staggered arrival of Natasha, Tom, Lila, Lenny, Amy, Grandpa and Peter – all with their own personalities yet united in their efforts to cause chaos. The result is the inner workings of a child’s mind in explaining why they made a mess. As each voice arrives, we see a new side of our pint-sized protagonist, bookended by a fun plot that provides context to the inside story. This scores high marks once more on the relatable scale – for anyone who has young kids or remembers being one!

EVERY DAY I SEE ___ by Tiff Du, USA

Monday morning, Dr. Pope’s patient, Val, bounced into her office.

She sat cross legged on the easy chair and grinned. “Tried the new yoga studio at the Plaza. We’re going again tonight. Might make it a daily thing.”

Dr. Pope made a note. “A daily routine is a great idea.”

“By the way, I think I have – I’ve met someone who’s interested in a consultation.”

Val waved as she walked out of the office.

On Tuesday, she saw Akeem. Like many of her patients, his memory lapses left him confused. His journal only had one entry – a scribbled line about his breakfast from that morning.

“And after breakfast?”

Akeem told her about his commute past construction traffic, his Python class, and his shift at the electronics store.

“And last night?”

“Uh…” His eyes moved over the posters behind her, as if he could find a record of his memories there. “I went to the Plaza?”

“Excellent. What did you do?”

He shrugged. “Just hung around with friends?”

Wednesdays, Kate and Javier had back-to-back appointments.

“The patient before me – I think I know her, but I can’t remember where,” Javier remarked, crossing his legs and leaning back in the chair.

Dr. Pope’s pen paused in its journey across the page. “You saw her?”

He shrugged, “Just through the glass when I was walking up to the building.”

“Did she see you?”

“I couldn’t tell. I think maybe she was on her phone. It was really sunny outside, and I was calling my mom at the time.”

Thursday morning, Sarah showed off her meticulous timesheet. It kept her focused for her job at the electronics store. “Haven’t missed a shift since I started this,” she bragged.

Thursday afternoon, Mort bewailed the construction by his house. “I’m retired, but I still have to study. A jackhammer goes off, I lose my train of thought. Then I have to nap and it wipes out my whole day. It’s ridiculous. It’s been two years.” He asked if she knew any good lawyers.

On Friday, she consulted with a new client, Ryan. He told her about dissociative episodes as he rubbed his hands on his slacks and tapped his right shoe.

“Do you prefer Fridays?”

He adjusted his glasses with a forefinger. “I prefer Mondays, Doctor. I live near the construction, and traffic isn’t as bad on Mondays.”

“I do currently have limited availability on Mondays, but I can call you if a slot opens up.”

Ryan smiled and shook her hand at the end of the session.

Monday again. Val told her, rubbing her hands on her jeans, that she had abandoned the yoga. “Also, this might be my last appointment for now.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Pope stared as Val began to tap her right foot, then rubbed the bridge of her nose.

At the end of the session, Val smiled, stood, and stuck out her hand. “Thank you, Doctor. You’ve really helped me these past two years.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

We’ve chosen to showcase this story directly after the last as it provides a more nuanced tale of what might happen to those inside voices as you get older. This one plays out subtly at first – laying breadcrumbs for the reader to connect dots. Are these people linked in some way? Why are they all seeing the same doctor? Wait, do they live near each other? And finally, as the multiple-personality-penny drops, we get to understand the thing all these ‘people’ have in common. Using days of the week to progress the plot works well, while the sheer number of characters never overwhelms. Once more, an inventive way to use the picture prompt!

WHO SHAT THEIR PANTS? by Edward B, NSW

By the office door,
At Peffer & Co.,
Sat a row of hopefuls,
Raring to go.

A coveted role,
They were there to seek,
It promised remote work,
Two days a week.

Plus, benefits galore,
And a package most generous,
(Though the owner’s reputation,
Was somewhat dubious).

Once applications,
Were signed and dated,
The candidates networked,
While they waited,

They swapped Instas and X's,
And LinkedIn-vitations,
But soon they were faced,
With a grave situation.

For someone amongst them,
Without any warning,
Had unleashed a stench,
That was highly concerning.

Do you know who shat their pants?

Was it the bloke,
That called himself Steve,
Who seemed to be missing,
Half of his sleeves?

No, it couldn't be Steve,
Who'd arrived post-the-crime,
And taken his place,
At the end of the line.

Do you know who shat their pants?

Was it the gentleman,
Whose name was Gerald,
Who’d discovered the ad,
For the job in The Herald?

No, it couldn't be Gerald,
For his pants were pristine,
Besides, the odour,
Was coming from Christine.

Do you know who shat their pants?

Was it Christine,
With guilt on her face,
And both of her hands,
Suspiciously placed?

No, it couldn’t be Christine,
For she fled, quite ashamed,
And the smell lingered on,
For those who remained.

Do you know who shat their pants?

Was it the chap,
With the new Apple Watch?
Perhaps the dookie’s,
Designer was Josh?

No, it couldn't be Josh,
For his cologne was divine,
It was clear that the culprit,
Was farther down the line.

Do you know who shat their pants?

Was it Amanda,
Five coffees deep,
And nervously twitching,
On the edge of her seat?

No, it couldn't be Amanda,
For despite the caffeine,
She'd just returned,
From the café latrine.

Do you know who shat their pants?

Was it Brian, who recoiled,
When Amanda theorised,
That it was him above all,
Who looked least surprised?

No, it couldn't be Brian,
For though it was strong,
He was infected with COVID,
And immune to the pong.

Do you know who shat their pants?

Was it Elaine,
Who’d made not a squeak,
And who seemed quite composed,
In spite of the reek?

No, it couldn't be Elaine,
For they now clearly saw,
That the odour was foulest,
Nearer to the door.

Do you know who shat their pants?

The door burst open,
And clutching his nose,
Came Peter Peffer,
The firm’s CEO.

“WHO SHAT THEIR PANTS?
And if they won’t surrender,
No one shall leave,
‘Till we find the offender!”

The room erupted,
With sidelong glances,
As the entrants assessed,
What was best for their chances.

The applicants pointed,
And charged and blamed,
But still no perp,
Was there to be named.

Then, all of a sudden,
Peffer began to titter,
And said, “In truth,
I know who’s the shitter.”

“It was me, all along,”
He confessed, with a grin,
“Now step inside,
Let the interviews begin!”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Yes, we are going to proudly stand by the fact that 20% of this month’s showcase can be filed under “fart jokes” – because both takes were highly original in their own right. Unlike the earlier game-show story, this piece stands out with its poetic approach to deliver the rhythm, rhyme and repetition of a picture book, juxtaposed with this hilariously pongy plot. Of particular note are the seven pairs of stanzas that litigate this line-up one by one, while the deceptively simple ABCB rhyme scheme is playful and witty throughout. Building off the blank stares of those in the picture, this story deftly balances waiting room drama with a whodunnit (poohdunnit?) comedy to give us a satisfying end to this month’s eclectic collection.

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we include an extra LONGLIST (approx 5-10%) of highly commended stories that stood out from the submitted hundreds and were seriously considered for the showcase. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, take a moment to celebrate! And to ALL who submitted stories, we’d LOVE to see you again for next month’s challenge!

THIS MONTH’S LONGLIST (in no particular order):

• THE NOODLE INCIDENT by K.E. Fleming, NSW
• SEVEN by Dennis Callegari, VIC
• THE LINE UP by Rachel, NSW
• THE DEVIL’S JOB by Jall, India
• THE WAITING ROOM by Simon Tayler, VIC
• PARTICIPANTS WANTED by Margaret Storey, VIC
• CONDITION: USED (AS POSTED ON FACEBOOK MARKETPLACE) by Michelle Oliver, WA
• SEPTEMBER IS DEAD by Ellen Paton, NSW
• MAESTRO by M.R. Lehman Wiens, USA
• THE REMAINING SEVEN by Meredith Kingsley, VIC
• THE PEARLY GATES by Loueen Winters, NSW
• SIX CHARACTERS IN SEARCH OF AN ALIBI by Craig Goddard, VIC
• NO NEED TO BE GRUMPY by Michael T. Schaper, ACT
• BEIGE BEGINNINGS by Carolyn Nicholson, VIC
• SILENT SECONDS by Christie Mack, NSW
• NIRVANA MAÑANA by Nina Miller, USA
• THE CANCELLATION LIST by Rosie Bannerman, SA
• THE STARTUP by Arvind Lee, NSW
• SHALLOW by Joss Cannon, WA
• 1 IN 7 by Olive Moon, NSW
• IN THE PROTAGONIST LINEUP by Ben Angel, Poland
• STILL LIFE by Jo Skinner, QLD
• THE SEVEN by Alan R. Wilson, VIC
• EVIL IKEA by R.M. Levi, ACT
• BRILLIANT MINDS by Daniel McGinley, USA
• TOGETHER by Freya King, QLD
• THE WAITING ROOM by Laura Testa-Reyes, USA
• SERIOUS FACILITATOR LEADING SUPPORT GROUP by E.M. Forest, Canada
• LIKE LAMBS by Greg Schmidt, NSW
• FOR THE ART DEPARTMENT by Lorena Otes, NSW
• MY BADGE by Anne Carpenter, NSW
• MARYSIA KACZMAREK: WITNESS STATEMENTS by Pat Saunders, WA
• FINTON’S FUDGE by Wes Hawkins, WA
• THE WOODEN DOOR by Katie Ess, USA
• LEFT TO RIGHT by Lee McKerracher, NSW
• THE COLLECTOR by Autumn Hooper, USA
• BIRTHDAY SURPRISE by Jenny Baker, VIC
• DREAMS by Leonie Jarrett, VIC
• THE WORST JOB INTERVIEW EVER by Johann Jazmine Perez, Philippines
• PROXIMITORS by Caitlin Mahony, VIC
• MISS SCARLET by Karen Goldrick, VIC
• DESIGN FEEDBACK by Chris Burchett, VIC
• THE 7 ELEVEN 7 by Susie Punter, NSW
• SET IN STONE by Christina Kershaw, UK
• THE EMPTY HUSK by Mark Evered, NSW
• CHRISTMAS ‘84 by Susan Mclaughlin, VIC
• MEET, GREET AND EAT by Miranda Holmes, NSW
• DREAMS by Kate McIntosh, VIC
• WAITING by Paula Benski, USA
• SOUTH WEST SEXUAL HEALTH by Skye Abraham, VIC
• MISFITS by Elizabeth Hicks, NSW
• THE ART OF MINIMALISM by Stephen Lowcock, NSW
• THE LINE-UP by Kalpana Sven, USA

• Each story had to take place UP IN THE AIR. (There were some specific rules, but essentially, stay off the ground.)
• Each story’s first sentence had to include a colour and a number.
• Each story had to include the words DOUBT, PACK and SILENCE. (Certain variations were allowed.)

Most of the time, we’re told to keep our feet on the ground. But to be creative is to be set free – and that’s exactly what hundreds of you were, as you explored the lofty reaches of your imagination this month. Along for the ride were self-doubts (and doubtful actions), backpacks (and packed lunches), golden silences (and gun silencers), a colour-by-numbers pastiche of creativity! (By the way, the most popular colour was RED; favourite number was ONE, closely followed by blue and seven.)

UP, UP AND AWAY!

We encountered some memorable ways that you found to untether yourself from your comfort zone and rise about the familiar. Here were just a few of them:

• PLANES – whether of the commercial kind (many first sentences opting for the seat number!) or a smaller skydiving type, these metal birds featured heavily in stories this month, for obvious reasons! And yes, more than a few characters joined the mile-high club…
• BIRDS AND BEES – speaking of birds, these non-metal birds popped up, often flying in formation (plane-style). A shout out also to bee stories, with some buzzy stories here too.
• BALLOONS – usually of the hot-air variety (and an alarming number of people either falling out of or being pushed from them!), as well as the good old inflatable party variety.
• LEAPS AND BOUNDS – another popular and fun one here saw stories taking place literally mid leap either from a cliff, a building or perhaps in a long or high jump, to name a few. There were even a few figurative leaps that got very clever with the idea! (Jump to conclusions, anyone?)
• SKYDIVING – aaaaand the other thing people leapt from with high frequency this month were those metal birds again, as parachutes rained down from the heavens. None ever made it to the ground though… we wonder why!
• CLOUDS – people ended up in all sorts of clouds, including ones with silver linings and the idiomatic “cloud 9”, with some fun takes on this literal-yet-figurative location.
• SUPERHEROES – frankly, we expected MORE caped crusaders, but the ones we got were memorable and fun, so well done if you donned a suit and saved the day.
• DRAGONS – another flying object that suited the fantasy writers out there, and we were here for it!
• SPACESHIPS – sci-fi writers took to outer space, either as humans exploring new galaxies, aliens discovering ours, or a mix of both!
• HEAVENS ABOVE! – and finally, the Pearly Gates saw a lot of action this month – perhaps the ‘pearly’ colour helping with the first sentence! 

So, now to the showcase stories – and that Top Pick of the month comes from Freya King – congratulations! Freya’s story, along with our shortlist and longlisted stories are all showcased below. Well done to ALL who lifted off the ground to complete this challenge – let’s do it again next month!

AUGUST TOP PICK

LIVE A LITTLE by Freya King, QLD

At 36 years old, Bentley Biggs had no business being upside-down in the air with pink roller-skates bending his legs like baguettes. Yet that is where he found himself. Fortunately, he had also chosen to put on the matching pink knee and elbow-pads, because from his newfound perspective on the world, one thing was clear; this was not going to end well.

To be fair, it didn’t start well, either. We could go back to his job (a banker), to his divorce (non-eventful), or to his predictable daily routine (and extensive spreadsheeting), but right now is not the time for that — suffice to say, in every part of Bentley’s life before this moment, his feet had been planted firmly on the ground.

So how did he get here, spinning mid-air with his knees beside his head, the world moving in slow motion around him, and a pack of kids looking up in surprise?

Bentley blamed his work colleagues. Take a risk, they’d said. Live a little. Nothing changes if you stay the same. So, when Lucy had asked him to try something new for a first date, in an extremely out-of-character moment, he’d said yes. When she’d arrived at the beachfront boulevard with roller-skates for each of them, he’d said yes. And when she’d asked if he’d ever skated before, he’d said yes.

A small slope and a bunch of kids with a scooter ramp, and things had careened out of control just as quickly as he had.

Right now, Bentley wanted to be anywhere else but here. Preferably in his study with his moccasins on his feet, a nice cup of tea and Margaret Catcher (his cat) tucked up on his lap. But the horrified faces of strangers watching him mid-stunt confirmed that he had no right to be in this predicament.

Lucy—the lady he’d set out to woo—was the last thing he saw as his unscheduled backflip brought her into view. She was rolling gracefully down the hill behind him; her face full of fear, her eyes bulging in horror, mouth wide in a silenced scream.

For a moment, Bentley doubted this could even really be happening. And then real-time recommenced and the ground rushed towards him.

I wish I could tell you that Bentley pulled off a stunning landing, impressed Lucy, and went on to embrace a new, care-free way of living, but that would be crossing the line into wishful thinking (and solid ground).

As you can imagine, Bentley—predictable as ever—would have no such luck.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

When we first set this challenge, we liked the idea it would encourage writers not to keep their feet firmly on the ground. And in this delightful story, the alliterative Bentley has managed the very same. Normally a very-much-feet-planted chap, we learn through a trio of affirmations and quickly dismissed backstory how he has ended up in this moment of upside-down reflection, hilariously described from the very first sentence and providing a surprisingly robust character study through all the places he’d rather be. The playful narration throughout (complete with cheeky ‘crossing the line’ reference to breaking the challenge rules) helps this piece roll along nicely. Let’s hope Bentley isn’t put off entirely – after all, his risk paid off with us!

BERTRAM WAS HAVING DOUBTS by Steve Cumper, TAS

‘OK, everyone, settle down, turn to hymn 205, ‘Let there be a Golden light on thee’.

The organ detonated around them.

Bertram startled, his head scrunching into his neck like a turtle avoiding trouble.

Next to him, his mate Gavin had a chortle at his expense.

Whispering out the side of his mouth, ‘You’d think you’d be used to it by now,’ and elbowed Bertam in the ribs for effect.

The trouble was, Bertram was having doubts.

On paper it seemed like a good deal. After a life well lived, take the golden escalator up here, mingle amongst the virtuous and exist forever in a billowing organza-curtained, smudged-lensed, 80’s music video-esque interpretation of Heaven.

After a few weeks of sitting around and learning to recite the hymns, eating healthy food and drinking holy water though, feelings of unfulfillment began to take hold.

After harp practice one day he ventured to the lookout. From this vantage point he could see down to the vast expanse where the Terrestrials lived. They went about messing lots of things up as they regularly do with the occasional flash of goodness being recognised by the Boss and rewarded with an iridescent shaft of light from between the clouds. These moments sent them into a frenzy and they’d probably erect another tourist trap as a result.

Letting out a sigh, he continued scanning morosely and then something unusual caught his eye. Hidden in plain sight was a large red neon arrow over a black pit. He edged closer to peer down.

Directly under the Terrestrials was another level of existence, positively teeming with activity. In astonishment he stared at packs of figures entangled in what looked like a flailing orgy of copulation. Glancing sideways revealed a melee of souls drinking from the shores of an endless sea of foaming beer. He blinked to be met with a vision of characters wallowing joyously in a mire of chocolate fondue. Finally the image that really shocked him. A vast concert, with an audience stretching for thousands of kilometres all directed toward a single stage where what looked like a motionless Ed Sheeran, standing alone and rendered silenced by black gaffer tape across his mouth. The raptures of the crowd were as intoxicating as they were volatile. He’d seen enough and Bertram quickly made his way back to tell his mate of the discovery.

After recounting his revelations to Gavin, they planned to visit the new dimension. One of the only things up here that they shared with the Terrestrials, was a love of bureaucracy and getting all the forms filled in for a visit, even a quick one, was tedious. After much patient resolve, they got the required authority and made their way down to the entrance of the pit.

The bored clerk behind the window, looked at their permits, glanced at them, stamped their papers and in they went. ‘It’s much hotter than it looked’, he thought.

Bertram was having doubts.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Ahhh yes, the classic vision of a harp-plucking heaven, in all its “organza-curtained, smudged-lensed” glory – brought to life here in mundane fashion as we learn that the afterlife might actually be a little dull. Now, this wasn’t the first story set in ‘heaven’ and it won’t be the last, but the ‘cloud is always greener’ detail and hilarious goings-on in the ‘lower dimension’ added a touch of fun here. Also nice was the repeated use of the title line, with a different meaning each time. Let’s hope Bertram secured a return ticket!

FAMILY IS EVERYTHING by Cheryl Lockwood, QLD

One arm is stretched up, the other is red and dangling below me. We sway back and forth. I know that I’m not supposed to let go of my brother, but I start to doubt my ability to hold on. He wears his usual cheeky grin, as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. I know better, but all I can do is return the smile.

That’s how it is with families. It is with ours, at least. We couldn’t do what we do without that level of support. That unwavering, unquestioning, I-got-you-bro attitude. The kind that doesn’t need a discussion or some fancy, multi-syllabled term to explain. A pact hanging in the silence of held breath, but a pact that’s as real a warm hug. Speaking of hanging, if he doesn’t stop swinging like a pendulum, this is going to end in tears. My grip slips a smidgeon, but I don’t drop him. There’s a tenseness in the air and nobody utters a word. Concentration is vital.

His movement slows, his little arm remains firm in the curve of my own. I hazard a glance upward, even though any sudden movement is a risk at this stage.

Above me, another brother grasps my other arm. We look very much alike, all of us clearly from the same mould.

Except he’s yellow, I think to myself.

That’s all it takes…an odd thought… a second of distraction.

We all tumble downward in a pack of plastic limbs. Shiny, hooked tails tangling and catching. Our silly, monkey smiles unchanging as our small, flat bodies hurtle toward the barrel.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We asked for your characters to stay off the ground this month and you all not only had a barrel of fun in doing so, but this story had a ‘barrel of monkeys’! It’s a simple tale, barely using more than half its maximum allowed words, but it makes up for it in a memorable story of brotherly love. Even though the key ‘reveal’ words aren’t used until the final sentence, the descriptions are vivid enough along the way to ensure that you’re likely to have a fixed smile on your face well before!

SIX SECONDS OFF by James Bird, NSW

One Mississippi, two Mississippi… there is a suspension of time as I fall, it slows and slows and slows – the brown blur of the rushing cliffs, but not really moving, just a blur. Falling, falling, falling, time suspended, but wind is rushing through my hair — something is moving. Time slows, but the world doesn’t.

It’s too late for doubt. Doubt implies an opportunity to make a choice, but that opportunity has passed. That opportunity passed as soon as I took that step. At one point, I was standing on solid ground, and then I wasn’t — that’s the choice I made. And so now I am falling.

Gravity does its thing, even if time doesn’t.

Three Mississippi, four Mississippi…

I close my eyes. There’s a silence that fills my brain. The silence is louder than the rushing wind, louder than the scream that I know I should scream but don’t.

This peace, this silence, this rush — the need for it drives me. It is the drug I crave.

I’ve never used LSD, but I guess this is what it must feel like. I don’t need to pay for drugs, I self-source the drug I need, it is my heroin.

Five Mississippi, six Mississippi…

Life doesn’t offer this. Life is too constrained, too contained. One needs to look at life obliquely to understand life — but people don’t understand that, they don’t understand me. Maybe that’s why I made the choice I did.

No one stopped me. No one said, “No, don’t!” And if they had, it would only have furthered my resolve. No, they had just stood there.

And now I am falling.

Seven Mississippi, eight Mississippi…

I watch the ground looming. Just a little longer, just a little longer… I close my eyes… and I pull.

The arrest is violent… but I knew it would be… it always is.

My chute billows above me. Only fifteen seconds before it is over. I turn my chute towards the clearing by the river. Lisa is there. She landed ahead of me. She’s waving, cheering — post-drug euphoria.

I have a few more seconds before I land, and then I must pack my gear and shoot up again.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There were a lot of ‘falling while numbers count down’ structured stories proffered this month, but this stood out, not just because it chose to count UP (how rebellious!), but in the wonderful duality of the language used – equating this feeling of falling with being on drugs. There are some well-crafted observations as our character plummets (“time slows, but the world doesn’t” and the descriptions of silence), as we eventually see where the Mississippis are leading us to. And even though the chute opens, the river appears (the Mississippi River, perhaps?) and reality beckons, the clever wordplay of the final line reminds us how “getting high and coming down again” is rather ambiguous in its language!

ON THREE by Michał Przywara, Canada

“So,” said Grant, glaring at the green linoleum just mere inches below his outstretched toes, “when I said I’m jumping on three–”

“You said, ‘Jump on three!’” Maureen barked from somewhere behind him. “That means everyone!”

“No, I said I’m jumping on three. Just me!”

“Why!? Why would you even count that down? What a friggin’ ego.”

Grant sighed, and then thrashed his arms and legs violently – but it was no use. He could neither move nor spin nor anything. Only by craning his neck could he see the others: Maureen and Nelson, lab coats billowing around them, both suspended mid-air just as he was.

“Why?” said Grant. “Because now we’re stuck.”

Maureen rolled her eyes.

“Hey, on the bright side,” Nelson said. “At least we’ll win the Nobel for this.”

Grant wrenched his neck the other way, and glared at the source of both their success and their misery: a crude metal hemisphere on a ceramic pillar about thirty centimetres high, scarred with wires. Pretty? No. Brilliant? Oh yes. The little device helped them break gravity.

“I don’t doubt it,” Grant muttered. “If we survive.”

“So dramatic,” Maureen snapped. Nelson only winced, clutching his stomach for some reason.

Grant flailed his arms towards the device. Why had he stood so far back from it? Had he really expected it to explode? Well, yes of course, Nelson did the wiring for the auxiliary battery pack. Giving it a wide berth had been wise at the time, and who could have foreseen the consequences? Now, none of them could reach it to turn it off.

“We can call for help,” Grant said. “Anyone have their phone?”

“No phones in the lab,” Maureen quoted from the employee code of conduct; quoted the very passage Grant wrote.

“Right,” Grant said. It seemed like such a wise rule at the time. Espionage was a real threat! Who could have foreseen the consequences? “Well, whatever. We’re physicists! I’m sure we can figure a way out of this.”

“Yeah,” Maureen said, “two physicists and a bureaucrat.”

“Shut up.” He wracked his brain. “Okay, this is easy. If those space monkeys can do it, surely we can too. Newton’s second law: every action has an equal and opposite reaction.”

“Third law,” Maureen said.

“Whatever. The point is, if we expel mass, we can get moving in a zero gravity environment. Maureen, take off your clothes.”

“What!? Hell no.”

“Take one for the team!”

“Absolutely not. Besides, and I quote, ‘Not wearing a lab coat in the lab is a fireable offence.’ Why don’t you take your clothes off?”

“Crippling social anxiety. Besides–”

Just then, Nelson groaned and clutched his stomach again.

“Guys,” he said. “I don’t think that egg salad is sitting right with me.” His guts roiled. “I think I’m about to expel some mass myself.”

Grant and Maureen stared at him in shocked silence.

“Don’t you dare–”

“Don’t worry,” Nelson muttered, unbuckling his belt. “I’ll save us all.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

When we asked you to defy gravity this month, we should have known that one of you would actually create some scientists (sorry, two physicists and a bureaucrat) to do exactly that! And the bumbling, fumbling dialogue-heavy scene that plays out as a result is truly a delight. Wisely choosing to enter the story in the immediate aftermath of this likely Nobel-winning moment (props also to the foreshadow-heavy fun title), we very quickly play catch-up at the hilarious law-breaking lab situation that has unfolded. One of the strengths of this piece is the dialogue, quippy and snarky in all the right places. We’re so used to story scientists being the smartest ones in the room that it is genuinely funny when they’re portrayed in this way. A final shout out to egg salad, which almost never has a chance to save the day.

THE RIGHT WISH by Daniel Clark-Mudge, SA

I am number seventeen-billion-and-twenty-two, but my friends just call me Blue. They call me that because when you crane your neck upward, I shine next to everyone like a little sapphire in a sea of black. There are lots of us up here in the Big Silence. I’ve been here for three million peaceful years so far. Number seventeen-billion-and-seventy-eight, Emerald, used to make fun of me for being picky. But I knew it wasn’t my time yet. No doubt about it. Emerald’s time was yester-orbit. A wish pulled her down, and she shot away in a blur of bright green. She laughed as she left, and turned into a diamond ring when she got to the ground. She was kind of like my big sister, so I miss her. But I’m happy for her.

Lots of wishes have tried to claim me. The wish for the pony, the new job, the whiter smile. They were all pretty good wishes, but I wanted the Right Wish. My neighbours, the Golds, left just a few turns ago. The whole pack of them shot away together, as a family. Their wishes let them stay gold, and they rained down upon a small family who really needed them. I bet they made those people really, really happy. I felt a little pang of jealousy, but I was happy for them too. I knew my time would come.

I felt a familiar little tug at the edges of my light. There was another wish here, trying to claim me. But this one confused me, because it didn’t want me to turn into…anything. I tried to make sense of it – but I thought about it for so long that I didn’t even notice myself slip. And then I was rocketing away. I passed Crimson and Silver, who waved at me with big smiles and yelled ‘finally’. I waved back with a big smile, but I knew that it wasn’t a real one. I was worried. Worried that this strange wish would be a Wrong Wish. I flew past Papa Atmos in an arc, cutting a blue line through the Big Silence. And I still wasn’t transforming.

What was going to happen to me?

And then I felt it. I looked down toward the Globe, and I saw a little girl in a backyard. She had wild, curly brown hair and giant blue eyes. I was reflected in them. They got wider and wider as I shot past, and she jumped up and down, pointing at me. She was yelling something and she looked very, very happy. Like all she had wanted was just to see…me. Blue.

I never transformed. I just flew through the Big Silence like a little sapphire, and the sounds of her cheering followed me the whole way. I smiled. It was a good wish after all.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

First sentences can help a story shine bright in a sea of black ink – and in the case of this story, it was one of the favourite opening sentences of the month. The intrigue that it sets up and this world of wishing upon a star is joyful, as is the eventual wish that we see play out – something as simple as a shooting star. This is one of those flash fiction stories where you can sense there is a whole world full of stories to be told about all of the colours that have come and gone. An imaginative take on this month’s prompts!

THE LAUNDRY LINE GRAPEVINE by R.E. Wu, Canada

There was only one white sock on Mrs. Valentino's clothesline.

“Absolutely slovenly,” declared Hettie Handspun. The view from Mrs. Rousseau's yard over the neighbour's fence was enough to make the jade-hued jumper sniff. “I can't believe she'd stoop so low. Socks wander off from time to time, but did she have to announce her mismanagement to the world? What indecency!”

Sydney and Suzette Stocking crowded closer together on the laundry line.

“Can you imagine?” Suzette whispered. “It's enough to scare the bleach out of you.”

“You know, Suze, we all thought he was the footloose type.”

“Syd, don't be so callous. We're talking about sole mates after all. And no, I don't care if they come in packs of six.”

Oma Overalls rolled her eyes. “You kids keep some distance, would you? Everyone who's been through the rough and tumble knows what happens to lost socks.”

“You do? Maybe you can find Stella's fella then,” Suzette shifted away from Sydney and shivered in the brisk air.

“Not on my life, missy. If you don't know, I'm not going to disillusion you—a few more cycles in the dryer will do it. Now hush up and let me look at those Levi's… It's been ages since I've seen any vintage denim around.”

“I keep telling you you're behind the times, Ma,” Janey Jeggings said. “No wear, no tear, and form-fitting curves are in.”

“That's true indecency, Janey. Hettie's ravings over lost socks are nothing next to that trash.”

“Dry up, Ma.”

“Oh my—do you see that khaki jacket next to Stella? Someone must be visiting. Helloooooo!” Rosie Romper flapped in the breeze, but Mrs. Valentino's wash ignored her. Rosie was known for being all embroidery and little substance.

“Pipe down, Rosie.” Hettie said. “Do you want them to know we're talking about them? Anyways, her son's just back from the front.”

“What's wrong with a little neighbourly curiosity?”

“Nothing, when you've hung all your socks in a row.” Hettie sniffed. “No doubt, they're embarrassed by their glaring display of deficiency. Try a little neighbourly indignation on for size.”

“Oh Hettie, don't get your knitting in a knot.” Rosie sighed. She fluttered her eyelashes at the dignified khaki jacket. She sighed again—a little louder—for good measure.

“Basket case.”

Suzette—who had snuggled back with Sydney while Oma was distracted—let out a squeak. “Someone's at the door!”

A pair of olive-coloured pants, left side pinned neatly at the knee, limped onto Mrs. Valentino's porch. They swung from their crutches with an unfamiliar staccato step.

Silence rippled down the line.

Hettie's voice—threaded with realization—barely cracked a whisper. “Oh—I'm… I’m so sorry.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There was something about this month’s assignment that brought out the inanimate characters! And this airing of dirty laundry is a delightfully funny line-up of word-play and gossip, as one side of the fence casts judgement on the other to hilarious effect. The opening line is so innocuous but somehow dripping with scandal and while we wouldn’t have pegged a story like this as getting down and dirty, it did just that – no doubt with more puns up its sleeve that it had to edit out! Yet again, another fun take on staying off the ground (we’d definitely call this ‘dry humour’), and proof that almost anything can be a flash fiction character!

THE GHOST IN ME by Rachel Howden, NSW

The nurse below marks the date in her blue ballpoint pen, two straight lines forming a stoic eleven in the relevant column.

That means it’s been seven whole days since I died.

Officially, my condition is ‘comatose’. It’s written right there at the top of the chart. The nurse has added things like heart rate and skin temperature underneath, but it’s hard to tell the specifics in her scratchy handwriting.

But from here, I can see my body lying still in the hospital bed. Eyes closed tight, no sign of life. The tube system is itching through my nose. My mother ruffled my hair yesterday before pushing it off my face. I could feel each teardrop on my skin as she pressed a kiss to my forehead.

A week ago, nurses and staff packed into this room, stumbling over each other to get me breathing again. The metal paddles were cold as ice, frigid on my chest. It was the strangest sensation to witness my body surging through each shock, every zap of voltage hurtling down my veins as my consciousness hovered near the ceiling.

Today, visiting hours are quiet. My wife has left the children at home. She’s slumped in the chair alongside my cot, fingers trembling in her lap. She still looks so beautiful, even though I can see how tired she is. How deep the purple stains are under her eyes, how grief has formed permanent tracks of tears down each of her pale cheeks.

I hate this kind of silence. I don’t want her to mourn me like this. I’ve tried screaming, but she cannot hear my cries; no one can feel my touch. It’s only the slow and steady beep of my heart on the monitor that fills this sterile place. Occasionally, a quiet sob breaks the quiet, muffled by the press of my wife’s hand.

There’s no doubt that she’ll return tomorrow. Another fresh bouquet of flowers will replace the wilting petals on the side table. A new card from an extended family member or grieving colleague will be added to the collection: ‘Get Well Soon’.

She’ll sit by my lifeless body and hold my hand, rubbing her thumb slowly over my knuckles. I can still feel it lingering, the ghost of a touch on skin my mind no longer inhabits. I wish I could squeeze her fingers back, a promise that everything will be okay.

But there’s no way to tell her I’m never coming home.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

While there were a lot of comedic offerings this month, this story stood out for its poignant, hovering, quiet observations. Choosing someone in limbo – almost a ghost – as the way to stay off solid ground was a very clever idea, and it also allows the story to unfold in a unique way as the narrator is both unconscious and fully aware of what is happening (mirroring what some say a coma is like). The language is powerful (“every zap of voltage hurtling down my veins”) and the tone subverts where these stories often go – by offering no hope of waking. There is something powerful about this POV (‘dead yet not dead’), no doubt very raw for anyone who has ever sat at a loved ones bedside hoping for recovery. Powerful, beautifully-paced storytelling.

AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT by Garry Poole, VIC

“How is it possible to lose three elves AND a reindeer with a glowing red nose? I can’t believe this Garry. You’ve really dropped the ball on this one.”

Garry gulped.

“We run a dry workplace. You know that. What were you thinking? Seriously, I really want to know. WHAT on God’s green earth were you thinking when you decided to serve alcohol to a factory full of exhausted elves just gagging to let off steam? WERE you thinking? Or were you busy chasing skirt?”

Garry gulped again.

“What in the clusterf__ing cumulus clouds WERE you thinking Gaz? A dry workplace. Dry! That applies to end of year celebrations just as much as the factory floor. DRY GARRY! When we get these joy-riding staff back – and we WILL get them back – you’re going to tender your resignation and give a detailed account of how you let this happen. And I’D BETTER LIKE IT, or so help me… I’ll drag you feet first through that court system till your curly shoes come out your nose with a big fat wallet full of cash.”

Garry cringed. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that Santa had been paying them in NFTs for the past four years. There was no cash left. Heaven help St Nick if Mary ever found out her share of the factory stocks had been used to pay the grain suppliers and the construction crew who shored up the sinking foundations last year.

“Mary, I swear. Someone spiked the punch. I had nothing to do with it.”

Garry couldn’t bring himself to tell Mary it had been her own inebriated husband who had added the magic mushrooms. It happened every year. Santa swore he’d flush the beer and eggnog at each child’s house and forego the milk and cookies… but he always partook. His self-discipline was non-existent. Afterall, it was only once a year.

But of course he’d return in the jolliest of moods and encourage the elves to partake too. Every year the celebrations got bigger. Every year the elves took the rap. Every year Mary shouted louder… until the ‘incident’ with the LSD, the crashed sleigh, and Santa’s amputated pinky-toe culminated in a total alcohol and drug ban.

And for five years it had worked.

But now Santa was snoring naked in the stables, the sleigh was totalled again, and three elves and one reindeer – the most important of reindeers – were missing in the storm.

“Rudolph… M-i-i-i-i-KEY”

“Oona… ROSHAN!!!”

Garry’s voice was failing him. Mary’s would shortly pack it in too.

“On Donner, on.”

Garry’s tailbone was on fire. He was too old to be riding a flying reindeer. And too drunk. WAY too drunk.

“You okay Mary?”

Mary grimaced in silence. It was also many years since she had ridden.

“I’m not angry,” she finally said in a worryingly calm voice. “Just disappointed.”

Garry didn’t doubt it, but he had bigger things to worry about. He’d just spotted the Sharknado on the horizon.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

Well, here’s a complete change of pace and one of the only stories to think of Santa being the ideal “off the ground” subject for a story! In this case however, Santa appears to be more “off his face” than anything, as we get a great opening line and join his long-suffering wife Mary and head-elf Garry searching in a snowstorm (on flying reindeer) for missing members of their crew. There’s not much more to be said here than it being a highly original and chaotic take on the pressures and toll that this once-a-year job must put on the residents of the North Pole. Flash fiction that stands out sometimes earns a spot in the showcase, and this cacophonous piece did just that!

LAST DANCE by Annie B. Fulton, USA

There was never any doubt when we first met last spring, when I was young and green and drunk on chlorophyll, that I would one day pack up and leave you like this. So watch me now as I exit autumn’s pageant all dressed up in red and gold. Watch me as I drift in silence past your window twirling in the breeze, spinning pirouettes to make you smile, offering you melancholy as I go.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Do not adjust your sets. This is indeed the ‘last dance’ of our showcase this month – and a valid entry! At just 75 words, it certainly is the shortest we’ve featured in some time (although check the longlist below for a new record shortest story). However, the way that this piece managed to deftly work in the prompts and tick all the boxes while creating an emotional autumnal love story WAS impressive. It will especially appeal to those in the Northern Hemisphere who are indeed about to say a wistful goodbye to those leaves once “drunk on chlorophyll” as summer is replaced by pumpkin spice lattes. The use of “leave you” is storytelling gold (and red). Okay, we’re going to stop, as these comments are already almost twice as long as the story!

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we include an extra LONGLIST (approx 5-10%) of stories that floated a little higher from the submitted hundreds and were highly considered for the showcase. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, enjoy a moment of weightlessness! And to ALL who submitted stories, we’d LOVE to see you again for next month’s challenge!

THIS MONTH’S LONGLIST (in no particular order):

• GRAVITY by Amanda Hayes, QLD
• THE VOID by Isaac Freeman, SA
• SEVEN WHITE BALLOONS by Matthew Dewar, WA – our shortest ever longlisted story at just 12 words!
• A HIGH(ISH) JUMP by A. Dean, Switzerland
• HOW HIGH? By Maria Lacey, VIC
• THE WINNERS by Larissa Mateer, SA
• ATMOSFEAR by Kenneth Mann, UK
• VERTICAL THINKING by J.L. McInnes, QLD
• JUGGLING FROM A HIGH HORSE ON CLOUD NINE by Nina Miller, USA
• THE BIRTHDAY PARTY by M C, VIC
• THE CRIMSON ANACONDA by Bari Lynn Hein, USA
• 10 SECOND FALL by Elizabeth Snowden, VIC
• FOR THE TERM OF HIS ARTIFICIAL LIFE by Chatty McChatbot, VIC
• UP IN THE AIR by Pam Lonsdale, USA
• THE LAST SONG by Carolyn Nicholson, VIC
• SCOURGE OF ANGELS by Randy Stearns, USA
• THE OTHER SIDE by Jo Skinner, QLD
• SKYDIVING THRILL by Christie Mack, NSW
• THE DOCTOR’S DELIVERY by Kimberley Ivory, NSW
• INVERTED by Dead Carcosa, USA
• ON THE LOOKOUT by Ella Schrapel, SA
• ON WINGS OF AMBITION by S.L. Jones, NSW
• EVERGONE by Paul Parker III, USA
• THE NOMAD by Hashinee Weraduwage, VIC
• CHEATING DEATH by Ryan Klemek, USA
• A WORSE PUNISHMENT FOR MURDER by Michelle Oliver, WA
• JONATHON DYINGSTONE SEAGULL by Tessa McCarthy, QLD
• UP IN THE AIR TO A SURE THING by Ray Webb, Canada
• THE OTHER SIDE OF THE GLASS by Maddison Scott, VIC
• PISCES by Estelle Owen, QLD
• REMAINING THOUGHTS by Jemima Dunn, VIC
• THE DUELISTS by Seth Geltman, USA
• WHAT WE LOSE ON THE SWINGS by Pam Makin, SA
• TIME by Mo McMorrow, NSW
• RESCUE IN THE AIR by Kath Undy, VIC
• CHANGING TIMES by Elizabeth Gonzalez, VIC
• THE SEVEN SIDES OF SPOTLIGHT by Sam Loran, Canada
• WILLIAM WORDSWORTH by Janine Mifsud, VIC
• AN EXTRA CLEAN by Katie Ess, USA
• FRIGHT PATH by Michelle Dickins, VIC
• AIR BORN by Tim O Tee, UK
• FREE FALL by Gwenda Steff, VIC
• THE FEROCIOUS FLIGHT OF SQUADRON GREEN-42 by Danielle Baldock, NSW
• THE CARTOGRAPHER by Alex Atkins, Canada
• PRETTY, GREEN-EYED GIRLS by Yolanda Aay, QLD
• FLOATING INTO THE FUTURE by Jajoda, QLD
• OUT? By Nnor, SA
• TRUE COLOURS by Athena Law, QLD
• AERIAL CONFIGURATIONS by Renée Bennett, Canada
• FRIENDS AND SUPERHEROES by Denise Fenton, UK

• Your story must take place at a sporting/competitive event. 
• Your story must include something shaking.
• Your story must include the words GOLD, GREEN and GLOBE. (Certain variations were allowed.)

On the doorstep of the 2024 Olympics, we thought we’d be awash with gold medals stories. And, okay, we WERE. But we also loved the weird and wonderful array of other competitive events and sports that emerged – many showcased below. Competitors shook hands or simply found themselves shaking in anticipation, while donning the good old ‘green and gold’ and being ‘best in the globe’!

GOING FOR GOLD

Sporting competitions are often full of drama, action, comedy, tragedy, horror – even romance. Basically, they’re your perfect story vehicle! And as we said, we loved seeing the variety of events you came up with this month. These included:

• Olympic events – often on a track or in a roaring stadium. Sometimes the protagonist was the athlete, but not always – with one of our showcased stories below providing a good example!
• School sports days – another popular venue. And we loved that many stories were told clearly based on a true story as that child yourself or as a proud parent (or teacher) watching on the sidelines. 
• Country fairs – bring forth your flowers, cakes and giant pumpkins! There is something about a country fair that just lends itself not only to great stories, but also longer than average story titles (you know who you are).
• Animal races – from the relatively normal horse and dog races to crab racing, frogs, turtles, snails and cockroaches, to name but a few. It made for entertaining viewing, on the most part!
• Eating competitions – we were secretly hoping for some ‘Stand By Me’-style stories of eating challenges. And you delivered, with hot dogs, pies and even watermelons among others.
• Pub Quiz/Trivia nights – who doesn’t love a competition that you can get better at with beer? And we had a bunch of tiebreaking, tip-of-the-tongue tales this month, including one showcased below!
• Sports, duh – And yes, of course you had every other sport imaginable, from football (all codes) to golf, tennis, baseball, basketball and so on! And if you picked something obscure to highlight, nice work – we are now suitably more enlightened than we were a month ago!

So, now to the showcase stories – including our Top Pick of the month from Lena Jensen (congrats!). Lena’s story, along with our shortlist and longlisted stories are all showcased below. Well done to ALL who completed the challenge (we’ve made a giant podium, so come on up) – let’s do it again next month!

JULY TOP PICK

IN THE BLOOD by Lena Jensen, SA

It’s in your blood. That’s the thing about your team. It’s more than just the players. More than the roar of the crowd or the kicking of a ball.

It’s the smell of crushed grass. The sun setting in golden flares behind the goal posts. The tension when the opposition intercepts the ball, and the collective sigh of relief as it soars into the cloudless sky, beyond the posts. The moment your team scores and everyone’s up off their seats.

It’s the atmosphere in the clubroom after, where Teddy the barman pours pint after pint of frothy beer to help us celebrate or commiserate.

‘What do you want to do on your big day Dad?’ my son asked. ‘Maybe we should have a party?’

Strange thing, family. You think they know you, and then they come out with something like that.

‘There’s a new Thai restaurant in town,’ my daughter said. ‘Maybe we could grab a bite to eat there?’

Thai restaurant! Give me a steaming pie smothered in sauce any day.

‘There’s only one thing I’ll be doing next Saturday,’ I told them.

‘Ok,’ they said, rolling their eyes.

It’s a strange thing, family.

Mine is here, in the members’ stand.

Our club isn’t the swankiest. The wooden benches give you splinters, the grandstand’s roof leaks. The rickety old scoreboard needs a volunteer to stand in blazing sun or pelting rain and hang numbers on hooks.

But it’s ours.

And there’s nothing quite like game day.

I take my place in my designated seat, watching people heading for the stands or spreading picnic blankets on the grassy banks. The smell of frying onions wafts over. Kids line up to buy popcorn.

It’s getting emptier by the day here in the members’ stand. One by one, my friends are dropping off.

But I’m still here.

It’s a tense game, but our team wins by ten points. Pride swells my chest.

The players leave the field, their green guernseys spattered with mud.

I head inside to the clubroom. There’s nothing quite like this place. The sweeping vista over the oval. The trophies in glass cabinets. On the walls, photos of teams throughout the years, from sepia to blazing colour. Smells of polish and leather.

There’s a dusty old globe on a metal filing cabinet in the corner. Someone’s stuck a thumbtack into it, in the vicinity of this place. Our little town, on the map.

I’m at the bar about to order a pint when a tinny voice comes over the loudspeaker. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, before you leave, I’ve got a very special announcement.’

Teddy nudges me and points towards the scoreboard.

Letters spelling ‘Happy birthday Joe’ hang from the hooks.

It takes me a moment.

Joe. My name.

The announcer’s speaking again. ‘Today is Joe’s seventieth birthday. And he’s chosen to spend it here, with us.’

Everyone looks towards the clubroom.

I raise my hand, trying to stop it from shaking.

Everyone cheers.

Like I said, it’s in your blood.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Well, someone get a guernsey and drape it around this piece – part mantra, part manifesto, part LOVE LETTER to a sporting fan’s home club. The pacing is wonderful throughout this tale of a dad who can’t understand why you’d want to be anywhere other than in the stands – where your REAL family (ouch) are – eating a meat pie with sauce. “Strange thing, family” sums up this delightful disconnect. Then, as the story unfolds, further layers appear – showing all he has weathered (literally) in the members stand and a poignant hint that times are changing. The final part dispenses with the generics to take us into the post-match clubroom, to celebrate with Joe in the only way he’d want. And while the clues show this story as a fan of AFL, it could so easily be any other sport. Wonderfully told – with beautiful bookend repetition to close it out.

THE SHOT CALLER by Isaac Freeman, SA

For the past 40 years, he has seen winners, losers and the often-forgotten few in between.

He’s cast his eyes on countless colours, from local clubs, to state teams up to the coveted gold and greens.

He’s heard the booming roars of crowds after their eerie silences from around the globe.

He’s watched the kids begging for autographs grow up to sign their pictures.

He’s constantly surrounded by water but barely drenched, only splattered on occasion by the break in its tension.

The lines and tiles of pools from around the world are etched into his memory, as are the faces of victory, loss, determination, pain, joy and anxiety.

He knows how fast swimming can be and he knows how gruelling swimming can be. Yet he doesn’t let anyone know what he is feeling.

He’s the one that gives them their shot.

Recognised only by his peers but not by his unknowing disciples he has remained invisible for the duration of his career – but his family always points out when they see him on TV.

As he enters the aquatic centre and passes reception he sees the luminous stretch of glassy water before him.

His nostrils ignore the chlorine that courses through him and he surveys the pool.

He dips a finger into the cartoon-like blue to feel it.

Cold – but not enough for one to complain about.

He cranes his head as he follows the tightly stretched lane ropes across the 50m lanes.

He wonders how they do it. For hours on end. The relentless back and forth, the strokes that must become monotonously automatic. He certainly couldn’t stand being in the water for hours on end – he always preferred to be out of it, but now he looks to be nowhere near it.

His time has come.

It’s the state titles.

The last event for the year and the last event for his career.

As the crowd begins to gather, the anticipation buzzes and the fit, stone-faced pursuers of glory begin to run through their warm-ups.

After a briefing of the races and responsibilities, it’s time to kick off the night.

100m sprint. First heat.

He surveys those who have entered his arena. Some are familiar. Some are not.

They mount the blocks at the blow of the whistle.

He ensures that they are all in position and focuses on their forms.

They are ready to pounce, like an animal seeking prey, deathly still with eyes that only look forward.

All except for one.

A newbie. First state titles he presumes.

She’s shaking, full of nerves, scared of what results may or may not lay ahead of her.

She catches herself.

She takes a deep breath in and a slow breath out.

She is still.

She is ready.

He is ready.

He raises the starter gun.

Bang.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There are a few things we loved about this story. For starters (excuse the pun), it’s the way that the third person POV is applied throughout – a nameless character who you grow to realise through short insightful statements is that unsung hero at every competition, the extra in others’ stories finally getting a spotlight of his own. It unfolds as part mystery, part homage in telling you who “he” is – and the decision to keep them nameless is a tribute to all those who do such jobs. Adding the fresh-faced “she” in near the end provides a lovely counterpoint to finish (appropriately) with a bang.

AND THE WINNER IS… by Teri M Brown, USA

Hot. That's how I would describe it. Hot, sticky, sweaty.

Perfect weather for a watermelon eating contest.

A globe of ice cold watermelon still dripping with perspiration as the knife slices through the green rind down to the table.

Ahhh, the redness. So juicy. So cold. So good.

The rules are easy. First one to finish the slice of watermelon wins. With just one hitch. Hands behind your back.

Simple, but only if you are willing to let that juice run everywhere – down your shirt, into your hair, even up your nose if you have to.

I look closely at my competition.

Mary Danner. School teacher. Her “kids” are cheering her on. Sweet smile. Nice dress. She has the cheering section but her desire for the gold medal won't be strong enough to let that dress get sticky, drawing flies for the rest of the afternoon. So, I smile and say, “Pretty dress.” She blushes. One down.

“Bubba” Johnson. Big and burly. Mouth the size of California. He's got the drive, the desire. But not the finesse needed to eat that dainty slice of watermelon without dropping it in the dirt at his feet. So, I give him a sideways glance, look down at the ground, shake my head, and grin. His shoulders sag, just a bit, but enough that I know he knows. Two down.

George Alberts. The barber. Small, compact, and can move like lightning. No doubt he could win a race using his legs. But there is the issue of that gap. Missing tooth. Lost it last week. Still waiting for the dentist to fix it up. Nope, not enough teeth up front to really dig in. “How's the tooth, George.” He grimaces, a shiver shaking his shoulders as he realizes he still has some pain. Three down.

Last, but not least, Robert Mills. Bobby. Born here. Same as his daddy and his daddy before him. Been the watermelon eating champ for the last 15 years when he finally took the title from his daddy who took it from his daddy who probably took it from his daddy. I think he must practice all year, at least all summer. All his teeth. Finesse. No worries about his shirt or even dirt if need be. I look over at him. I have nothing to say. No looks to give. He just smiles. Four down.

Second place won't be so bad. I mean, how can you lose eating watermelon on a hot day?

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Stories like this are deliciously fun when they size up the competition and introduce each one by one. That’s the case here, as our unnamed narrator faces off against fellow watermelon warriors. With observations that include “mouth the size of California”, our seed-spitting contender goes along the line finding weaknesses in each until coming up short with the generational dynasty that is Bobby with all his teeth. Not a lot of watermelon eating competitions happening in Australia in July, but hey, that’s what makes this a global creative challenge, and the American-ness of this drips onto dresses and into the dirt.

BOLD AS GOLD by Carolyn Nicholson, VIC

I give myself a mental slap for agreeing to compete in the anchor event. If I’d known the day’s competition would all come down to the final race, I would never’ve put myself in this position. But here I am. Ready to step up to my starting mark. Ready to put it all on the line. Because losing is not an option.

Not today.

Today, my family needs a win and it’s up to me to give them one.

The crowd is growing restless, their excitement fuels my nerves. The blood in my legs turns to jelly. My throat is a desert. I want to be anywhere but here. I jump on the spot a few times and shake out my arms, willing my legs to stay strong, to do their job, to get me across the finish line first.

You’ve got this.

Risking a glance to my right, I watch as the crowd favourite performs a series of unnecessary stretches before waving to her teammates, gathered together at the sidelines, ready to cheer her on.

‘Green team is the dream team,’ one of them starts chanting and soon the others join in. My rival bows dramatically towards the crowd before stepping onto the track. I force myself to look away.

You’ve got this.

‘Be bold like gold,’ a group dressed in an array of yellow T-shirts yells, loud enough to be heard over green team’s chanting. Two women, wearing pigtails tied with yellow ribbons, wave yellow pom poms in the air.

You’ve got this.

I look down at my faded yellow T-shirt and heavily scuffed sneakers. There’s nothing about me that screams bold. My jelly legs return. The excitement, and the noise build as the starter takes their position.

There’s no escaping now. I have to see this through.

You’ve got this.

Then I hear it. My reason for being here. My reason for being, period. Cutting through the noise, I hear him say the words I’ve been repeating to myself since I stepped onto the track, only this time I hear the truth in them.

‘You’ve got this, Mum!’

My head turns and I see Ryan, leaning against his father’s legs, wearing a yellow Bluey T-shirt and waving frantically, his grin wider than the mighty Murray River. He looks full of life in this moment. I wish with all my heart that was true.

I lift my gaze to Ryan’s bald head and smile. Earlier today, his older sister sprayed his upper body with gold body paint. Katie said he looked like a walking Golden Globe trophy. Ryan didn’t understand the reference, but he’d laughed along with her. Katie always knew how to lighten the mood at home.

My view of Ryan is momentarily blocked as something metallic is placed in my hand.

‘On your marks,’ the starter calls.

I get into position.

‘Get set.’

I look across at Ryan.

‘Go!’

I glance down at the egg, balanced precariously in my spoon, and run.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Parents of the world unite! The stakes appear sky high at first – the pep talk to herself and the deft repetition of ‘you’ve got this’ paving the way for whatever global domination surely awaits. The tribal colours of a sports day – very real if you’ve ever experienced the chants and mania – are brought to life here in authentic tones. And even when the story takes the smallest of detours to hint at Ryan and his bald head, it never dwells on it (as in life), with the action building to its climax. Ultimately, the stakes turn out to be only as high as an egg in a spoon, but you’ve read enough to know that it means so much more to this particular family.

LIFE IN THE (NOT SO) FAST LANE by Fiona J. Kemp, NSW

Welcome to the third annual Muddy Pub’s professional snail racing tournament.

Our competitors are vying for the much coveted Slow Globe Championship trophy. The highlight of the night is about to begin with the colourfully painted competitors raring to go on the starting line.

Ready, set, slime!

Green Goblin is off the mark early, I wouldn’t expect anything less from last year’s winner. He is inching away from his closest rivals, Blue Bunyip and Red Rover.

Oh, no, Golden Goose is already going off track and up the barrier wall. Is this a sneaky strategy or is this going to end in tragedy?

Pink Panther has crossed lanes and has started to crawl on top of Blue Bunyip, slowing him down from his already slow pace. I will check in with judges to see if Pink Panther hitching a ride on Blue Bunyip is allowed…. The judges has given me a nod, they’re going to allow it.

Silver Slimer is still at the starting line, looks like he’s not going anywhere soon, will he even finish the race? Only a lot of time will tell.

Just a quick announcement, table fifty-five your schnities are ready to be picked up from the counter bar.

And we are back to the action, Green Goblin is still in the lead folks, looks like he’s going to go all the way, but can Red Rover and Pink Panther, still piggybacking on Blue Bunyip, catch up as we hit the halfway mark?

It’s a tense competition as owners and spectators encourage their racers from the sidelines of the packed pool room. Tens of dollars are being bet on favourites, with bragging rights for the winner of tonight’s competition plus fifty dollars club cash.

Hold on, is that Black Bandit finally making a move, hot on Green Goblin’s snail trail? Will the odds-on favourite take the lead from last year’s champion?

Black bandit is moving fast-ish, the judges might have to drug test him if he wins from so far behind.

Golden Goose is now going sideways in the opposite direction, back towards the start line.

But wait, what is this? It appears that Silver Slimer is an imposter! Yes, the snail still at the start line is in fact a slug wearing a shell. And the crowd is booing as his owner leaves in shame to buy another beer at the bar, leaving his snail-in-disguise naked on the track.

The judges are shaking their heads, instant disqualification.

Nearing the finish line, Red Rover is celebrating early doing donuts in his lane, but Pink Panther is making his move, sliding off Blue Bunyip, who retreats inside of his shell.

Will Green Goblin retain his crown or will Black Bandit or Pink Panther be the new champion?

The crowd is going wild. Three centimetres to go, two… one.

We have a winner!

Green Goblin retains his crown and takes the title of Muddy Pub’s Slow Globe Champion with a speedy time of one hour, sixteen seconds.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Playing out as one long narration across the loudspeaker, you cannot help but get ready, get set and slime your way through this wave of commentary about Muddy Pub’s world famous snail race. With alliterative names like Green Goblin (the champ), Black Bandit, Pink Panther, Golden Goose, Blue Bunyip and more lining/sliming up, the action plays out like a 100m dash. Yet with side announcements of chicken schnities and other meandering controversies along the way, the final reveal of one hour makes complete sense. For anyone who has spent time in an outback Aussie pub, this one won’t feel like fiction at all – it slowly (very slowly) grows on you!

COMPETITIVE EATING by Ryan Klemek, USA

Returning champion Brad LaStatte shakes the last drops of blood into his mouth, then tosses the dehydrated husk onto the pile of corpses in front of the stage. The scoreboard clicks to “12.”

“And with that, LaStatte now leads by three,” the announcer says. “If Bacula and Spike have any prayer of catching him, they're going to have to dig deep.”

“So far, Bacula has been a disappointment,” the color commentator says. “I expected more from him after his gold medal win at the Transylvania Cup.”

“Well, there's still 45 minutes left, so let's not count him out yet.”

The cage door opens, and another groggy human is escorted to the empty trough in front of LaStatte.

“Oh, he's a big fella,” the commentator says. “This might slow the champ down.”

As they remove the human's leash, he wriggles free from his escorts' grasp. He snaps a leg off an empty chair and drives the splintered end into LaStatte's chest, turning the athlete into a cloud of green dust.

The crowd gasps as the would-be snack is restrained and dragged off the stage.

“Looks like another human has built up a resistance to the sedative,” the commentator says. “The same thing happened last year and it wasn't pretty.”

The announcer shakes his head. “Security has got to be better at these events. Fans are tuning in from all over the globe. They don't want to see something like this.”

“I'll say one thing. Anyone who thinks competitive eating isn't a contact sport has never watched the World Championships.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

More competitive eating and commentating here, but this time WE are on the menu, with a matter-of-fact efficiency of someone eating hotdogs or watermelons. The subversion of this usual type of competition is deliciously devious in this silly but engaging live event. But wait, what’s this? The food is fighting back! All is not well in Transylvania, and this could be Bacula and Spike’s year after all. Let’s just call this ‘biting satire’ and leave it at that…

LIKE MOTHER USED TO MAKE by Adrienne Farago, NSW

The jitters have not yet settled at the Easter Show and even the marquee flaps nervously, never mind its occupants. The biggest cake competition since COVID is about to commence, and the revered Mrs Vanderpool, her name spoken only in hushed tones, is Presiding Judge.

Mrs Vanderpool marches through the entrance into last minute flurries of panic disguised as welcome. She draws her rectangular frame in its well packed suit up to its full 154 cm and glares at the world in general for not being as ordered as she would like. The coveted green and gold badge sitting on her left lapel is no longer needed for everyone to know her name and illustrious title – and that she is very much in charge. Her entourage, including her two fellow judges, are rendered almost invisible by her magnificence, thus making it unnecessary to describe them to you, dear reader.

Mrs Vanderpool puts out her hand without looking, knowing that a clipboard will be placed in it, and starts her inspection, drawing all in her wake. They slowly pass the cream cakes table. She sees confection after concoction, each one more elaborate, dreamlike and unbelievable than the last. Mrs Vanderpool draws in a short sharp breath and scribbles furiously, frowning. Her fellow judges now know what they, too, must write.

Mrs Vanderpool is not happy.

The next table contains jelly sculptures. She sees through their insubstantial, illusory fictions; despite their coloured layers representing so many hopes and yearnings. They shake in a genteel manner as the multitudes pass by and the marquee floor flexes. Mrs Vanderpool sighs heavily and scribbles furiously, her eyebrows drawn together across the bridge of her nose.

Mrs Vanderpool is not happy.

Members of the entourage cast anxious glances at one another.

Hope rises in Mrs Vanderpool’s chest as they approach the sponge cake table. A sponge cake is believable. It is real. It is weighty, in the metaphysical sense.

But she is doomed to disappointment. Before her she sees castles, trucks, and a cat. There are blocky buildings and funky flowers. There is even a globe with approximate continents set in seas and oceans of blue icing. Mrs Vanderpool scribbles furiously, her lips tight.

Mrs Vanderpool is not happy.

Eyes flicker and the sound of muttering amongst the retinue increases as they proceed to the lamington table. If the previous wonders failed to charm, how can the humble lamington possibly compete?

The table is set with numbered plates each containing perfect, identically sized rectangles. Chocolate-covered, coconut-sprinkled, the self-effacing lamington is doomed to be eclipsed by the other more worldly categories.

But Mrs Vanderpool stops dead. Her shoulders relax. She reaches out a finger and presses it onto an errant coconut shred which she brings to her mouth. Her eyes soften and grow dreamy. Her little audience, open-mouthed, sees her, back in her secure and ordered childhood, a loving and loved mother presenting her with an after-school plate of perfect lamingtons.

Mrs Vanderpool is happy.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There’s definitely an air of the Queen from Bridgerton searching for her latest diamond in the kind of entrance that Mrs Vanderpool makes. (Likely thanks to the cheeky choice to address us as ‘dear reader’ in getting around side character descriptions!) Or is it Trunchbull from Matilda? Whatever the case, the scene is boldly set for this Easter Showdown – as we are treated to a succession of ‘not happy’ responses before the least likely plate of all unlocks that sixth sense – nostalgia. A fun cake-show story that beat out similar ones for its strong main character and unexpected end. For who, dear reader, doesn’t long for a taste of home that you can whistle down in seconds?

SURVIVOR: PLOTTERS VERSUS PANTSERS by Rananda Rich, NSW

Thousands of writers from around the globe tune in to watch the final stages of “Survivor: Plotters Versus Pantsers”.

The host, Jeff Prose, addresses the final five scribbling contestants.

“Congratulations, Penn, on winning the anagram challenge. You have immunity from rejection in the next round of submissions and you’re through to the final four.”

Penn catches Paige’s eye. As one of the original plotters, Penn is sticking to the voting plan and trusts Paige and Reid will do the same. She knows Quill and Astoria fly by the seats of their pants and can’t be trusted.

However, in a shocking plot twist, Paige is eliminated and the remaining four contestants head back to the writing retreat on the shores of the inky black sea.

The next day, the writing contestants compete in the final immunity challenge. It’s a novel three-round mental obstacle course requiring them to solve a Wordle, create a 30-word story using the word “pyrite” and take part in a spelling bee.

Reid is completely green when it comes to 30-word stories, but Penn is grateful for years of practice on TwiXter and gets through to the final spelling round against Astoria. She clinches the win when she correctly spells the Australian version of “logorrhoea”. When they get back to their writing retreat, a crushed Astoria tells Penn to stop going on about it.

The afternoon is punctuated by tense whispers as the writers connive to write and rewrite their collective next move. Later, at tribal council, a ruffled Quill gets shafted and leaves the game.

Penn, Astoria and Reid have one last day to work on their manuscripts, polish their submissions and refine their pitches for the final.

The next evening, publishers, editors, authors, and wannabe writers tune in for the season finale. Writing groups, bookshops and libraries put on wine and cheese events. Everyone wants to know who will become the next bestseller.

On the panel, Harper and Colin sit together. Hatchet looks ready to cut down anyone who fluffs around and Alan Unwin is whispering furtively with P MacMillan.

The final pitch proceedings commence.

Penn’s voice shakes as she explains her writing background, but her voice is true and clear as she reads her first three chapters aloud. Everyone delivers a tight professional synopsis, showing their strength of characters, while highlighting their verse-tility and large social media followings.

The three finalists creatively answer questions about how they out-wrote, out-ideated and outlasted their competitors.

Writing TV ratings have never been higher. Whatever the outcome, the show has been a literary success.

Meanwhile, Penn feels torn. The writing community is always so strong. Her biggest competitors are also her greatest support network. However, this publishing contract will be her golden ticket to literary success.

Even before they announce the results, Penn realises she has won anyway. Just taking part in Survivor: Plotters Versus Pantsers has been her own hero’s journey. Whatever happens, Penn’s story is already out in the world.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

If you’re a fan of the Survivor format (or any elimination reality show really) and love yourself a good writing pun, this may just be the story for you. And trust us when we say that usually writing about a writing competition IN a writing competition won’t win you any favours from the judges. But there’s enough faithful attention to detail here and plenty of genuine laughs to deliver something fresh, against all odds. Does it ride on the coattails of existing IP Survivor? Absolutely! But what a fun ride it is. If only getting immunity from rejection as a writer was a real thing to win…

THE ROYAL by Bethea Donoghue, VIC

I catch the bartender’s eye and twitch my index finger. He nods, almost indiscernible as he reaches for a clean glass with one hand, the XXX Gold tap with the other. He’s good this new bloke.

Alrighty folks, final round for the night: One hit wonders from around the globe.

The host holds the microphone so close to his mouth, consonants ricochet off the walls like artillery shells. It’s like listening to a primary school kid speak in assembly for the first time.

The new bloke wipes the bar, where faded glass rings mark the years in the timber. His arms strong and tanned. Lucky bastard.

I look down at my own. The skin, papery and mottled sags where muscles were once. If not for the blurred cobra, now green with age, I wouldn’t even recognise it. I watch as though from a distance as it reaches, trembling, for the beer, willing the shakes to stop. It might as well belong to someone else for the good it does.

The amber liquid sloshes over the side of my glass and then my jeans before finally reaching my mouth for the first glorious sip. I push a crumpled note across the bar and wave away the change. A silent thank you for him pretending not to notice.

Turning away, I attempt to focus on the screen above me, but the voice of the host drowns out the sound. It’s like watching a dubbed B-grade movie.

The trivia crowd is bigger than usual tonight. At a table next to me, a bunch of kids sit huddled around a plate of cold chips and jugs of sparkling water. Poor Frank must be rolling in his bloody grave.

“Water’s for bath’n in,” he would have scoffed pointing them toward the toilets with a laugh.

The muffled notes of a familiar song flood the bar. It catches at the periphery of my memory.

I am leaning, shirtless over a chipped mirror, face half covered in soap and already sweating under the early morning jungle sun. Next to me, one of the boys plays with the antenna on the radio outside our hutchie, a half-smoked rollie hangs from his mouth.

The team closest to me dance in their seats until the music stops. Laughing, they look to one another and shrug.

I lean in, just close enough for them to hear. “Mungo Jerry,” I say.

A young girl looks up at me, her body alert. “Huh?”

I point at the answer sheet. “It was Mungo Jerry.”

She takes in my beer-stained jeans and then, noticing my shaking hands and the stick resting against my stool, her shoulders soften.

She smiles, the kind of smile young people reserve for the elderly. My boots are probably older than her.

“Thanks,” she says scribbling her answer.

Turning back to the new bloke I nod, the universal sign for one more. This one is for Frank.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The story in which we chose to showcase a pub quiz is not really about the quiz at all, as most of the others were. Instead, it focuses on one of those other people who are always in the pub NOT playing while this weeknight fun unfolds. (You know the ones, who sometimes blurt the answer out from the bar much to groans from the studious teams!) So here, in our narrator’s beloved Royal pub, he’s just observing the goings on – with witty insights like “…the microphone so close to his mouth, consonants ricochet off the walls like artillery shells”. But like a beer spilling onto jeans, somehow the story spills so much about this character through his index-finger-twitching mannerisms, thoughts, tattoos and the wartime memories that a single question unlocks. What may at first seem like a simple scene is nicely layered storytelling. 

ON PARADE by John McParland, NSW

“Did you hear about Crystal?” The glee oozing from the conspiratorial voice was palpable, as the heavily fake tanned woman sidled up to her equally narcissistic compatriot. “Caught with her pants down, trying to seduce one of the judges into giving her youngest favourable treatment. Her whole family’s been disqualified! Serves her right too, at least have the wherewithal to lock the door first!” The last being said with a knowing glint in her cheaply mascaraed eyes.

“Oh you are deliciously nasty! Though that’ll certainly shake up the entrant ordering in this afternoon’s event. Come on, my precious Angelique is on soon, I’ve been teaching her how…” The voices became lost in the overall din as the two women moved back into the crowd.

Jake shook his head and uncoiled another cable. Stage mothers were all the same at these affairs, living vicariously through their “darling babies” as they chased glory via the shameless exploitation of those in their care.

As Jake connected up the television camera, another contestant went prancing past, hair teased, fluffed and cut to meet the competition’s ridiculous beauty standards; bespectacled mama bear stalking closely behind, smelling of cheap perfume and cheaper ambitions.

The stereotypes of the pageant industry were shockingly real, and likely even underrepresented in mainstream media. Similarly, this was the reason why syndicated teen dramas featured 30 year old actors playing high schoolers. Producers simply didn’t want to deal with the colossal amount of crap that came tightly packaged in the high heeled, desperate, demanding, over opinionated and under medicated stage mothers of actual teenagers.

“Urgh, why would she even bother? That little bitch of hers was never going to get through the preliminaries, let alone place! And I hear she entered three of her brood this year. Again, why? To more prominently show off the generations of inbreeding running through that whole family?”

Jake rolled his eyes at this latest overheard barb, watching the speaker as she moved past. Her own tiny entrant being led along, wearing a rhinestone studded green cape for some godforsaken reason. He actually felt sorry for the runt.

Truth be told, he often wondered if anyone had ever bothered really asking the entrants of their opinion on this whole farce. Not that the answer you’d get from them would ever be any more meaningful than some rote response happily barked back on queue. This rundown showground was certainly no Globe Theatre and those on stage weren’t exactly spouting the Bard’s golden prose; yapping away inanely instead as they were wont to do whenever given half a chance.

Jake sighed and powered up the camera. Twenty years filming these events and it still didn’t make any sense to him the sheer level of backstabbing and debauchery that took place every single time. He squared up on the presenter as they began their opening remarks.

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the annual RSPCA Canine Beauty Pageant!”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Wow, that final line. Some of you may have picked it earlier, but the fact remains that the worlds of child and pet pageantry are remarkably similar! And here, as our eavesdropping camera operator Jake goes about his business in the background, we get front row seats to the ‘Real Housewives of Pet Shows’. A second read will reward you with a parade of clues that were there all along, and while not all dog shows are surely as catty, it does feel like an authentic enough glimpse into this world. Cleverly done – loaded with gossip, glitz, glamour and more than a few growls.

WORLD CLICHÉ CHAMPIONSHIPS by Simon Bruce, VIC

Welcome, ladies and gentleman, boys and girls and bald-headed babies. Welcome to the greatest show on earth.

Today’s a day like no other: the final of the World Cliché Championships.

It’s the calm before the storm as the competitors are chomping at the bit. They’re keen to give it all they’ve got, and leave no stone unturned in their pursuit of the ultimate prize. Fame and fortune!

Let’s look at our finalists. What a mixed bag!

Who’d thought that those movers and shakers, Salt and Pepper, would last the distance? Thick as thieves those two and they certainly know how to think outside the box and throw caution to the wind.

And what about Green and Gold? Always an odd pairing, but joined at the hip today and dressed to kill despite being caught with their pants down in the semi-final. They’re expected to give 110% today.

Our third finalists, those globetrotting journeymen, are A Can Of Worms. Some say not a hope in hell, others believe they’re on a roll. Thought to be dead as a doornail, they bent over backwards and knuckled down during their heat.

Next up, A Bad Egg. Enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame as he downs a last-minute hair of a dog. He’ll be careful not to let the cat out of the bag like he did at the eleventh hour. Surely, he’ll have something up his sleeve today and bring out the big guns in his hour of need.

And finally, our final finalist, A Fine Kettle Of Fish. Always fishing for compliments and only here today due to Low Hanging Fruit stopping to smell the roses and Red Herring being swept away by the current. Good to see them back in the saddle.

Undoubtedly rivalries will be resolved today as they shoot for the moon and hit the target. There’s a few scores to settle, so an eye for an eye and a take no prisoners attitude will be the gameplan. No guts, no glory has been shouted from the rooftops by more than one one-eyed fan as they position themselves for a bird’s eye view. Mark my words, the moment of truth is here and the moment of glory is fast approaching like a train in a tunnel. But it won’t be the luck of the Irish, or even the luck of the draw that gets the winner over the line.

It goes without saying that the track is looking pitch perfect and as flat as a pancake. It certainly offers a level playing field.

In a nick of time, they’ll be in the starting blocks, careful not to jump the gun. All keen as mustard, wanting to put their best foot forward and the pedal to the metal. Quick as lightning and going full steam ahead they’ll go the extra mile.

You can hear a pin drop, as a hush comes over the crowd.

There’s the starting gun, clear as a bell.

And they’re off, like a bride’s nighty.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

What can we say that hasn’t already been said here? This stood out for its obvious “all-in” attitude to capturing the slew of ridiculous sporting rhetoric – much of which will play out during the Olympics and constantly plays out on TV and radio around the globe every week. Choosing to wrap up this gift of silliness in the premise of a ‘World Cliché Championships’ allows it to have fun with the format without ever having to address the thing it’s doing. Mark our words, we were knocked over with a feather as it brought the big guns. Definitely a story that gave 110%!

A SEAT IN FENWAY PARK by Duncan Ward, VIC

There is a seat in Fenway Park.

Directly behind the Red Sox dugout, with a perfect view of the field. Close enough to hear the players’ shouts and the umpires’ calls. To see the pitcher on the mound and the batter in the box, and every baseman and every outfielder.

That’s my seat. That’s always been my seat.

As a little girl, my father brought me to every game. I’d sit up on my knees and crane my neck to see the field properly. I’d listen intently as he explained the rules, strategies and tactics, and giggle when he lost his temper.

When I was older, we’d yell together until we were both hoarse. We’d scream at the umpires and the away team, but never at our Red Sox.

It was with my dad by my side that I fell in love with baseball. And I never missed a game.

81 home games a year – all the highs and all the lows. The strikes, the home runs, the balls, the fouls, the catches, the throws, the outs. Four World Series and I even made the front page of the Globe.

When my dad got too old, he gave his ticket to my husband. And now he’s almost as much of a fan as I am. Almost.

It’s my husband who’s at the game today.

He has his favourite suit on, his hair neatly parted and his shoes shined. He’s wearing my favourite green tie and a paddy cap. The kids don’t wear suits to games anymore, but some old habits die hard. And he looks so handsome. He always looks so handsome.

He’s watching Brayan Bello in the middle of the field, who’s due to open the innings. He should be preparing to throw the first pitch. Everyone is watching with anticipation, and Alex Verdugo is waiting patiently in the batter’s box.

But Bello won’t throw the first pitch yet.

Because today, for the first time in almost 90 years, there’s an empty seat behind the Red Sox dugout.

And in the middle of the field, Bello removes his hat. And the rest of the Red Sox and the Yankees, and every other fan in the stadium stands and does the same.

And my husband, slowly, carefully gets to his feet. His hands are shaking as he removes his cap. Tears in his eyes.

And 37,000 people are on their feet. In perfect silence.

There is a seat in Fenway Park. With fine, gold lettering that reads: Mary L. Young, Member 1937-2024, Thank you.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The narrative style of this story is, much like our Top Pick story, a love letter to sport. Or more aptly, to being a FAN of the sport – as once more, we see the wonder of this world, this time introduced to Mary as a young girl alongside her father in the golden age of baseball. Along the way, we get a literal front-row lesson in the history of Boston’s Red Sox, who endured an 86-year drought before winning four times this century. We see the father pass the seat on to the husband and then in an emotional finish, a beautiful tribute as you realise whose seat is now empty. Further proof that sport can be funny, action-filled and also bring tears. A perfect story to close out this month’s selection.

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we include an extra LONGLIST (approx 5-10%) of stories that stood out from the submitted hundreds and were highly considered for the showcase. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, enjoy a moment on the podium of satisfaction! And to ALL who submitted stories, we’d LOVE to see you again for next month’s challenge!

THIS MONTH’S LONGLIST (in no particular order):

• 54 BLOCKS by Belinda Delane, NSW
• GAME SET MATCH by Melanie Hawkes, WA
• TINY WINDOWS by Deborah Sale-Butler, USA
• THE NAME OF THE GAME by Amaris Lancaster, QLD
• UNTITLED by Sally Ombewa, SA
• THE CHEESE ROLLERS by Philip Ogley, France
• SPECTRUM by Rachel Howden, NSW
• THE FALL by Emily Jenik, VIC
• THRUSHMONGER VERSUS THE KANSAS KID by Nina Miller, USA
• UNTITLED by Jenny Baker, VIC
• PLAY OF THE DAY by Shayne Denford, NSW
• THE GOOD SPORT by Robert Fairhead, NSW
• THE GLOBE CAME HERE by Bridget McNamara, Ireland
• THE LET-GO MASTER by August Funk, VIC
• GREAT AUNT MILDRED’S FAMOUS CHILLI by Jaime D’Cruz, QLD
• THE TEA LADIES OF PLANET FOOTBALL CLUB by Karen Uttien, WA
• ONLY ON TUESDAYS by Pam Makin, SA
• FURIOUS FLY BALL by Lee McKerracher, NSW
• THE SING’S GAMBIT by Chad Frame, USA
• THE SPELLING BEE by Tenille Seow, QLD
• THE MAN WITH THE GUN by Alison Knight, VIC
• WHAT A CARRY ON by Madeleine Armstrong, UK
• THE STADIUM by Tatia Power, QLD
• JUST THINK OF ME FOR A MINUTE by Elizabeth Gonzalez, VIC
• GOAL! by Alison Fletcher, VIC
• THE GOLDEN GIRL by Kimberley Ivory, NSW
• BOOLOOROO BEACH BIKINI COMP by Andrew Harrison, NSW
• A LITTLE KINDNESS by Anne Carpenter, NSW
• TOMORROW IN THE MAZE AT HEVER CASTLE by Caroline Jenner, UK
• THE CHAMPIONS by Lou Harper, VIC
• THE HUMAN CARROT by Marcelo Medone, Uruguay
• SPORTSBALL by Renee Conoulty, VIC
• SKYFALL by Jenny Lynch, WA
• ON YOUR MARK by Andrew Shaughnessy, Canada
• SCHRÖDINGER’S HORSE by Mona Treme, QLD\
• DRAMA AT THE COUNTRY WOMEN'S ASSOCIATION by Michelle Oliver, WA
• THE INTERNATIONAL CRAB RACE, RUN IN CONJUNCTION WITH THE PARENTING OLYMPICS by Athena Law, QLD
• THE FINAL PIECE by Aaron Godfrey, SA

• Each story had to strongly feature a relationship between TWO characters. 
• Each story had to include someone whispering.
• Each story had to include the words JAR, UNIFORM, NEEDLE and EDGE. (Certain variations were allowed)

These prompts hit a note with many writers – as we received around 700 stories all whispering their secrets to us through the trees, the breeze and through voices here and in the past. Along the way, mason jars, specimen jars, jam jars and doors left ajar rubbed shoulders with knitting needles, hypodermic needles, compass needles and needless tasks. School uniforms, work uniforms, soldiers, sailors, security guards and sportspeople – along with uniform movements that took us to the edge and back. We always love the variety of ways you approach the prompts – keep up the great work!

THE POWER OF TWO

Frodo and Sam. Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy. Sherlock Holmes and Watson. Peter Pan and Captain Hook, Miss Honey and Matilda, Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer. Literature is filled with twosomes that are companions, mentors, rivals and lovers – where each character is tied to the other in some way. So this month, we wanted to CELEBRATE and feature the relationships and roles that two characters can play.

• Twins represent! Many of your stories featured the powerful bond the twins share. An excellent choice for this wordcount.
• Siblings also featured heavily – often told in a life-spanning arc to showcase their role beside the other throughout the years.
• Best friends played a big part in many stories. Again, often highlighting the ups and downs of this relationship through the years.
• Of course, couples are the ultimate couple – with love matches featuring heavily, from meet-cutes through the years and till death did them part. The Top Pick was a beautiful example of one end of this range.
• Other generational relationships featured this month, grandparents, favourite uncles, parents and children. Oh, and pets! We love our pets.
• And then there were some more quirky relationships – a few have made it to this month’s showcase, so we won’t spoil those ones. But other notables included an odd sock yearning for its mate, an unlikely love story between scone-buddies jam and cream, insects, actual superheroes (of which we expected more) and some plucky reimagined fairy-tales! Creativity at its best.

So, now to the showcase stories – including our Top Pick of the month from Laura Cody (congrats!). Laura’s story, along with our shortlist and longlisted stories are all showcased below. Well done to ALL who completed the challenge – let’s do it again next month!

JUNE TOP PICK

OLD HABITS by Laura Cody, USA

On that last night, after the television had been turned off and the matching living room recliners were restored to neutral position, Nora and Jim climbed into bed. Long gone were the days when they could “slip between the sheets” or “tumble onto the mattress,” breathing heavy with desire as their strong, capable fingers unbuttoned buttons and unzipped zippers. These days, climbing into bed was a laborious process involving strategy and perseverance. It began with the alignment of a walker on either side of the bed, continued with the careful lowering of buttocks (groan) and hoisting of legs (on the count of three) onto a mattress, and culminated in a bit of strenuous shifting and scooching until both husband and wife found proper orientation on the bed: Feet down, head up, neither one too close to the edge.

On that last night, Jim picked the jar of liniment off his bedside table, removed the cap, and mindlessly held it out to Nora before dipping his own fingers inside. They engaged in ordinary everyday chatter while massaging thick cream into stiff hands, unaware of the perfect synchronization of their movements.

“Theresa’s stopping by tomorrow with the groceries.”

“Have her get ice cream. Pistachio–and not the one for diabetics.”

On that last night, Jim removed a large-print novel from his bedside drawer. He read just a page or two, as always, while Nora retrieved knitting needles and yarn from her side. Her fingers could no longer produce flawless, uniform stitches, but still they worked away, finding comfort in the rhythmic activity.

Click, click, click

The music of Nora’s knitting needles inevitably lulled Jim to sleep. The book dropped to his chest. His eyelids drooped, and soon–

“Glasses,” Nora demanded.

Jim startled awake without protest, knowing the routine. On that last night, he removed his spectacles and handed them to his wife. Nora sprayed them with the cleanser she kept on her night table, then wiped the smudges away with a cloth. She handed them back, and Jim laid them on his side, ready for tomorrow. Then Nora put away her knitting and did the same with her own glasses. A new day started best with fresh lenses.

Nora turned off the bedroom light.

On that last night, Nora rolled toward Jim in the bed and whispered. The couple’s whispering was a holdover from a time when their house was filled with big-eared children, a time when their pillow talk, intended only for each other, was a carefully protected secret. And even if there were no longer any children to overhear, Jim and Nora’s final words each night were still exchanged in hushed tones. It was a habit that felt as right as the words themselves.

“I love you, my darling. Goodnight.”

And even though Jim would not wake up the next morning, Nora would continue to whisper words to his pillow that night and every night because, while it is true that everyone dies, old habits die hardest of all.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There’s a beautiful sense of calm that settles on this domestic scene throughout this story – all while the ‘reveal’ of sorts has been telegraphed in the first four words. And it’s the repetition of those same words that provides a lovely scaffold on which to go out not in a blaze of glory, but rather – much like the embers of an old fire – a warm glow. We see the familiar night routine and synchronicity of Jim and Nora’s movements and whispered goodnights. And in these seemingly small and mundane actions, we see so much love. Wonderfully observed and a worthy pick to celebrate the power of relationships.

THE LOVERS, THE DREAMERS, AND ME by Susan McLaughlin, VIC

I called it the ‘magic pudding’. My brother called it the ‘chain letter’. In reality it was the start of the rainbow connection.

“Want a magic worm?” I would ask, meaning, ‘do you want a fresh worm to magically catch that elusive trout?’

Wasn’t so magic most of the time. Another drowned worm. Another wasted hour. Another childhood memory.

But then one day the wriggling wizard did his job. Caught a juvenile redfin off Dad’s dad’s rod, held by my brother. The sort we usually threw back.

“Toss him in,” Dad would say. “We’ll catch him next year when he’s a monster.”

We never questioned this instruction. Until one day we did. “Can’t we use him for bait?” I asked.

“The trout won’t go for him,” said Dad. But I insisted, persisted, pestered until Dad relented. He let me use his pocket-knife to carve off a chunk of tail flesh.

My hook was in the water less than a minute when the rainbow latched on. A proper bite, not a nibble, and I hauled him in with heart racing and voice squealing. My first fish. And it was a trout! My dad, never prone to envy, was filled with envy. Positively green. He hid it marvellously.

“Can I take some of the tail?” my brother asked that night in the kitchen.

“Of course not,” scolded Mum. “That’s good eating fish.”

But he insisted, persisted, pestered until Mum relented. He sliced up the tail and popped it in the deep freeze with the frozen peas and ice-poles.

And thus began the Magic Pudding Challenge. Catch a fish. Then use that fish to catch another. Then use that fish… Well, you get the point. How far could you stretch that first piece of luck?

Our record was seven. Our family record. Unbeaten by any other family, because other families didn’t have this tradition. This secret game our family played on Friday nights in summer.

“Do you want the last of the pudding?” I ask my brother.

“Chain letter,” he corrects me, for old time’s sake.

“You take it,” I suggest. “You always did attract more luck than me.”

He’s silent for a moment. My tears make him uncomfortable. “You attract enough,” he finally says. “You caught that first trout. Patient zero. Remember?”

I remember. It was drizzling that day. There was a rainbow. But patient zero was actually the redfin.

I remember. Worm jars. School uniforms. People walking their dogs too close to the edge. Needles and haystacks and songs about ants and rubber tree plants. “For you Dad,” I whisper softly as I thread the last bit of thawed fish onto my brother’s hook.

Dad’s no longer with us. He went to the great lake in the sky four months ago. But he caught the yellow belly that started this latest magic pudding… ah… eh… chain letter. We’re using the last of fish five.

“And for Grandpa Mack,” my brother adds, then hands Dad’s dad’s ancient rod to my ever-watchful son.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Using fishing to highlight a generational story works marvellously well here, and it’s hard to say if the most notable relationship is between brothers, that of the father and son, or even that of one fish to the next! Whatever the case, it creates a strong linking device to structure this story that’s painted with the kind of nostalgia that families often feel when memories have their own language and traditions. The rainbow trout that features as a hook here (literally and figuratively!) is nicely mirrored in the kermit-green tinged title.

SHE KNOWS ME BEST by Madelyn Grace, NSW

Clear as day, she appears before me through the glass.

She yawns quietly, her eyes scrunching until the rich embers of her irises disappear.

My mouth stretches wide, my chest tightening.

It’s too early to be awake; she can see it in the storm clouds beneath her eyes. She slept barely four hours last night, and just three the night before.

I feel it in my bones, the exhaustion. I feel every tickticktick of the hours that pass without slumber, night after night.

She’s already donned the maroon uniform, pristine and clean-pressed, silver buttons glinting from her blazer sleeves. The crest over her blouse should be something to take pride in–a symbol of what she has worked so hard to achieve—but when she wakes feeling like she never slept, and finds no time to spend with the friends she does not have, it’s more akin to a burden.

An anchor.

“Hey,” she whispers, pulling her thin lips into a gracious smile, curling her fingers in a lazy wave. Her kindness is soft here, feather-light and warm. With anyone else, she is needle-sharp and glacier-cold, too dedicated to allow herself the pleasure of bountiful company.

“Hey.” My mouth hurts around the greeting, pulled taut against my teeth. My fingers wriggle.

While the sky paints itself into a patchwork of blushing tangerine, she begins the painstaking process of pulling herself together for the day. Thick hair, darker than a raven’s wing, is brushed to silk and smoothed back into a low, all-business ponytail. From a half-empty jar, she scoops a citrus scented balm, and scrubs it in slow circles over her face, rinsing the cleanser off with lukewarm, filtered water.

My nose tingles at lemon blossom while I pat my face dry.

After the cleansing comes the makeup, all twenty-three steps of it.

I’ve never felt so claustrophobic than I do beneath these colours, this overpriced muck, these never-ending expectations.

She tells stories as she works, primps herself over the course of two hours, desperate to please. Her peach-pink lips spin tales of essays and flute practice and quizzes and the first hand to be raised and debate club and charity work and application after application after application. Twelve in total, to every Ivy League in the country, and then some.

I mouth every word back to her, tone for tone.

When she’s finished, she brushes her pleated skirt of invisible dust, and sighs.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she sighs, her brow twitching, the only sign of her slow creep towards the cliff’s edge. After a moment, she turns back to the mirror.

“You’re all I have left,” she confesses. “The last person I care about.”

“The last person I care about,” I echo. I try not to feel such rage; we are one and the same, after all. It is both our faults that we’re the only people who can stand one another.

She waves once more at her reflection before she leaves.

I wave emptily back.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The use of italics here is sublime in providing a counterbalance from one ‘character’ to the other – as the reader alternates between the two in this morning conversation of sorts, set against “a patchwork of blushing tangerine”. Of course, it makes very little secret of the fact that this is just one person and their mirror image. However, the choice to provide the mirrored-self with a first person perspective to the third person counterpart is a stylistic touch that elevates this scene. We are essentially being told the same story from two sides, with extra clues to fill out this personality and her own mental state. Quiet, yet powerful at the same time.

TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND MILES by Tatum Schad, USA

Dad always called it his reliable Honda.

Painted the color of murky lake water, it didn’t have a CD player or a tape deck so we listened to fuzzy radio stations or the wind. The speakers rattled with their blown-out parts loose inside, and there was an underlying wet dog smell that must’ve seeped into the frame and thawed when the weather topped seventy-five degrees.

On steep inclines or tough stretches, he’d stroke the console and whisper to it.

C’mon old girl, you can do it.

Like it was his trusty steed or something. He believed in the Honda like he believed in a good handshake – some things just worked. I would sometimes wonder if he believed in me the same way.

The first time I heard Mom and him fight, he slammed the screen door and the Honda sputtered to life in the dark. He sat out there for hours, the front yard hazy with exhaust. She said he paid more attention to the car than her. That she wanted something more from life, and that there were plenty of people that would give it to her if he couldn’t.

Mom spent less time at the house after that. Dad spent more time working on the car. On the days that Mom didn’t come home for dinner, he’d show me the proper way to check the oil and how not to electrocute myself with jumper cables. He’d show me the jar of mints wedged inside the driver door and the spare needle and thread stashed inside the console, just in case. But his real pride and joy was the odometer.

Two hundred thousand and counting! They just don’t make ‘em like this anymore.

One day, Dad picked me up from school in the Honda. He took me to Dairy Queen, a place he usually saved for weekends when the weather got warm. Never on a school night, and certainly never before dinner. We stopped at the park after and sat on the hood, ice cream melting faster than I could lick it up. I remember my sticky fingers and the stains blooming on my uniform as he told me that Mom didn’t want to live with us anymore.

It’s my fault. I’m sorry, kiddo.

He explained that she still loved me but couldn’t stay in the same house as him. I’d visit her when I could, when she settled down somewhere. He apologized again and said the engine fumes were stinging his eyes and took us back to the house.

I caught my reflection in the side mirror a few times on the way home. The fumes must have gotten to me too.

Mom moved out the next week. Dad and I watched from the driveway as her U-Haul pulled away. As soon as it turned the corner, he asked if I wanted to drive the Honda for the first time. I was only thirteen, but he said he wasn’t worried.

He believed in us both.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Ah yes, a man’s love for his mechanical steed is a strong one, and here it is borne out in a coming-of-age style story, the ‘reliable Honda’ playing a key role in the backdrop of this family’s changing circumstances. Of course, this is both a study in the father’s relationship with his child as it is with his car. We are given a thoroughly authentic tour of this ‘man shed on wheels’ (an adult treehouse even?), prompt words snuck into the door and console – always through the child’s eyes. And that’s where this story truly succeeds, in making it both about the car but also about everything else happening at that time in our narrator’s life – exactly how kids often thread memories, even for big moments such as described here. They don’t write ‘em like this anymore.

THE OTHER ME by Anne Wilkins, NZ

I was six when Mama told me I had a twin. He was meant to have died at birth, but he was very much alive to me.

He’d kept me warm in the crib, cried when I cried, and crawled after me on the floor. I called him Other Me because I had no other words for what he was. He looked, sounded, and acted like me. A reflection of me, but for only my eyes and ears.

“Who did this?” Mama would ask, looking at our glass jar of marmalade jam shattered on the floor.

“It was Me,” I would tell her. “The Other Me.” And I would point to the Other Me standing shamefaced in the corner, his hands still sticky with jam, but she never understood.

Other Me grew just like I did. When my hair grew long, so did his. When my voice changed, his did too. He was always with me, and at night we would melt into each other like two drops of water.

“That boy, always talking to himself,” Mama would say when she heard me chatting to Other Me long into the night.

I’ve heard identical twins can be so close that they can feel each other’s emotions. It was like that for us, except more.

We were so close that Other Me could take away my pain and soak up my sadness.

When I fell in my school’s cross-country race, Other Me took my injury. He limped for me, allowing me to cross the finish line to win gold. When my first girlfriend dumped me, he sucked away my sadness and heartache; leaving me only with lightness and the idea of fresh beginnings.

And when I got sick and had to go to hospital, Other Me was right beside me.

Look away, he whispered as a Nurse in a shiny uniform produced her shiny needle for another blood sample. I barely felt a pinprick upon my skin as Other Me took away the stab.

The cancer spread quickly.

Let me help you, he said from the corner of my hospital room. You don’t need to suffer. Let me take it away.

And I let him take it all.

All the sickness.

He pulled it from inside me and claimed it as his own, where it rested inside him like a black serpent.

“A miracle,” Mama said the next day. Mama, who had worn her rosary beads thin, praying for my recovery.

I was cancer-free.

The doctors and nurses were dumbfounded.

None of them could see my brother slumped in the corner, or hear his ragged breathing from the serpent inside him.

I had beaten the odds, but the cancer had beaten my brother.

He closed his eyes and simply disappeared over the edge — like he’d never been there at all.

My eyes filled with tears; my heart shattered like that jam jar so long ago.

And this time there was no one to take away my pain.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We received many twin stories this month, but this one deals with the idea in such a unique way – a child who keeps the memory of their twin alive as a kind of imaginary friend. At first, it’s playful in a ‘blame it on the other guy’ way, before turning to a role of soaking up the hurt and the pain. As the narrative navigates into these darker waters, this is where the storytelling gets lifted. The idea that ‘Other Me’ is the one to beat cancer, and being defeated in doing so, is heartbreakingly depicted here, the final two lines providing a poignant end.

UNTITLED by Brooze, QLD

They stood together, alone.

Tall, they were and so very similar that their relationship was easily recognised as what they were, twins. So alike were they that, if you saw them one at a time, you would not be able to say with certainty which you were seeing. “Which is which?” you might whisper but not perceive an answer until both were returned to your sight, separately together.

They stood as sentinels, guardians of a revered space, unmoving and uniformly full of resolve. Jarring attacks could not move them. They did not retreat one iota, nor did they return the ferocity exhibited by their attackers. It was not in their makeup to gloat or needle someone for a failed attempt at penetrating their space as they stood at its edge. Not at all. No emotions were exhibited at any time. Resolute, inflexible, unmoved by inclement weather, they stood on guard and asked no quarter. They did their job and remained firm…. as all AFL goalposts should.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Consider this 166-word story a ‘palate cleanser’, if you will – and a reminder that sometimes a story can take place between two goal posts and still radiate an emotional impact! In this case, we are led down this twin-esque garden path before the siren eventually sounds on the conceit and these two characters are in fact revealed to be ‘outstanding in their field’. Yes, it’s silly, but hey, for many AFL fans reading from the sidelines, this one might still hit all the ‘feels’ in a big way! For what it’s worth, we score it six points.

A BEGINNING THAT ENDS by Jo Skinner, QLD

I know her more intimately than I know myself. I hold her, press her cooling body against my breasts, her lids tiny membranes, veins tattooing translucent skin.

Every part of her is still a part of me, her heartbeat dancing below my own, her breath a fluid love song vibrating in my belly.

I unfurl ten crinkled fingers, touch each perfect toe and trace soundless lips before I whisper into her tiny ear shaped like a shell.

My words form soft waves that reach into her now still heart and I know that she knows, always knew that she was loved and wanted even before she was knit inside me.

They will come soon, to take her away and the thought of separation is a sharp pain like a needle.

I hear firm footfalls and a nurse enters, her uniform crisp, her hands cool as she measures and assesses, cuffs my arm, and asks me how I am.

I cannot answer. I save my words for her alone. I submit, one arm enfolded around her still, my whispers an echo in this room that cocoons me from a future that is no longer ours to share.

‘It was unexpected, unexplained,’ the nurse says, not unkindly. She leaves brochures beside my bed, and I am left alone again, the time still, the grief on pause while my body searches for itself and comes up empty.

The light changes and falls across the blanket. Still, she sleeps, weightless in my arms. My belly is flaccid, my breasts ache, my thoughts suspended.

They come and go. Another shift. They are patient but each intrusion jars and I long to be left alone with her forever. I will carry the weight of this day and need to carve each memory into my heart where it can be reached.

It will pass, they assure me.

It won’t, I whisper to her tiny pink scalp peeping from the wrap.

I tell myself stories, to make sense of it. She was impatient to meet me, longed to be a part of this world that was not ready for her. She is too pure, too unsullied, and never chanced a breath.

I pushed and allowed her to come, and they told me it was already too late to intervene, that there was nothing they could do.

And so she lies, lifeless in my arms while the world encroaches slowly on our final moments together.

I sense him in the room, waiting at the edge of things, uncertain. I should let him hold her but am loath to sacrifice even one moment.

I slowly become aware of all that awaits us.

The cot. The pram. The tiny clothes folded and never worn.

They will ask me to choose something for her to wear one last time.

I will leave that to him.

The day ends and they take her away.

I fold in on myself, collapse into his arms and weep.

She is gone.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

Heartbreaking. This story highlights one of the most intimate relationships of all at its most vulnerable. In doing so, it goes about documenting those swirling clock-stopping minutes that describe a mother’s precious time with her newborn baby that she will never get to see grow. The result is a delicate and powerful exploration of grief – where the world and its brochures blurs away and we are left with seemingly perfect physical reminders, whispered moments, and the numb reality of a world turned upside down. The title also captures the painful potential of a new life ended so soon.

In Australia, SANDS – 1300 072 637 – is an independent organisation that provides support for newborn death, stillbirth and miscarriage. 

FIRST TIMES by Danielle Barker, NSW

I didn’t want a friend, or so I thought, but you did and that was that. From the moment you sat next to me in class you needled your way into my life, stitching yourself tightly to my side. Even now, thirty years later, when the wind is warm and the sun is high, I feel you there.

You’d only been at our school six weeks before the long holidays hit. By then we were firm friends and for the first time in my life my summer ‘to-be-read’ pile stayed just that. You showed me that adventures were not only for the likes of ‘The Famous Five’.

The summer was endless, as they were back then, our exploits blanketed by a permanent blue sky, a feeling we were on the edge of something as yet unknown. We notched up miles on our bikes, discarding them carelessly, wheels spinning, as we raced to reach our latest destination.

It was with you I caught my first fish, a tiny stickleback, in the beck down the back of the estate. You said it didn’t count, it having landed by accident in my wellie, but I carried it home proudly anyway, letting it swim circles in a jam jar before returning it the next day.

You pushed the boundaries and I happily followed. At the sweetshop, I’d count out my 50p mix under the watchful eye of Mrs Pickle. Every time she turned her back you snuck in an extra couple of white mice or cola bottles, blinking at me (you never could do it with one eye) knowingly. I quickly paid, worrying my sweaty coin would give us away, but we emerged from the shop safe and feeling like we’d got away with murder. After, we sucked and chewed our way through the stash, bare skinny shoulders pressed together, giggling under the shade of the weeping willow, before hopping back on our bikes to spend the last few hours of daylight at the park.

It was a summer of constant motion. Days filled with swinging, spinning, running, climbing, racing until we collapsed in a tangled heap, onto itchy brown grass, exhausted and laughing at the sky, no worries other than when the sun would go down.

When the holidays ended, for the first time, I didn’t dread the return to school. I pulled on my uniform feeling taller and not just because I’d grown. I looked forward to your hot whispers in my ear, telling jokes that only you and I understood. For the first time I didn’t want to escape to my books, I was choosing my own adventure with you.

But you didn’t come that day. Or any day after. I never saw you again.

In a summer of firsts yours was the first funeral I attended, the first heartbreak I had. I’ve had countless firsts since the moment your bike wheels stopped spinning, but you were my first friend. I just wish I hadn’t been your last.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

It’s true that so many of the most powerful relationship stories this month also dealt with loss. This time, it’s the reminiscence of a friendship and those long summer days that at first appears so full of life, before the rug is pulled in the final paragraph. Along the way however, we are treated to a montage of best-friend energy – likely relatable to many who have spent a lost summer in similar fashion. The choice to frame this story around a series of ‘firsts’ allows it to never drift and of course, gives us the final first and the unexpected ‘last’. Nostalgic and tragic.

UNTITLED by Jane C, ACT

My funeral was held on a Wednesday. A morose affair by all accounts, as these things tend to be. And all the more heart-wrenching because I was a teenager. So young. So much promise. Freckles and vitality.

The service was a long time coming. No body makes it a little harder to be declared dead. But the schoolbag and uniform left carelessly by the edge of the river, the bits and pieces of mine they found in the water, and the disappearance of Jennifer Joan Bradley – so complete and unequivocal – what other conclusion could be reached?

My mama wept at the funeral. Wept for her JJ, for her baby girl. She swayed and staggered with grief. Dad drank himself into a fury that night and belted Mama. This was typical behaviour from him. He needn’t have buried his daughter that day. It could have been anything that set him off. The coffee jar was empty once so he smashed it and Mama’s cheek bone.

I used to intervene but he’d wind up hitting me, too, and Mama begged me not to, so I stopped. Instead I prayed. When the yelling and the beating sounds started I closed my eyes and clasped my hands together so tight my fingers would get pins and needles. And I’d stay like that until I heard Dad’s snoring and Mama’s quiet sobbing. Next day he’d get up and work the farm like nothing happened.

One evening during dinner I noticed Dad, four beers in, looking at me. I noticed Mama looking at him.

That night after Dad had fallen asleep, Mama came and sat on my bed. Without preamble she told me in whispers that every time Dad was unconscious after drinking hard, she’d sneak a little money from his wallet. Not enough so as he’d notice. But given how much of a boozehound he was, the total sum amassed over the years was not inconsiderable. She wanted me to take the money and follow her instructions. She’d give me the nod some day soon, she said. Dad was unpredictable and if I simply went missing, there was a chance he’d go looking for me. So it was better he think I was gone forever. She would come and meet me and we’d be together again but there were things she had to take care of first and I mustn’t worry if I didn’t hear from her or see her for months or even years.

I understood. I felt strangely calm. I would do as she said.

Seven months after my funeral, tragedy befell the family once again when Justin Bradley was killed in a farming accident. Well, accidents do happen. Poor Lucinda – first her daughter, now her husband. The community rallied, and when she decided there was too much sadness, too many memories to go on there, she was offered more than a fair price for the farm.

And then she came and found me.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The ‘dead person narrating’ technique here seems at first like we have ourselves a ghost in reflection mode at first, but as the story unfolds and the backstory comes into focus, the plot literally thickens. Turns out that poor Lucinda had it all planned out and when her husband meets with a ‘farming accident’, well, the stage may just be set for an off-camera reunion. A good example of subverting expectations and somehow (for a story that opens on the narrator’s funeral) managing to conjure up a happy ending that is very much alive!

IN THE YEAR ALL COASTAL AREAS FLOOD, THE SKY SMELLS LIKE GASOLINE by Laila Amado, Netherlands

Leaves burn. Crimson, red, and burgundy, they tremble against the backdrop of coal-black clouds. Maud always craved the coming of the cooler days. She welcomed the slow shortening of light and the long hours spent curled up in her favorite armchair, but this season the change of weather is making her nervous. The wind wails in the chimney in an unfamiliar way, and the static on the radio sounds like voices. By turn angry and mournful, they whisper of the coming storm.

Maud bends down to attach the watering hose to the connector. Things haven’t been the same since the illness took hold of Dan. The day he checked into the hospital, he smiled and said, “Don’t you worry, love, we’ll be dancing at the fair next spring. You’ll see”.

Maud no longer remembers their first date, their first dance, the feel of Dan’s hand on her hip. Instead, she remembers needles stuck in the knotted blue veins, sticky bandages clinging to paper-thin skin. She remembers the stark white sheets, the aseptic smell of the hospital room. The green tiles of the waiting room floor. The blue uniform of the doctor telling her there’s nothing more they can do.

“No,” she kept saying. “No.” And then, stomping her foot on the green tiles, Maud saw in the doctor’s face that she’s being the difficult loved one every shift dreads.

“Let me take him home,” she said, resigned.

Their daughters have been begging Maud to move to the city ever since that day, as if being cooped up in a concrete box can protect from the unraveling of threads holding the world together. She is too old to pacify herself like that. Too attached to this stretch of land, this color of the sky, these weeds and flowers.

She glances at the house, at the figure seated in the deck chair on the porch. Maud finds comfort in the familiar breadth of the shoulders, the angle of the upturned face.

A sudden gust of wind rips through the garden, beheading the last of the chrysanthemums, and the black Alsatian in the kennel howls, sensing the approaching darkness. Maud wipes the sweat from her brow and tucks the handkerchief away. Time to take a break.

She walks up the porch steps and sits in a chair next to Dan, pours herself a glass of ice tea from the jar. Air carries the smell of smoke. Beyond the tree line, the edge of the sky is a bleeding wound.

Maud puts her hand gently on top of Dan’s, feels the cold of the metal wires holding together his brittle bones. It took her some time to get the knots on the phalanges just right. She gives her husband a sideways glance. If Maud takes off the glasses, she can see the familiar smile in the yellowing jawline of the skull. That’s good enough for her.

“Don’t you worry, love,” she says. “It’s going to be a mighty storm, but we’ll brave it together.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Much like the story that opened this showcase, once more we have ended with a widow alongside her beloved husband. But in the case of Maud, this tale is a little darker, as she seems to have raided the craft cupboard to keep the spirit of Dan going strong. Using the dramatic change of seasons as a backdrop, we see a flashback to Dan’s illness and a realisation that they won’t be dancing together next spring. Maud has chosen to care for Dan at home, but as she tends to her flowers and the sky paints itself into a bleeding wound (great colour descriptions throughout), we realise – through the metal wires and yellowing jaw – that this skeleton figure of Dan is only alive in Maud’s grieving mind. (But seriously, where are those daughters?)

The final line sums up a lot of the relationships that were on show this month – braving storms together, whether alive or simply as a memory.

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we include an extra LONGLIST (approx 5-10%) of stories that stood out from the submitted hundreds and were highly considered for the showcase. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, enjoy a moment of satisfaction! And to ALL who submitted stories, we’d LOVE to see you again for next month’s challenge!

THIS MONTH’S LONGLIST (in no particular order):

• COPS AND ROBBERS by Isaac Freeman, SA
• CITY SHADOWS: THE UNLIKELY DUO by Zoë B, NSW
• A QUARREL WITH TIME ON LOVE by Courtney Evans, WA
• GREAT UNCLE HENRY by Lisa Zeltzer, Canada
• WHO AM I? By Chloe McLeod, VIC
• JUNE AND AUGUST by Bruno Lowagie, Belgium
• STRANGERS ON A BUS by Victoria Daube, SA
• MATCH THE PAIR QUIZ: REASONS YOU MARRIED A WOMAN NAMED SARAH by Kenneth Mann, UK
• MAX by Jenny O’Hara, WA
• GOOD COP by Paula Benski, USA
• THE SILENCE IN SOMEBODY by Jay McKenzie, NSW
• ECHOES FROM THE FIDDLER by Del Griffith, USA
• RESIDENTIAL CARE by Charlotte Chidell, VIC
• UNTITLED by Teri M Brown, USA
• A BEGINNING THAT ENDS by Jo Skinner, QLD
• DRIFTING by Annie Lance, Ireland
• UNTITLED by Brutus Richmond, NSW
• TOO MUCH SCREEN TIME by Simon Shergold, USA
• BEACH DAZE by Sherri Bothma, WA
• MOMO TWINS by Nina Miller, USA
• UNTITLED by Zach Lawler, NSW
• SIZZLING by Robyn Knibb, QLD
• FLYING LESSONS by J. Lynne Moore, USA
• NEIGHBOURS by Pat Saunders, WA
• A BEDTIME IF STORY by Miriam Drori, Israel
• NOTES FOR A EULOGY by Jaime Gill, Cambodia
• REFRACTED LIGHT by Simone Bowers, VIC
• DEAR SISTER by Alex Atkins, Canada
• WRITING IS LIFE by Anna McEvoy, QLD
• IT’S NICE AND QUIET by Suzanne Wacker, QLD
• HOW TO MAKE A DATE IN ELEVEN EMAILS by Amy Wolter, VIC
• MY HAIRDRESSER by Anne Moorhouse, QLD
• AMANDA LEE by Adrienne Tan, NSW
• NEXT MOVE WINS by Ducky T, QLD
• UNTITLED by Lisa Verdekal, Ireland
• THE RAVAGES OF CHAOS AND TIME by AC Millington, WA
• THE COLANDER by David Wilson, VIC
• SWEET TOOTH by Ani Artinian, Canada
• A LETTER TO MY DEAREST, WHO HAS BEEN MISSING FOR TWO MONTHS NOW by Romany Rzechowicz, ACT
• THE CATERPILLARS by Philip Ogley, France
• TAMARAMA AND TURRAMURRA by Olive Moon, NSW
• SIDE BY SIDE by Deborah Ferry, NSW
• I, ME, WE, HE by Djuna Hallsworth, NSW

• Each story had to take place on an IMPORTANT DATE from the past 50 years – i.e. from May 1974 onwards. 
• Each story had to include a character who builds something.
• Each story had to include the words ENOUGH, CHASE and MISTAKE.

(Variations or longer words containing the original are okay.)

This month, we saw characters building friendships, fences, houses, model planes and things using LEGO. Many characters were named Chase, and they made enough mistakes to make their chosen dates memorable!

MAKING HISTORY

Using the backdrop of an actual event can add interest and context to a story – and this month we saw everything from characters right there amongst the action to simply hearing about it half a world away. The best stories found a way to link the event specifically with the characters in some way, rather than simply retelling a historical event. And YES, tragic events far outweighed happy ones (as you will see in the showcase). Popular dates chosen were:

• 11 September 2001 – this New York event featured the most times in stories, perhaps due to the familiar setting and sheer number of stories and perspectives possible. Many stories put their characters right in the towers.
• 9 November 1989 – the fall of the Berlin Wall was another popular choice for stories, and thankfully the overwhelming message here (unlike the many disasters and attacks) was one of hope and unification.
• 31 August 1997 – Royals featured in many stories, none more so than the death of Princess Diana. 
• 26 December 2004 – The Asian tsunami featured in a bunch of stories, again no doubt due to the sheer number of international travellers who were affected (as well as the drama of telling such a story).
• 25 December 1974 – Known to older Australian writers, Cyclone Tracy’s destruction of Darwin was a surprisingly popular choice.
• 20 July 1969 – Yes, we even had the moon landing. And YES, these stories were sadly disqualified as they did not fall within the past 50 years!
• Others included 1986’s twin disasters of Challenger and Chernobyl, the 2000 New Year’s Y2K bug scare, 2020 pandemic and many more.

Remember that ideally, your event served as the BACKDROP to your story – not the whole story itself. It was about creating an engaging piece of fiction, not merely a retelling of a historical event.

So, now it’s on with the showcase stories – including our Top Pick of the month from Simon Shergold (congrats!). Simon’s story, along with our shortlist and longlisted stories are all showcased below. Well done to ALL who rose to the challenge – let’s do it again next month!

MAY TOP PICK

TODAY THEY LET US WATCH TV IN THE CLASSROOM by Simon Shergold, USA

Ronnie Saunders is my best friend and I hate her. Today, I mean. I hate her today. Normally, we’re inseparable. It seems like she’s been making me laugh my whole life, since that day in 1978 when I froze at the school talent show and she clambered on stage, stood next to me, and sang so badly out of tune that the whole place dissolved into laughter whilst she held my hand. They always say the ones who make you laugh the most, make you cry the most too. And so here we are, 8 years later, ignoring each other across the physics lab because of a boy.

‘We’ll be stopping 10 minutes early today kids’ announces Miss Grant, her frizzy hair bouncing with enthusiasm as usual. ‘A special treat. A really important moment because …’ the rest is blah, blah, blah as I think about Ronnie and what she did. And what I said on the phone last night. My fingers subconsciously play with the lolly sticks laid out in front of me. The rest of my group is engrossed and I hear the words ‘load’, ‘structure’ and ‘supports’ but I’m not contributing like I usually do. I glance over and I can see Ronnie. Her back’s to me but I know that she isn’t working on her bridge either. She’s stewing too.

The next thirty minutes are eternal, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between us whilst everyone else is gluing and taping and failing and succeeding. I have one job to do – calculate the maximum load the span can carry. I’m the maths genius but I make a simple mistake that sees the weight I suggest crash through the flimsy wooden frame. Broken, like our friendship.

My blushes are somewhat spared because, at that moment, Miss Grant pushes the massive TV cart on wheels into the lab, the doors crashing open and then shut again. She’s fiddling with the tuning dial as my classmates jostle for position. I sense Ronnie next to me, the swirl of teenage bodies eddying around us like we're stones in a river as they chase a clear view of the screen. I’m not breathing, and I don’t think she is either.

I’m trying to focus on the screen, the slightly fuzzy picture settling down as Miss Grant finds the right channel. I can see a picture-perfect blue sky on the screen. Florida, I think Miss Grant said. And I can hear someone counting down – ’10, 9, 8, 7 …’. Is this for me and Ronnie? For one of us to say ‘Enough', and apologise when we get to zero? But the moment comes and goes and neither of us says a thing. The kids around us are cheering and Miss Grant is talking about a teacher and then … there’s a gasp. Like, a really loud gasp because that picture-perfect blue sky has turned orange and grey. And Ronnie takes my hand, and squeezes.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

While so many of the pieces this month put the chosen important event at the centre of their stories (and that’s just fine, by the way), this deftly decided to merely make it a fuzzy backdrop. Instead of excited anticipation and expository details about the upcoming shuttle launch, we are treated to a far more realistic apathetic teenage point of view – where one is more worried about losing a best friend than seven astronauts. By doing this, when the actual event does play out (cleverly alluded to only in snippets throughout, with just enough clues including the lovely diary-entry style title), it makes the hand squeeze moment feel earned as they finally put things in perspective. An authentic “where were you?” vignette – nicely paced and weighted!

EIGHT by Dani Smith, QLD

I’m bringing sexy back, Rosemary Strong sang in her loudest voice. Justin Timberlake’s hit song burst out from her car’s left speaker. The right speaker was still broken after a little mistake she had made last week when she had misjudged the distance between her red Toyota Echo and an electricity pole.

On this cold Winter evening in Sydney’s West, Rosemary had just left the high school where she worked as a science teacher. It was a 10-minute drive home, which she always thoroughly enjoyed as it was her only alone time between teaching teenagers and enduring the chaos of family life.

After she had brought sufficient sexiness back, the news introduction music started, which made her sit up straight in the driver’s chair and hold on just a little bit tighter to the steering wheel with her hands precisely at ten and two.

The news was nothing out of the ordinary – someone had died, there was a natural disaster somewhere, and a politician had promised something or other. However, there was one news story which made Rosemary (and her car) stop in its tracks. She indicated off the road, put her hazard lights on and sat very still as the story unfolded.

At first, she was shocked, then felt utter disbelief. Tears filled her eyes and dampened her cheeks. After the news was finished, she had had enough of the radio and swiftly switched it off.

They had changed history, she uttered. She didn’t know how this was possible. Something she had always known to be truth was now a lie. It wasn’t long before the shock and sadness turned to palpable anger.

She realised she had built her entire career on an absolute lie. She had finished school, studied teaching and had diligently taught her students for more than twenty years what she had thought was the truth. She had continued to build her life around her career. She had moved to this suburb, started a family.

The students, she thought, as she just realised how she had misled them. Perhaps they would come after her now because of the lie she had taught them. They would chase her down and punish her. She started imagining the implausible.

Darkness shrouded her car. She desperately needed fresh air so she leapt out of the car. The cold night air brushed her face and the traffic whooshed past her.

There were too many bright lights so there was no chance of seeing anything in the sky. She looked up anyway, hopeful to see something that would help her make sense of the news.

There was no sign, just darkness.

Rosemary got the courage to continue driving home, which meant facing her family. Her cheeks were blushed in peach as she explained to her children that something had changed forever.

This was a significant day in history, she told them. You will remember this day for the rest of your lives.

Then she told them what had happened to Pluto.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Right from the moment Rosemary announces that she is bringing sexy back, you can’t help but want to be on her side through whatever is to come. But once sufficient sexiness has been brought back (great line!), we begin the rollercoaster that is the mystery news item that has so rocked her world. Dished out in purposeful dollops of melodrama, we brace for the worst all the while searching for clues. And they’re there – her science teaching profession, the disproving of something she understood to be fact. And of course the stages of grief that culminate in searching the night sky. The final line reveals the news – and for those who remember it happening (24 August, 2006, by the way), it was indeed a bewildering day. We love that this large celestial relegation created this roadside story!

BEST SHOW IN HISTORY by Leah Kinninmont, WA

Sam looked out over the vast open paddock. It was perfect. He dumped his armload of pillows and blankets on the flat roof.

‘I don’t know about this Sam.’ Melly looked the roof over. ‘It’s kinda old and, well, icky.’

‘That’s what the tarp is for. See we spread it out between these two chimney stacks, riding up at the sides and back. Use these old timber beams to hold it down.’ Sam fiddled with the tarp, fighting the light breeze for control, then covered it in blankets and pillows. ‘Presto. A nice, cosy nest for tonight.’ He patted the pillow. ‘Take a seat. I’ll go down and bring up the rest.’

‘Well, I guess it is nice enough.’ He watched her settle down in the nest. A few moments later he rejoined her, handing her a hot cup of tea.

‘Are you sure about tonight? All the predictions are for it to happen tomorrow and further west.’ Melly wrapped a blanket tighter around herself. Sam reached over and tugged it up around her shoulders more. His Melly always felt the cold.

‘I got a feeling. Tonight’s the night and we’ll have the best view.’ He snuggled down deeper into the nest with her as night fell.

‘How long will we have to wait? It’s almost midnight.’ Melly asked.

Sam looked up at the dark, starless sky. ‘Not too long, I hope. Why don’t you sleep. I’ll wake you when it starts.’ He heard Melly’s breathing deepen and slow as she slept against him. He rested his head the top of hers, waiting. A boom startled him awake.

‘What was that?’ Melly jerk upright. His gaze went upwards, and he grinned.

‘Just the best show in history.’ More booms sounded. Melly gasped. Fireballs chased each other through the night sky.

‘It’s beautiful.’ Sam stared upwards in awe. Fireballs fell as sonic booms echoed across the open expanse.

‘Sam. Sam!’ Melly grabbed his arm, shaking him out of the moment. “That one is getting bigger.’ He looked to where she pointed.

‘Oh crap.’ He watched as the fireball flared brighter and brighter, getting larger and larger. Had he just made his last mistake? ‘Oh crap. Hit the deck, Melly.’ He yanked her down flat, throwing himself over her. A whistling filled the air. Heat scorched his back. A loud thud deafened him as lumps fell on top of him.

He shook his head. Sound returned and he realised Melly was screaming. He painfully sat up, dislodging the bricks the fell on him.

‘It’s okay Melly. We’re alright. It missed.’ He helped Melly sit up. Her eyes widened at something behind him. He looked over his shoulder and felt his jaw drop. There, just metres away was a car sized piece of debris, half buried in the roof. Spread across its pitted surface the words Skylab could be seen.

‘Maybe the roof wasn’t the best place after all.’

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

From one celestial object to another, as this July 1979 event made global headlines. The Skylab was the USA’s first ever space station, launched in 1973 at a low Earth orbit that meant that within six years, it would disintegrate into the atmosphere and burn up open re-entry. As it happened, Western Australia got front row seats to the light show as the structure hurtled to the ground in many pieces. And here, Sam and Melly get a little closer than they bargained for in a story clearly ‘based on true events’! (It is true that the calculations were wrong and it landed further east than NASA expected, over mainland Australia instead of the ocean.) It nicely captures that feeling we still get during eclipses and any night-sky search – that our place here is  so small compared to the universe!

IN MEMORY OF by Thomas Brodkin, USA

My wife died today. It wasn’t expected, and I’m honestly not sure if anyone is going to care.

She woke me up early with the words we both had been dreaming of.

“It’s time.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. I’m not sure why fathers ask that question. When women say it, they’re sure.

You’d think I would be tired. I stayed up late building Chase’s crib. That’s what we decided to call him. I voted for Dakota, but my wife wanted Chase. I’m a smart enough man to know when to argue and when to agree — this was a time to agree.

The crib? That’s a family tradition passed down from father to son for as long as anyone can remember. My dad built mine, his dad built his, and I wanted my son’s to be ready when he came home from the hospital.

I had my assigned tasks. Grab the suitcase, call the neighbor, leave water for the dog. We had made plans. We thought of everything. There would be no mistakes.

I pulled the car up to the front walk and opened my wife’s car door.

“You’d better not be laughing at the way I’m waddling,” she warned. She was waddling, however, and I did laugh, not loud but apparently loud enough. She punched me in the arm before climbing in the car.

They say that pregnant women are a special kind of beautiful, and my wife proved it to be true. In between contractions she would smile and talk to our son.

“Why are you kicking your Mamma?” she asked, rubbing her belly with one hand and my leg with the other.

At the hospital, the professionals took over. Dr. Conrad joked about the “earliness of the morning.” He put my mind at ease. Everything was going to be okay. Chase was on his way. His crib was ready. We were ready. My wife was meant to be a mother, today it would happen.

I’ve never been in a delivery room, but I was shocked how quickly my son was born. It seemed as if we had just arrived when the doctor told my wife to push. She did.

But the joy of the birth was short-lived.

One nurse took Chase out of the room, two others came in. Then a second doctor arrived, followed by a third. I think they might have forgotten I was there, but I saw it all. I heard it all.

“Time of death, 8:30.”

The doctor pulled off his mask and put his hand on my shoulder. I don’t remember what he said, I only recall that his eyes were kind.

I walked out of the delivery room and into the lounge. I looked up at a television in time to see a plane fly directly into the World Trade Center.

The cries of the people in the lounge matched my own.

My wife died today. It wasn’t expected, and I’m honestly not sure if anyone is going to care.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Of course, sometimes even the biggest “where were you?” moments in the world pale in significance to more personal events. The scene is set bluntly for one such story here, with an opening line that immediately intrigues in its cold offhandedness. In essence, it is a solid example of telling the reader exactly what will happen upfront, but still packing a punch when that very thing arrives.

Of course, as the opening line is repeated, we realise that this was never about whether anyone cared for their personal plight. Instead, it’s a curious study in both ‘spotlight syndrome’ and the importance of TIMING. So while 11 September 2001 will forever mark an important birth and death in the world of the narrator, for everyone else it was overshadowed by something else to care about.

UNTITLED by Sian Campbell, QLD

There’s this moment right before the gun goes off. A moment where you can feel the entire world still and quieten, as if just for you. A moment you’ve been holding your breath for. There’s a buzz in your fingertips that you’re aware is radiating now through your whole body. I think this is the feeling people spend their lives chasing. Like your body is live-wired, ready to be triggered at any moment. You want to slow these moments down. You take deep breaths, as if steadying your racing heart can will time to bend to your command. You aren’t sure if you’re ready. You aren’t sure if you prepared enough for this. You aren’t even sure of your ability to do this. But of course you can. It’s too late now to back out anyway. The gun will fire regardless.

I understand now why the colour of envy is green. Because it feels like the bile in your throat, waiting for someone you love to achieve something you’ve dreamt your whole life of. It is the colour of the whistle they gave you on the way to the hospital, your best friend holding your hand apologising through tears, desperately hoping that if you breathe the pain relief in a bit harder, it will take it all away. But the pain doesn’t go away. It comes back every time someone mentions the marathon you were meant to be running. The one you’d worked for years to qualify for, only to have it taken away by a mistake that you didn’t even make. The one in your hometown you spent your whole life watching from the sidelines, patiently waiting for your turn.

I switch the live stream broadcast on, in the hopes that watching my friend cross the finish line somehow compensates for the way I’ve withdrawn from her life almost completely. As though, maybe just witnessing her smash her PB time would be enough to counteract the way I wholeheartedly wish it was me crossing that yellow finishing line instead.

The weather glooms over the city, conjured perfectly just for me. It’s a quiet April day outside. To my right, my son constructs and destroys a tower over and over and over again, delighting in the joy of destroying something you’ve worked hard to create. The washing machine sings its finishing song.

The bile that lines the back of my throat threatens to rise as I watch it all unfold in real time. The jealousy turns to dread as the finishing line descends into chaos. The sound is unmistakable. Not once, but twice. People scrambling away from smoke clouds that begin to fill the air. I hold my breath. Just for a moment, the whole world goes quiet. It reverberates through my entire body. Breaking News from Boston, we’re live now.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Using a chopped narration that speaks to us in two points of view, this story starts off veiled in mystery – is the gun going off from something sinister or is it a sporting endeavour? The heart-racing duality in which the act is described means that it could be both. But now we see mention of a marathon and we think we have the measure of this timeline, in which our narrator appears to be sidelined with injury and forced out of this iconic event. Of course, watching on in envy soon turns to chaos as you realise that while the starter gun was harmless, something deadlier and more explosive has haunted the finish. The final sentence completes the puzzle – 15 April, 2013. An effective mix of red herring and gut-punch tension from start (line) to finish, exploring pain and suffering in its various forms.

DOCTOR QUINN MEDICINE WOMAN by Kate Gordon, TAS

I was watching Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman.

It was Sunday. My brother was playing Sega. My mum was doing marking at the kitchen table.

My dad wasn’t there because my dad didn’t live with us anymore. He lived half an hour away in a little flat, with a car that sometimes only drove backwards and a TV that only played ABC. He didn’t have Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman.

It wasn’t my favourite show. I liked Friends and Home Improvement and Third Rock From the Sun.

But it was Sunday and there wasn’t much on TV that wasn’t Christian programming and cartoons and I still liked cartoons but I wasn’t going to let my brother know that because I was thirteen, and thirteen-year-olds didn’t watch cartoons.

I found that out last summer. We went to stay with Mum’s friends near Hobart. They had a son and a daughter and the son was thirteen too. He didn’t watch cartoons. He listened to rap music. He made me blush. I stopped watching cartoons, then.

I had lots of photos from the Hobart trip. We went to the maze at Richmond. We built sandcastles at Sandy Bay beach. We went to Port Arthur. I made peace signs at the camera in my new Tencel overalls, standing by the old jail buildings; sitting at a table at the café. I liked looking at the photos because the boy was in them and I looked grown up.

My brother chased the boy’s little sister, from one end of the ground to the other and our parents yelled but then they laughed.

The site was so pretty, in the bright sunshine.

At the ad break, I got up to get Ribena and chips.

As I left the room, I heard the theme from the news.

I turned.

The news wasn’t on, at this time of day.

I held the TV remote. I didn’t feel it slip from my fingers.

Doctor Quinn didn’t come back on. It was only the news.

Mum came into the room when she heard me crying.

“Is this real?” she whispered.

“I don’t know.”

“James can’t see this,” she said. She made to leave. Halfway to the door, I heard her cry, “I have to ring Petra.”

Petra was her friend. The one we stayed with, who lived near Hobart.

And I was alone. And I watched the news. And it had to be a mistake.

Things like this didn’t happen in Tasmania.

I picked up the remote.

I turned down the volume, so James couldn’t hear.

I kept watching.

After awhile, Mum came back. I could still hear Sonic, playing in the next room.

“How many?” she asked. “How many died?”

I shook my head.

I couldn’t answer.

I thought of the boy who made me blush.

I thought of sitting at that table, at the café that was on the news.

I thought of the site, so pretty in the sunshine.

“Enough,” said Mum. And turned off the TV.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Once again, seeing things unfold through the authentic lens of a child is a powerful way to revisit a moment in time – gifting us with one of our favourite opening lines this month! The strong voice is clear immediately in this Sunday lounge-room drama, obsessed with teen crushes, TV shows, Ribena and chips. Even without referencing the year, the details place it in a particular time frame. And as the holiday locations are mentioned and then the news flash references Tasmania, most Australians will understand that this is 28 April 1996. We particularly appreciated the inclusion of banal details throughout (the TV reception and the car at Dad’s house etc) – peppered only sparingly with things that hint to the important event of the day. The story’s title continues this vibe – doubling down on the most trivial piece of information for great effect. The later repetition of “I” sentences (including a trio of “I thought of” ones) aptly convey the sensory overload that completes this “where were you when?” scene.

DECEMBER 15, 2012 by Amber Sayer, USA

Greta placed two small plates on the counter. She mindlessly opened the cabinet and grabbed homemade sourdough and two jars of peanut butter—crunchy for her daughter, smooth for her son.

She remembered feeling annoyed at the grocery store months ago over needing to purchase two kinds.

“I only like crunchy now,” her daughter had announced. “Extra crunchy, or I won’t eat it!”

Her daughter, then a full-fledged kindergarten graduate, seemed to be in a summer phase where suddenly everything she’d previously liked was “babyish.“

“I’ll put it on the list!”

They’d always been a smooth peanut butter family, an expectation her son wasn’t going to cede without a fight.

Greta remembered how his face flushed with anger, so much heat radiating off his body that it could be felt across the breakfast table.

“That’s not fair! I like smooth. She always gets her way cuz she’s older!”

The two argued back and forth, her daughter haranguing that smooth peanut butter is for babies, dramatically gesticulating with skinny arms polka dotted with mosquito bites.

“I’m not a baby,” her son had said, choking back tears. “I’m goin’ to school this year!”

It was true.

Both kids would soon be in school all day, her son starting kindergarten and her daughter, first grade.

Greta remembered that fight like it was yesterday, the August humidity making the kitchen feel like a greenhouse.

Now, just 10 days until Christmas, the frosty New England air seemed to penetrate every seam of the house.

Every winter, Greta grumbled that it’d been a mistake to move to Sandy Hook instead of Florida.

Today, she’d give anything to have chosen any other town in the world, even if it was in Antarctica.

She’d give anything to hear her kids bickering.

She’d buy every iteration of peanut butter from every store if it’d bring her daughter back.

Sounds of her son dumping Legos onto the floor in the next room snapped Greta back to the present.

The kids had been building a replica of the space station now that they had enough Legos—an early Christmas gift from Grandpa.

Greta slathered smooth peanut butter on one slice of bread, and then uncapped the crunchy peanut butter.

It still had yesterday’s knife indentations, the valleys coated in glistening pools of separated oil.

“Mom, where’s Chloe?”

Her son’s innocent words caught her off guard. She hadn’t heard him come in.

His small body looked blurry.

“Why are you crying?”

Didn’t he understand anything that happened yesterday?

Selfishly, Greta wanted him to understand; she didn’t want to grieve alone, and yet she prayed his callow mind was too young to understand.

After all, even her fully-fledged mind had instinctively grabbed a half-eaten jar of peanut butter she’d never need to open again.

Greta realized this was the distinction between humans and monsters—monsters are capable of committing acts that transcend human understanding.

She closed the crunchy peanut butter and put it back in the cabinet, her human mind believing: just in case.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Sometimes the title of your story can be subtle and trivial, but other times, it makes sense to make it a simple piece of wayfinding – a direct link to the core of this narrative. In this heartbreaking piece, the date in question is the day AFTER the day before. And the oft-repeated morning sandwich routine is still a muscle memory reflex for this grieving parent. Filled with a poignant summer flashback that bubbles with life, the cold winter reality of the present comes crashing back like lego bricks in this powerful story that sadly cannot avoid using children to illustrate its point. We learned in this creative challenge that a lot of powerful dates in history are tragic ones. This story hints at the pain of struggling to go on in the aftermath of the unthinkable.

FORGIVENESS by Lindsay Bamfield, VIC

I picked up a brick and fantasised about slinging it through the neighbours’ window. I imagined the satisfying smash of glass.

Instead, I laid it on the row of bricks I’d already assembled.

‘Good at this, aren’t you.’ My brother assessed my work.

‘But it’s taken me ages. And I’ve had enough of my back aching. That’s why I need your help. I want it high enough to block them out.’ Al knew I meant the neighbours and the reason why.

It’s not funny finding your hedge lying on the ground with only ragged stumps left in the earth. My grandad had planted the hedge when he bought the house in leafy north London soon after Mum was born. It was almost seventy years old and they’d destroyed it in a matter of hours, maybe minutes!

‘Will it be ready for my party?’ my daughter came to look at our work. I’d promised her she could celebrate her fifth birthday with games of chase and musical statues in the garden so long as it wasn’t raining. We had two days until her birthday on the 11th. Armistice Day. Just another thing to remind me of Grandad. He fought in the trenches, surviving the horror of Passchendaele.

The neighbours claimed it was all a mistake, that they’d told their gardener to trim the hedge and he’d misunderstood. It’d be easy to misunderstand someone telling him to get rid of that bloody hedge, wouldn’t it. I’d heard them moaning about having to cut it on their side since they moved in.

I listened to the radio as I made dinner. The news stopped me short. I switched on the TV. ‘Look!’ I called to Al. ‘The wall’s coming down.’

The Berlin Wall. We’d grown up with the spectre of the Iron Curtain. Now people were climbing on the wall and hacking pieces off. Celebrating! We saw people’s joy at being reunited.

Al and I looked at each other. ‘You know those bricks could make a good raised bed, where you want your veggies to be.’ We ran back outside in the frosty darkness. I shone the torch as he prised a brick from the barely set mortar. And another. And another. The 9th of November 1989 was a day of reunification.

Two days later I invited the neighbours to join us for a drink after the birthday party was over. Six little girls hadn’t cared whether there was a hedge, a wall or nothing at all. They just celebrated.

The birthday girl has her own little girls now. The hedge between my garden and the next thrives. Privet hedges are very forgiving. I watch as my granddaughters dig their trowels into the old raised bed where plenty of vegetables have grown. They plant their seeds. They’ve been learning about Digging for Victory and I showed them where, long before I was born, Grandad had dug for victory in this very garden. Then I told them about a dividing wall coming down.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We really loved the simple active metaphor that this small suburban story plays out – initially presenting us with a nightmare neighbour scenario that necessitates the need for drastic action. And yet, with the news that a far more famous and long standing symbol of division had that day come down, our narrator realises that the world doesn’t need any more walls going up. The line about privet hedges being very forgiving was also nice – a double meaning that links to the title. By choosing to repurpose the bricks into the raised veggie patch instead, they have provided another generation with far more joy. We had a LOT of Berlin Wall stories this month, but this one was carefully built and told.

[Sidenote: In this new age of ‘AI’ (Artificial Intelligence), do you trip when reading a character called ‘Al’ (short for Albert, Alfred etc)?]

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we like to include an extra LONGLIST (approx 5-10%) of stories that stood out from the submitted hundreds and were highly considered for the showcase. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, enjoy a moment of satisfaction! And to ALL who submitted stories, we’d LOVE to see you again for next month’s challenge!

THIS MONTH’S LONGLIST (in no particular order):

• DECEMBER 2019 by Jall, India
• THE VERY FABRIC OF THE UNIVERSE by Dave Wong, ACT
• SAVIOR by Gale Deitch, USA
• THE WIND THAT BLEW AWAY SANTA by Athena Law, QLD
• TRACY’S COMING by Lorena Otes, NSW
• IN THE CLOUDS by Sarah Lamers, USA
• THE 26TH OF JANUARY 1988 by John Walker, NSW
• Y2K by Sasan Sedighi, WA
• COME BACK SOON by Christina Kershaw, UK
• BIG DAY OUT by Kimberley Ivory, NSW
• A FAIRY TALE by Leonie Jarrett, VIC
• THE MUSINGS OF KASPAR NEUMANN ON THE EVE OF NOVEMBER 9TH 1989 by Caroline Jenner, UK
• THE WALL by Susan Hobson, QLD
• NOTHING TO NUMB THE NEWS by Steve Saulsbury, USA
• BURNING by Sue Croft, VIC
• THE SILENT SEPTEMBER MORNING by FIona Botterill, QLD
• LITTLE GLASS CUPS by Beata Kurcz, Poland
• JANUARY 28, 1986 by Ryan Klemek, USA
• THE GINGERBREAD HOUSE by Eugenie Pusenjak, ACT
• HEAD ON A COIN  by Steve Cumper, TAS
• THE ANNIVERSARY by Sukanya Singh, India
• BROTHERS by EB Davis, ACT
• 9TH NOVEMBER 1989 by Immy Mohr, NSW
• SAND CASTLES by John McParland, NSW
• LABOUR DAY by Nina Lee, NSW
• DEATH OF A PRINCESS by Julia Ruth Smith, Italy
• THE IMPLOSION by Lou Harper, VIC
• ONE MINUTE by V Petersen, NSW
• NEW YEAR’S DAY by Abitova Prique, NSW
• THE MAN WHO BUILDS by AJ Coatess, Canada

• Each story’s first sentence had to be a question.
• Each story had to include something being pulled.
• Each story had to include the words POST, TEAR and THUNDER.

So, pull up a chair and pull on some comfortable clothes as we take a look at some of the trends we saw this month. Yes, legs were pulled. Levers were pulled. Pints were pulled. Pork was pulled. Weight was pulled. And pranks were pulled. (To name just a few!) We saw wooden posts, social media posts, abandoned posts, postmen, post-haste and posters. Tears were shed as well as tearing everything from clothes to paper to flesh and ligaments. Thunder clapped, thunder roared and many were left thunderstruck (ah aaah ah ah ah ahhh). It made for quite the cacophony.

QUESTIONABLE MOTIVES

So WHY did we ask you to start with a question? Because it immediately engages the reader – even if the question isn’t being directed at them, it still can be a powerful way to hook your story. And we saw everything from narrator questions, rhetorical questions, dialogue questions and musing questions. Here are just a selection of our favourite openers to illustrate the sheer variety:

• How did my life end up this way, so derailed, with nothing but labels such as “juvenile delinquent” and “nutcase” to show for it? (Jayden, VIC)
• Hot air balloons are perfectly safe, aren’t they? (Karen Andrews, QLD)
• “ARE YOU READY TO RUMBLE?” (Immy Mohr, NSW)
• What if? (C.L.Clifton, USA)
• Why is a 48-year-old, second rate lounge singer, lying under a nursing home bed at ten o’clock at night? (Mick James, VIC)
• Fart? (Simon Bruce, VIC)
• Have you ever seen a Sasquatch sing? (Christian Weir, UK)
• “This is a taco moment, am I right?” (Rebecca Belov, QLD)
• Am I the only one who has ever used Google Earth to find true love? (Cheryn Witney, SA)
• Zombies are just humans without hearts, aren’t they? (Amitoz Kaur, India)
• If Sally took 100 steps forwards, 20 steps to the right, 3 steps backwards and 33 steps to the left, how many steps did she take with each foot assuming she started with her left foot, used a step-together-step-together method to step to the right, used a crossover method to step to the left and moonwalked for the backwards steps? (JM Storck, NSW)
• “Mreelp bex wran herbwas?” (Andrew Paradiso, USA)
• It’s always the devil’s fault, isn’t it? (Sunny, Germany)
• What if Artificial Intelligence deliberately failed the Turing Test? (EB Davis, ACT)
• “What do you think humans taste like?” (Emily Shortall, NSW)
• “Do you have any last words?” (Andrew Harrison, NSW)

And a special shout out to William New (USA), whose ENTIRE story was one single, 491-word sentence ending in a question! 

Right then, that’s the questions. Now it’s time for the ANSWERS – our selection of stories – including our top pick of the month from Cheryl Lockwood of Queensland. Cheryl’s story, along with our shortlist and longlisted stories are all showcased below. Congrats to ALL who rose to the challenge – let’s do it again next month!

APRIL TOP PICK

BANANAS by Cheryl Lockwood, QLD

“What are bananas made of?”

I pick up the baby, swing her onto my hip and bite into a finger of cold toast. A dribble of honey leaks toward my chin like a big, thick tear and the baby smacks her hand onto it and giggles. Pippa, sitting at the kitchen table, looks up at me earnestly as though she’s just asked me the meaning of life. I glance at the clock.

“They’re just made of banana… I guess.”

The baby swipes my toast, promptly dropping it on the floor and screams like she’s lost her right arm. Maxi is off the dog bed in a flash, gobbling up the sticky toast. Probably a good thing as I wouldn’t have hesitated in scooping it off the floor, plucking off the stray fluff and handing it back to the baby. Instead, I grab a strawberry from Pippa’s plate and shove it into the baby’s mouth, which stops her wailing.

“But what are they made of?”

15 minutes to get cleaned up and out the door and I know she’s not going to let it go for the whole car ride to day-care. Yesterday’s question, (How much would it cost to post an elephant?) had me trying to convince my 3-year-old that one can’t really mail live mammals, regardless of size. Another glance at the clock. I pull squashed strawberry from my hair and lick juice off of the baby’s fingers. I wipe Pippa’s face with a tea towel.

“OK, Pip, brush your teeth, shoes on. Let’s go, Mummy can’t be late.”

She drops the banana question to utter her new favourite word. “Why?” I ignore it, while I carry the baby to the kitchen sink to sponge dregs of food from…well, just about everywhere. I lift her up for inspection, sniff her nappy and decide she’ll pass muster without child services being called.

“C’mon, Pip, honey let’s go.”

She emerges wearing a purple tutu, pink singlet and a Pokémon beanie. I herd Maxi out the back door and the girls and their paraphernalia into the car. Eight minutes to make the 10-minute drive to day-care. I’m now dreaming of strong coffee, hoping it will ease my headache from thunderous to bearable on the throb scale. Several more rounds of “Why this and why that?” sees us screech into the carpark, where I ignore the glares from those parents who obviously have it all together.

I make it to the office with about a minute to spare and a wet patch on my blouse where my left boob sprung a leak. Finally, I slump into my work chair and for a full minute, do nothing but soak in the peace. The sweet faces of my girls smile at me from a pasta-lined frame on the desk and just like that, I can’t wait for the day to end, so I can scoop them into my arms. I start opening emails, but really, I’m wondering what bananas are made of.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

A hilariously accurate homage to working parents the world over, as well as an oh-so-relatable nod to this month’s question-posing prompt, for anyone who has EVER spent time around a toddler! Right from the first banana-honey combo, we know we’re in for a fun morning ride – multitasking between swipey baby, opportunistic dog and the ever-curious Pippa. And just like real life, despite these strands pulling in all directions, we also see Mummy’s morning play out through the centre – her own strawberry/hair moment, a nice use of the ‘pull’ prompt. Bookending the banana query, without slip ups along the way, made for a satisfying ending – it certainly had ‘a peel’ with us this month!

FLUORESCE by Athena Law, QLD

How many lightbulbs does it take to change a woman? There’s a longer answer if you really want to know, but the short answer— it was three.

ONE

The first lightbulb was in my university share house. Seven of us scattered through the ramshackle structure, a blissful tumble of bodies and thoughts and textbooks and takeaway curries. One night the kitchen light blew—a single hanging bulb previously illuminating the rusted fridge, the ripped vinyl floor and the stovetop spattered with flecks of dark red (baked beans or bolognaise, I don’t remember). We spent a week romanticising our reduced situation, foraging by torchlight, dining with candles, quoting the Bard. Peeling posters on the wall became art, cheap cask wine became nectar. They were all at lectures when I stood on the table and changed the bulb. It was a different mood that night when reality was observed under a 60-watt glare.

TWO

The second lightbulb was just after my wedding. When I say after, I mean within minutes. It was a back garden celebration – his idea, not mine, and as soon as the “I do’s” were said at sunset under the tree festooned with globe string lights, he was drinking beer with his mates. I sipped sparkling grape juice with the women who clustered around my homemade cake, and I stroked you in my belly. Your father made a game of throwing empty beer bottles into the bin, but a wild throw caught a glass bulb which exploded with a crack. A shard, fast and paper-thin, sliced me on my chest, my flimsy white dress spattered with flecks of dark red (blood, I do remember).

THREE

The third? You were only four years old when your father’s games became no longer fun, when his dark moods pulled him under, out of reach. His thunderous demands and my silence as I romanticised our reduced situation. Then one day I looked, I truly saw, your tearstained face, your sleep-crusted eyelashes, and your chubby bruised arm. He didn’t need to smash anything, I didn’t need to replace anything, there were no spatters or flecks of dark red. There was simply a moment when I understood, and in that 60-watt glare I gathered you up and walked out into the light.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Flipping the classic lightbulb question on its head, this cleverly constructed piece essentially plays out in a three act structure – each part a stepping stone to the ultimate resolution. We loved the commitment to the lightbulb premise, used literally in the first location – a new globe shining a reality check on the (highly relatable, but so-often romanticised) Bohemian lifestyle. A lightbulb also plays a lesser role in part two, with sublime repetition and contrasting meaning in the ‘dark red’ parentheses at the end. By the third act, the lightbulb moment has become figurative – a 60-watt realisation and culmination that sets her free. A powerful and compact (376 words) display of how to use a simple narrative device to tell a layered story, the title a nice nod to a life now shining bright!

BUBBLES by Kate Gordon, TAS

How soon could she get to L?
She was excited about the new project. It was an honour to be asked. It meant the managers saw she could do more than only stand at the service desk, scanning books; handing out printer tokens.
“You can do A-L,” Lenora told her. “James will take M onwards.”
She looked shyly at her red-headed coworker. He smiled back at her.
That was all it ever was. A smile.
She looked down at her sensible shoes.
“Leave anything published post 2010. Pull anything out of date or problematic, offensive …” The phone on Lenora’s desk rang. Lenora waved a hand. “You know what you’re doing.”
As they left the office, James leaned close. “Do we know what we’re doing?” he whispered.
Her cheeks heated. “Up for debate.”
A student pushed a trolley cart by, stacked high with books. It sounded like thunder; made her start.
James touched her elbow. “You good?”
She nodded, embarrassed. “I’m good.”
And then, they parted.
“I’ll start at Z,” he said. “We can meet in the middle.”
How soon could she get to L?
She wondered if a book on the history of “Czechoslovakia”, written in 1990, might be considered out of date.
Or if a book on the virtues of housewifery could be called problematic.
Definitely, some of the old books on “baby-rearing” were more than a bit offensive. Why wasn’t the father helping? Why were the boys all dressed in blue?
She was creating quite a pile.
And she was, she found, quite enjoying it. This removing of the old world, its outdated attitudes, scrubbing it clean, ready to replace with knowledge that was right and now.
And then she was at K.
And there was a tiny volume, between Klein and Klekociuk, a slight tear in its cover.
A feather pattern on its spine.
The title was, “These are words that will never be untrue.”
She couldn’t help herself. She took a seat on her wooden stool and she began to read.
The purest thing is kindness.
We do not know what we do not know.
It is a privilege to learn.
We must teach with love.
A smile is enough.
Not everything old is wrong. Not everything new is right.
We can learn from our forebears. Even if they did not use all the correct terminology.
There are no new stories. There is only new understanding.
The sweetest thing is connection.
She turned back to her little pile.
“Huh,” she whispered.
“Up to L, yet?”
She turned to look up at him. “Only K. But actually … I think I might go back and reconsider some of the ones I pulled.”
He smiled at her. A smile is enough. “I can help you,” he said.
And the purest thing is kindness.
She looked over at the books starting with L.
She nodded. “Please.”
He brushed her shoulder. “Book dust,” he whispered.
She looked down at her sensible shoes, blushing.
The sweetest thing is connection.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Okay, you can write about any subject, but if you want to win over a bunch of writers, doing so with a setting full of books is a great place to start! Of course, none of that works without a purpose and sharp writing – both of which could fill a trolley cart in this story. Librarian Lenora has been tasked with banishing the bad parts of published history – A to L to be precise. And as the opening question sets up, she’s in no mood to linger – out with the old and all that. Yet, amid the Czech history and blue check shirts, a small book reaches out and gives her some timeless lessons. In an age filled with constant change, this was like a lovely oasis – a reminder that old, new, wrong and right can be mutually exclusive.

OLD SALT by A. Atkins, Canada

Is this how it ends?

“Man your posts! Do your duty!”

My words are stolen by the wind, but it doesn't matter. The crew knows what to do. They don't need to be told.

There's a crack in the world, where the sea meets the sky, an invisible fold tucked neatly into the horizon. That little red line covers up the little red truth, like crisp linen on a blood-stained mattress: The sea is a brothel. Don't let her pleasures fool you—nothing good happens here.

Our eyes burn with salt and sweat, the only time you'll see the tears of a sailor except for maybe the birth of his son. Gnarled fingers heave on ropes and cloth as the rain gives us back our dignity. This canvas, beaten and weathered, is our Lord and Savior now.

Was she repaired right? Did my men pull their weight?

There's no way of knowing for sure, but we pretend we do anyway. Doubt is the biggest killer at sea. Lose faith in your crew and they'll spoil, curdle aboard your vessel like milk in the sun.

We watch the hands of the gods pry the world apart, grab onto that little red thread and give it a pull, conjuring a fissure in the darkness and filling it with thunder.

Is this vengeance? Boredom? Or maybe we just don't matter enough. I wish I knew.

I brace myself and close my eyes, steadied by the familiar sway of the boards beneath my boots, even as this wet bitch rages against my ship. I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips, dry and callused from years of labour, my pulse tethered to the swells like rigging to masts. If the storm is a song, this is her crescendo.

I raise my arms to the sky, face turned to the heavens, and dare her to break my boat.

“Is this all you’ve got?” I scream.

She screams back, my hat whipped from my head, but she's tiring. Gods—not unlike toddlers—tire swiftly.

My ship rights itself, black sky breaking, dotted with pricks of light as starlight finds her way back to us. I sink to my knees, gazing up at the canvas with relief.

I thought this was it.

The voices of men return, along with the sweet smell of rum. The air is heavy. Stagnant. Something is wrong. I check the stars and my brow furrows. We're off-course.

I can't feel my heartbeat anymore. It's as silent as the wind is still. My men sway in the breeze, too drunk to notice there isn't one.

A voice, like broken glass in the dead air, whispers to me, “Pray to your sails now. I dare you.” She hums to herself—the tune that of a trickster turning tricks; nothing good happens here.

So, this is how it ends.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

All aboard! And all eyes on the horizon as this stormy shanty serves us up a mix of brine and brimstone – almost as if we’ve been dropped into the middle chapters of a longer Pequod-esque adventure. There are some fantastic similes (“like crisp linen on a blood stained mattress”) and some fittingly weathered but reliable turns of phrase as we join our captain – equal parts resolute, equal parts pessimistic – for a showdown with the sea gods. Gritty and compelling, perhaps not everyone’s cup of rum, but a good example of using the prompts to create something unique!

THE INTRUDER by Bree Manning, QLD

Was it real? Her heart was pounding. Shielded behind the flapping curtains, she stole another glance. Thunder rumbled as the once-silent night now roared to life, the curtains whipping furiously in the sudden gusts. As she hurried to close the window, a flash of lightning had illuminated a figure braving the storm, heading straight for the house. She only caught a glimpse of him before he vanished into the darkness.

Rainclouds shadowed the moon, casting an eerie dark over the night. Peeking from behind the curtain, she strained to see into the blackness, questioning if what she had seen was real. The room remained dark around her, shielding her from the outside. The scent of rain hung heavy in the air as her eyes darted over the vast darkness, searching. Another flash of lightning struck, illuminating her view. Her heart leapt into her throat as she jumped back, startled. The shadowy figure had advanced closer. She hadn’t been expecting anyone.

She tried to calm herself, hoping he hadn’t spotted her. Acting on instinct, she kept the lights off, believing it was best if he thought there wasn’t anyone here. With nowhere to flee in the fury of the storm, she had to hide, but where? Hastily, she rushed towards the bedroom door, pausing abruptly as she did a doubletake on the dresser. The jewellery, she thought. Silently, she opened the drawers, delicately pulling out the most precious items and tucking them safely in her shirt. With no time to waste, she dashed to the laundry room and sought refuge behind the hot water system, waiting in silence.

Bang!

The crash jolted her. The front door flung open with frantic force as lightning crashed again, louder this time. Panicked, she cursed herself for forgetting to lock the door again.

Drip, drip, thud. Drip, drip, thud. The rhythmic drip of water hitting the tiled floor melded with the echoes of his slow footsteps as he prowled down the hallway. Was it his footsteps or her heart pounding? The sounds merged into one, blending with the storm's fury. Tears welled in her eyes. Drenched in sweat, she had to choose: flee, fight, or hide?

Amidst the chaos, the ringing of the phone was barely audible.

‘Hello, police, fire, or ambulance?’ She strained to hear the voice on the other end.

‘Police. Someone’s broken into my house. Please, help.’

She made her choice.

Crack!

He crumpled to the floor, his phone clattering on the tiles, ending his call. Post-impact, he lay still. She checked; he was still alive and would survive. This was her only chance. She couldn’t risk being caught.

Leaving no trace of her intrusion, she fled with the jewellery into the darkness of the storm.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

It was a dark and stormy night! This story drops us right into the tension already playing out – a scared homeowner watching on as an intruder invades her space. The pace is fast and all the senses come into play as we’re with her right up until that phone call… Ah. Well played, that author. At last, the true culprit is unmasked – a classic ‘bait and switch’ that never gives us time to get comfortable or question anything in the tense build up, so that when the rug is pulled (along with the jewellery), we’re left as dazed as the poor mislabelled homeowner. A clever cocktail of chaos, with a twist!

UNTITLED by Melanie Noller, QLD

What to do, what to do? I was balancing on a precarious seesaw – at one end, tears of happiness, at the other, tears of misery. It was mine if I wanted it. My fingers twitched, so tempted to say yes.

“You should do it. Buy it now while you have the chance,” Phil said, voice hushed.

“No way. You can’t afford it. Skip it this time,” Mabel disagreed.

That didn’t help – I was being pulled in two different directions by my friends. I looked up, mentally calculating the risks. I had the money. I could afford it right now. But if something came up, any unexpected expenses, I’d be screwed. But this might be my only chance. I could develop it and make so much if it worked out.

My heart thundered. I had to make the decision now or it would be too late. What if I bought it and had buyer’s remorse? I didn’t want any post-purchase regret. On the other hand, this could be it. It could be the beginning of my own little empire. My hands were shaking. I was going to do it.

“I’ll buy it,” I declared. Phil laughed and Mabel groaned.

I handed over all of my money and snatched up the deed. Mayfair was mine.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Another twist! Okay, this is more of a ‘reveal’ – as our unnamed narrator seems to struggle with a life-altering decision. At different ends of this metaphorical seesaw (yes, it’s a metaphor, no playgrounds were harmed), friends Phil and Mabel act as counterweights to this vague but clearly important choice. As a reader, you have no choice but to believe in the stakes and feel the stress of this purchase. Until of course, the pieces (literally) fall into place, the game is up and we’re sent to story jail. Do not pass GO. It may not hold the monopoly on complexity, but at just over 200 words, it takes a CHANCE and comes away with a simple win.

ASS by Alison Bernasconi, NSW

Really? A donkey? Not a severed head on a pillow, or a cut-off foot or hand, or even a gouged-out eye. A live donkey.

The beach house in its earlier configuration had been modestly furnished with cane chairs and cotton floral pillows and cushions, pink and yellow hibiscus. Not loud. Well-washed and cared for. Wooden floors, small pastel rugs. The kitchen table had been a small square timber extendable table with simple wooden stools put together with mortise and tenon joints wedged with wooden pegs.

The table now lay in several pieces, angular and stiff, like a massacred giraffe. The living room floor had long gouges where something heavy was dragged. The lounges had holes kicked through the cane insets and the frames were spread around in dismantled splintered pieces. The pillows and cushions were torn apart, with copious white clouds of stuffing giving a dismal degenerate post-Christmas effect. Mounds and smears of brown defecation decorated the room.

It was the smell that hit Shelley when she opened the door more than the visual. She struggled not to inhale but the more she tried to hold her breath and breathe out, the more she defaulted to inhaling, then gagging, tears spiking her eyes. She pulled the door shut. She put her hands on her knees and focussed on settling her breathing, and the rising nausea. She heard the animal braying somewhere in the house, thundering out its fear and objection to being imprisoned.

She had to work hard to comprehend what was happening. What had happened. This was supposed to be her weekend at the beach.

She knew this was Lorenzo and Aldo’s work. Greedy mongrels. But Raf had been cocky, and ignorant, then litigious. Her ex-husband was like the donkey inside. Contain him, go against his will, he’d explode. On this occasion, with the three brothers’ grandmother having passed away and a contentious will, listing a number of mortgaged properties and years of tax evasion, each of them pleaded their cases to each other so they would be unified dealing with the lawyer.

Raf had been named as the executor and refused to bond with either of the brothers. He believed he was chosen for his financial acuity, his rationale, his stability. As a real estate agent running a small country business, his grandmother had had pride in his work ethic and his ability to hold a business together, especially because he was the youngest. The other two brothers had lived on and off the grandmother’s farm, helping with the fruit orchard and the vegetable gardens, and the markets where they sold their produce. On and off.

Their outraged response was the donkey.

Raf’s retort would be a step up, whatever that could be. Shelley shook her head. She sank down onto the doorstep, the donkey cries and occasional smashes and crashes punching through the walls of the house.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There’s something magnificent about the combination of the double-meaning title (the donkey and the ex-husband) with that incredulous opening paragraph. We’d almost say it was like a breath of fresh air, but, well, you know. As for beach-hopeful Shelley, well, she bears the brunt of all this horseplay – the story’s order cleverly giving us her first response, then taking in the damage and returning to add more context. And quick, someone grab Phil, Mabel and the metaphorical seesaw from the previous story, because this one is like a real life Monopoly deal! Actually, scratch that, with disgruntled brothers named Lorenzo and Aldo, plus allusions to expected severed equine heads, it’s The-Godfather-by-the-Sea. Shelley’s body language is wonderful, as she is ultimately left on the doorstep sitting on the third meaning of the title!

SUMMONING STORMS by Elizabeth Carmody, QLD

‘So where does fire come from?’
We’re perched on the edge of the summit’s rocky outcrop, the valley stretching and arching below us. Summoning storms again.
Deaz leans on the hitching post beside me, eyeing me curiously.

‘If water is the heart, air’s the mind, earth’s the feet – where does fire come from?’ I shoot him a sideways glance.
‘Focus!’ he snaps, and circles behind me. ‘Or you’ll lose it again’.

The storm clouds are collecting in the distance, and I can feel the growing power spreading through my body like a swelling wave. It takes all my focus now to pull the clouds together, to collide and combust these immense forces of nature.
‘Fire is from the belly’ Deaz whispers behind me, watching the building storm I create. ‘The place where we are strong, fearless, the seat of our will. Our true source of power’.

Storms are the best way to practise, according to Deaz, because all of the elements are in a storm. But I can’t seem to hold one for more than a few minutes.

‘Good…. now pull it towards us’.
I use all my focus to pull the swirling sea of black clouds to me. Power cursing through my body, my heart thumping and my muscles aching. The wind tears through my hair in a torrent. I squint my eyes against the pelting rain.
‘Good!’ Deaz raises his voice against the howling wind ‘Keep going!”
I don’t know how much longer I can hold it. I feel like I’m going to explode, it's too much, too much power. I can’t see through the torrential rain, I can’t hear anything but the howling wind, I brace my body as it threatens to launch me into the air as my gown becomes a sail.

Then I feel something different, something new. The power is still there but there’s a new sense. An itch, no, a zap. Like electricity.
Thunder booms in my eardrums and blinding white light flashes around us. I panic, I flinch, I step back….and I lose it. Again.

We stand there, soaking wet, watching the dissipating clouds evaporate into the blue sky. My wet hair sticks to my face and I clench my fists in frustration.
Deaz laughs and pats my back. I hate how he does that.

‘You’re getting better’. He leans back on the hitching post. I turn to face him.
‘So what happens when I can summon fire?’
He smiles, and his eyes grow wide.
‘Lightning’.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Using fantasy elements in flash fiction can be a tough assignment – usually due to the amount of world-building required in such a small word count. But here, it’s the elements themselves that are harnessed for this story, wisely choosing those we’re familiar with (water, air, earth and fire). The story also makes the decision not to explain these beings – essentially superhuman in their abilities and hinting at Eastern master/apprentice elemental stories like Avatar: The Last Airbender for shared inspiration. But all that aside, what stood out was the commitment to the storytelling – confident throughout, with a respect for the reader that they would understand what was happening. Much like the earlier storm-summoning ship story, we feel we’re part of a larger world here, happy to glimpse just a flash of it in this flash fiction piece.

THE DRAGON SMASHES THE PATRIARCHY by Suzanne Wacker, QLD

How many virgins have I eaten? Too many to count but one thing is certain. I’m bored to death.
I yawn as I drag my ancient and tired body into the sacrificial chamber.
‘Let’s get this over with.’ I don’t even bother opening my eyes. I can smell the girl from a mile away.
‘I’d rather not, thank you.’
I open my eyes and peer at the girl tied to the post. She’s pulling at the ropes but looking directly at me.
‘Why aren’t you screaming in terror?’ I ask.
‘Would it help?’
I sigh. ‘No, not really. It was exciting for the first hundred years or so. The virgins screaming and pleading for their lives. It’s just boring now.’
She stops trying to free herself. ‘Virginity is a social construct.’
‘A what?’
‘It’s just a way for the patriarchy to keep women enslaved.’
I laugh. It sounds like a clap of thunder and the girl covers her ears.
‘I like you girl. You’re most entertaining and it will be a shame to eat you.’
‘Well, the thing is, I’m not even a virgin.’
‘Of course you are! I know a virgin when I see one.’
‘How? You can’t possibly know if a woman is a virgin or not.’
I frown. ‘You all taste the same.’
‘You’ve been tricked, dragon. The men bring you any girl they want to get rid of. One who speaks her mind and wants to improve life for women. You haven’t eaten a real virgin in centuries. Think about it. If you knew you were going to be sacrificed to a dragon, would you remain a virgin?’
‘You have a point, girl. It doesn’t matter. I feel peckish. I’ll eat you anyway.’
‘You don’t have to. You’ve been tricked and kept here by men. Help me and we can smash the patriarchy together.’
‘Why would I do that?’
The girl points at me. ‘You’re female. You’ve been kept here on the promise of virgins to eat. The men of this country wanted their own town. Somewhere they can drink whiskey and gamble and not have to worry about being nagged by their wives. So many men. All in one place. It’ll keep you going for years.’
‘It would be nice to have a full stomach. There really isn’t much to one girl. Only keeps me going for 10 years or so. I’d like to eat enough to have a good long sleep. 100 years should do it.’ I snort and flames shoot from my nostrils. ‘It also sounds very exciting!’
I help the girl untie her ropes and she climbs onto my back. ‘The future is female!’ She pumps her fist in the air.
The men don’t put up much of a struggle. We surprise them, the non-virgin girl and the dragon. I feed well. Tearing and ripping into flesh until I can’t eat anymore.
How many men have I eaten? Too many to count.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Speaking of fantasy … a dragon! And this deliciously humorous change of pace gives us front row seats and first person access to this hungry (yet bored) dragon – with the opening question one of our favourites. You cannot help but be intrigued by this point of view immediately, even more so once you realise that the dragon has met its match in the form of this no-nonsense sacrificial sass-machine! Great lines ensue (‘You’re most entertaining and it will be a shame to eat you.’), as slowly our non-virgin makes her case. (‘if you knew you were going to be sacrificed to a dragon, would you remain a virgin?’). We loved the originality of this one, the modern twist and the near-repetition in the final line is a nice touch. Sleep well, she-dragon! 

GRANDMA’S SUITCASE OF STONES by Danielle Baldock, NSW

What can I do with my Grandma’s suitcase of stones?
On the top shelf of her pantry, amongst the yellow pickles and souvenir teaspoons, I’ve found Grandma’s old brown Globite suitcase.

I stretch it down, heavy, unwieldy, and lay it on the laminate table. Run my finger gently over the carefully hand-painted red letters of her name, then creak the stiff locks open with my thumbs.

Inside, piled high, are rocks. Smooth river pebbles. Sandstone slivers. Grey slate, worn soft by rubbing. Small and large, all colours. Black-and-red-striped, green-speckled, sandy-yellow. All the rocks collected from her travels. Tiny pieces of earth, symbol and memory of the lands she’d walked on.

But what to do with them now? Her delicate bone-china cups and travel-laden spoons have been divided amongst the family. I don’t think anyone will want this old brown case, heavy with stones.

I pull the suitcase carefully to my car, wedge it safely on the floor. Take it home and stand it on my coffee-table. I ponder its fate while I read. While I watch TV. While I eat noodles, and drink my morning tea from her china cup and saucer. The sun travels across it through the day, tree shadows reflecting through the windows.

At last, I make a plan. I take the suitcase of stones to her favourite place, the wide flat hill near the river. I choose a space looking to the east, listening to the water fast-flowing. Tear a space free of grass, and smooth the earth flat.

I open the suitcase, and bring out the stones, carefully piling one on another to make a pyramid. A tiny cairn of her memories in her favourite place. I post my favourite photo of her into a space between the layers, until she’s resting comfortably. Sun-speckled, tree-dappled, birdsong-echoed.

Everything done, I pour tea from my orange thermos into two china cups and saucers. Unwrap two buttered scones, and drink a cup of tea with her. I toast to her life, and her memories and her collection of countries.

Before I go, I wander along the riverbank, down past the thundering rapids, and the quiet eddies, until I find them. I crouch down, pull them from the sparkled water. A round grey-blue stone, and an oval flecked with silver light. I walk back slowly, rubbing one in each palm, thinking of her light, her kindness, her soft hands.

I balance the silvery stone on the very top, slip the blue one into my left pocket. I take pictures to remember the light, the silver pebble, the shadows from the river. Wrap the cup and spoon carefully, slip them into the old suitcase. Run my hand gently over her new resting place.

With a last wave, sure that I can see my Grandma waving back, I turn and head for home.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This is a classic problem/solution story – the task laid out in the very first sentence. Drawing such a vivid picture of this Grandma’s home, this piece immediately (and creakily) unlocks that shared experience of sorting through items of a departed loved one – and the eternal question of what to do with those things that held a sentimental audience of just one. In this case, as we first sit amongst the yellow pickle jars and laminate table, we learn that the items of value have already found homes. But (to repeat the opener), what to do with the suitcase of stones? Our unnamed narrator eventually works it out, and we are treated to a lovely, nature-infused scene that combines both a sense of place and a sense of peace. The trick here of course is that this was never simply a story about a suitcase. It was about all kinds of emotional ‘baggage' – honouring memories and finding the perfect way to say goodbye.

WHERE DID I COME FROM? by Jenny Baker, VIC

“Daddy, where did I come from?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well Melanie at kinder said that she came from her mummy's tummy, Darren said he came from Queensland and Weird Willy said he came from Kmart.”
“Why do you call him Weird Willy?”
“That's what everyone calls him.”
“But why is he weird?”
“He likes celery. Nobody else in the class likes celery. It’s yucky.”
“Well I like celery. Does that make me weird?”
“No Dad, you're a grown up.”
“So grown ups aren’t weird?”
“No, just old.”
“So how old do you have to be to be a grown up?”
“I dunno. More than 50 at least.”
“But I’m only 42, so am I not a grown up?”
“Of course you are! You have big teeth and a beard. Kids only have little teeth that fall out. Then the tooth fairy comes and gives us $20.”
“$20? I don’t think the tooth fairy gives you that much.”
“Well that’s how much Melanie got when she lost her Grandma.”
“Why did the tooth fairy give her $20 when she lost her Grandma?”
“Her Uncle Al gave it to her because he said that her Grandma had gone to be with the tooth fairy.”
“Are you sure her Uncle Al didn’t say that her grandma had gone to be with Jesus?”
“No, it was the tooth fairy up in the North Pole near where Santa lives.”
“Is it not a bit cold for the tooth fairy up there?”
“Dunno. Maybe she puts on her big girl pants and they keep her warm.”
“Big girls pants? What are they?”
“Melanie was wearing them the other day. She showed us all in “Show and Tell.”
“Really? What did Mrs Robinson say?”
“She said they were very pretty and looked nice with the pink windcheater she had with Elsa on.”
“Who’s Elsa?”
“Da-ad! Elsa from Frozen!”
“Frozen what?”
“Frozen the movie. It’s about princesses. Elsa makes it snow and thunder and everything freezes and there’s a talking snowman called Olaf.”
“You're pulling my leg. Snowmen can’t talk.”
“This one can. He has a carrot for a nose.”
“Is that why he can talk?”
“Nooo he talks because he’s magic.”
“Magic? Is that right? Like Harry Potter?”
“Who’s Harry Potter?”
“The postman. Come on, put your shoes on, we’re home.”
“Don’t want to. They hurt.”
“Your feet will get all wet if you don’t. Then your toes will shrivel up and drop off, and there’ll be tears! You won’t be able to paint your toenails!”
“Carry me!”
“You're too big to be carried now.”
“Piggy back!”
“Oh all right then. Grab your shoes and climb on, and don’t be pulling my ears this time.”
“So where did I come from Dad?”
“Ask your mother!”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We began the showcase with the questions of a child, so it felt fitting to end with the same! However, this time it’s a father and child engaged in an all-dialogue conversation that covers everything from Frozen to celery to Harry Potter and the going rate for a dead Grandma on the tooth fairy market. In particular, we loved the three different places the friends had ‘come from’ – mummy’s tummy, Queensland and Kmart! Also, by engaging in a metronomic back and forth, there was no need for dialogue tags at all – always clear who was speaking. On the surface, it seems mostly silly, but there is plenty going on in each answer – also highlighting the meandering journey that you can go on when you talk to a child!

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we like to include an extra LONGLIST (approx 5-10%) of stories that stood out from the submitted hundreds and were highly considered for the showcase. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, enjoy a moment of satisfaction! And to ALL who submitted stories, we’d LOVE to see you again for next month’s challenge!

THIS MONTH’S LONGLIST (in no particular order):

• TRANSCRIPT by Joe Durham, UK
• DEAD CENTRE by Michaela Dawn, WA
• THE BIG QUESTION by Steve Cumper, TAS
• BOOTIE CAMP by Gale Deitch, USA
• SHATTERED by Lee McKerracher, NSW
• FINAL ACT by Christy Hartman, Canada
• WEREN’T YOU THE ONE? by Maricel Abraham, SA
• RODNEY’S BUCKET by Michal Przywara, Canada
• POSTMAN FOR THE MAGICAL by Sally Ryan, VIC
• CLOWN TEETH by Laura Nettles, Canada
• A CUP OF KINDNESS by Sally Farmer, NSW
• MONSTERS AMONG US by Amy Morgan, VIC
• THE CORD by Matt Best, NSW
• TICK-TOCK by Deborah Sale-Butler, USA
• POST-CHRISTMAS by Nell Holland, SA
• I AM THE DYSFUNCTIONAL CHILD OF A PROBLEM MOTHER by Christine Meehan, QLD
• FISH AND CHIPS AND HAM SANDWICHES by Tee Rosky, QLD
• THE WAITING GAME by Lynette Grimes, NSW
• A BOOK’S PROTEST by Laura Lai
• THE SKATER by Graham Walsh-Green, NSW
• THUNDER AND LIGHTNING by Bruno Lowagie, Belgium
• BROWN GIRL’S GUIDE TO MANIFEST DESTINY by Suma Jayachandar, India
• THE FERRYMAN’S LAMENT by C.A. Fulwell, UK
• BRIGHT IDEA by Annie Lance, Ireland
• WHY BOB? WHY? by Keith Hood, USA
• LIKE PULLING HEN’S TEETH by Punxsutawney Phillipa, VIC
• THE BIG PLAN by Sukanya Singh, India
• THE NIGHT WHICH SEES by NamSav, South Korea
• THE CACOPHONY AT CAWTHORNE’S CASTLE by Ryan K Lindsay, ACT
• GRAMPS by Laura Testa-Reyes, USA
• A SUMMER STORM by Mia McMorrow, VIC
• HEALING by Lois Hibbert, Canada
• THE POND by Phantom Union, USA
• SOME LIVES MATTER by Pranxi, VIC
• NOTHING TO DECLARE by Helen Renwick, WA
• DOUBT by Ruth Quirk, NSW
• UNTITLED by Erika Henry, QLD
• MY APPOINTMENT WITH DEATH by Jennifer Adams, QLD
• GIANT JUSTICE by John McParland, NSW
• THE BIG FIB by Ràna Campbell, Canada
• GALACTIC HUNGER by Emily Shortall, NSW
• DO I FEEL YOU WITH MY SLEIGHT OF HAND? by Kristof Mikes-Liu, NSW
• THE CURIOUS CASE OF ESSIE DUNBAR by Larissa Mateer, SA
• PRIMARY LOVE by Chris Tattersall, UK
• THE ROOMMATE by Hannah Elstub, NSW
• THE TRAGIC TALE OF JULIET AND THE WRITING DESK by Emma Daniell, QLD
• THE COMMON PEOPLE v SADIE BAXTER by Caro Robson, UK
• ALONE by Anne Moorhouse, QLD
• UNDER WATER by Galen Weedom, VIC
• THE JAR by Paul Harris, UK
• TREATMENT ROOM 5 by Daniella Speirs, ACT
• THE OLD HOUSE by KE Fleming, NSW
• THE SWITCH by Simon Taylor, VIC
• UNTITLED by N.A. Mae, Philippines
• LOSING MIA by Freya King, QLD
• LOST AND FOUND by Narges Jalali-Kushki, Canada

• Each story had to include a character who revisits something. 

• Each story had to include the same colour in its first and last sentence.

• Each story had to include the words CAMP, FAST and SPARK.

(Longer words were okay if original spelling is retained.)

We’ll revisit the first prompt below, but before we do, we thought you might be interested to learn what were the most popular COLOURS used in your stories! Of course, there was a large variety – from golden sands and silver moons to orange formica, azure skies and cerulean seas. But by far the most common colour was RED (perhaps the presence of mandatory word FAST helped!). BLUE came in second, with BLACK, GREEN and WHITE rounding out the top five. As for the required words, always take note if you’re allowed to use longer words. In this case, it means things like “SCAMPered” and “breakFAST” were totally fine.

MANY HAPPY RETURNS

This month, we explored powerful fuel for storytelling – revisiting something. We wanted it to be a SIGNIFICANT return to something/someone, and suggested that simply returning to the kitchen with plates for the dishwasher was not likely going to cut it! (But special shout out to longlistee RM Liddell Ross, who took this as a challenge and did indeed make that subject interesting!)

• There were a lot of childhood homes revisited – sometimes with happy memories and sometimes not so happy. In fact, there was a LOT of nostalgia in general – not surprising!
• Revisiting a camping spot or summer camp was also borne out of the mandatory ‘CAMP’ word this month – and there were a lot of “in tents” stories as a result (boom tish).
• School reunion anyone? We had a lot of those too – always ripe for a second chance at love or perhaps something sinister (you know who you are!).
• Revisiting a loved one (or not so loved one?) was also a strong theme – either a former partner or an older relative. This made for some powerful stories sure to resonate with readers.
• Death featured prominently – be it revisiting a grave site or having a protagonist who is themselves the dead one revisiting those left behind.
• It wasn’t all sadness though, with some lighter stories that explored some of the less likely things having a revisitation and telling their stories (a couple of space-based ones are shortlisted below!).
• In all, we were impressed with the sheer creativity that you sought out ways to return or revisit something – congratulations if you submitted a story this month. Many were also extremely vulnerable – thank you for your creative courage in sharing your words with us.

On that note, camp yourself under a blanket fort as we share a colourful selection of stories – including from Shayne Denford of NSW – our top pick of the month. Shayne’s story, along with our showcase shortlist and longlisted stories are all below. And we hope to see YOU bringing your creative spark next month!

MARCH TOP PICK

SECRETS OF THE BOTTLEBRUSHES by Shayne Denford, NSW

With a brilliant display of crimson flowers, the bottlebrushes screen his secrets, while I wait patiently for justice.

I’ve been waiting a long time. Fifty years of feeling helpless, insignificant and betrayed. Questioning when they’ll find me? If they’ll find me? How?

I wonder if he still thinks about me? Surely he’s been looking over his shoulder, wondering when my disappearance will spark some interest. Perhaps even cause a reexamination of the case, where his web of lies will finally be unravelled. Does it make him nervous, knowing that one day the scoreboard could finally be settled?

Of course, I’ve had plenty of time to fantasise about my discovery. I just hope it’s not as clichéd as my demise – a backyard campout aborted due to a shocking surprise, or the family dog sniffing out my whereabouts in the midst of Sunday breakfast. No, after all this time I think my unearthing deserves a more compelling story than that. An inquisitive journalist uncovering the vital clue or, better yet, a thrilling new podcast series!

Fifty years is a long time to wait. A lifetime you might say. When will the sirens come to rescue me? Sirens would be an excellent touch, don’t you think? I’d certainly enjoy that ironic sense of emergency.

Now that we’re acquainted, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I never really went away. I still reside at home, even though he moved out years ago.

Come. I’m over here, near the back fence. The bottlebrush foliage is dense with woody fruit and blood-red flowers. The leaves of the shrub release a lemony scent when bruised, whereas my scent is long gone and my bruises no longer attract attention.

I’m here, beneath the sandy surface. You just need to dig a little. Down, down, a little bit further down, until the soil suffocates the sand, becoming cool and pungent.

You’ll find me there, what’s left of me anyway. My skin and tissue have long since decomposed, but you’ll find my bones and my pearly whites. Scattered around in the moist soil are a few nylon threads, the tell-tale remains of the old blanket he wrapped me in. And one other item; the blade of the knife.

Now, as the evening sky turns as crimson as the bottlebrushes, I wait, impatient for my revenge.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Crafting a strong narrative voice can truly elevate a flash fiction piece, and this story stood out this month for its gentle musings of the dead. Our narrator wears an almost Lovely Bones-esque poignancy in their words due to the nature of their demise, this fact clearly laid out among the bottlebrushes in the first sentence (“I wait patiently for justice”). Fifty years is a long time to wait, so we get to share in how they hope their eventual discovery will play out – ever so slightly peeling away layers of backstory as they go. Perfectly weighted (waited?), this is a story that aches to be read as much as it yearns to be found – a reverse whodunnit that beckons you closer with its own dissolving evidence and waits under crimson flowers and skies for the dots to be connected. Fantastic, month-topping stuff!

A STONE’S THROW by Isaac Freeman, SA

There’s a reason they call it a red eye.

You certainly can’t sleep on one, but you can conjure a deep thought or two.

On the cusp of 50, I had little to show for it. Using what little savings I had to fly over to New Zealand for a little trip down memory lane wasn’t the wisest idea, but it was the only one I had.

It had been 35 years.

It was a rather luxurious school camp that brought me over last time. I don’t know how my parents afforded it, but they used it as a bribe for good grades. Perhaps the fruits of my schoolroom labour would spark something in me and propel me to have an illustrious career, a healthy bank account and a loving wife and kids.

But no business card or family photo was slotted into my barren wallet.

Perhaps I lost a piece of myself somewhere along the way and it was merely a matter of finding it, picking it up, scrubbing off the dirt and putting it back in.

It was a fast exit out of the airport. I had no luggage and I wouldn’t be long.

It was also only a short drive via a shuttle bus, but as I looked through the windows it was downright confusing.

Everything had shrunk.

The mountains? Rocks.

The trees? Shrubs.

The lake? Puddle.

The whole place felt lonelier and colder. Or was that just me?

The hotels looked cheap, tacky even, the whole place smelt like a money-making lure for tourists and backpackers with a bartender's licence.

It was shop after shop of needless garbage, tourist paraphernalia that would undoubtedly find a forever home at a second-hand store. The food looked like plastic and was about as healthy as eating it too.

Perhaps it was only meant for the young and the rich, this town at the foot of the mountain.

End of the line. I hopped off the bus, walked by a few familiar storefronts and wandered down to the lake.

It was still perfect for skipping a good stone or two across.

Reaching down to pick up a perfectly flat and rounded stone, I couldn’t help but notice how smooth and new my hand looked, it may as well have belonged to a teenager.

Snapping the wrist of this foreign hand I launched the stone.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven…

Seven beautiful long skips.

I remembered the boy who once visited this shore.

He was sensitive, kind and loved to make things, always tinkering away on one woodwork project or another, but somewhere along the way he got bitter, closed himself off and lost sight of what he did best.

The hand now looked a lot like mine again.

“Damn. Good throw”

I turned to see a young boy, about 15 or so, wearing a bright red jacket, black pants and a grey beanie – he looked a lot like me at that age.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Amid a pile of stories that returned to familiar places this month, this story stood out with its inner monologue and the way it told a simple relatable story. In particular, the comparisons of everything having shrunk since last time are lovely, as nostalgia smashes head-on into reality at this unnamed Kiwi resort town. (We’re pretty sure we know which one it is!) And it’s in this banal sense of touristic deflation where this piece makes its peace – down at the water’s edge reflecting not on the lake but on a life lived (or not lived) and how the years can truly skip by. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… 35.

SEARCHING FOR RAINBOWS by Rebecca Hefron, QLD

In the sterile white halls of the hospital, I made my way to room 312, the antiseptic scent hanging heavy in the air as I approached. I found him lying in bed, his once robust frame now frail and weak. Familiar faces, clouded by grief, met my eyes from their various spots camped out on the additional chairs shoved into the room but none could hold my gaze for more than a few seconds as they shuffled by, squeezing my arm or shoulder as they passed by.

Aunt Marie whispered, “you made it in time. He’s not got long now, it’ll be fast.” My breath hitched at her words as she too left the room.

Alone, I shifted to look once more at the bed. “Gramps,” I said softly, taking his hand in mine.

His eyes, cloudy with age and illness, focused on me for a moment, a faint spark of recognition, before drifting away.

I squeezed his hand gently, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill over. I leaned in closer, my heart breaking at the sight of him so frail and weak. “I’m sorry,” I said, “for not coming sooner. For staying away for so long”.

He nodded faintly, a hint of nostalgia crossing his features as his lips twitched into a small smile, a flicker of pride shining through his weary eyes. “Camp,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

His words prompted memories of all of us gathered around a crackling fire, laughter filling the air as we recounted stories beneath the stars. I smiled, remembering the camping trips we used to take together when I was a child. “Yes, we had some great times at camp.”

His hand squeezed mine before loosening. “Storm,” he whispered. His oft-repeated words filled my head. Don’t let yesterday’s storm keep you from enjoying today’s sunshine – if the sky had no tears, the world would have no rainbows.

There had been countless times that he’d said those words, needed to say those words, to me. And equal countless times that I hadn’t listened.

“I promise,” I whispered, “I’ll look for the rainbows.”

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I sat by his bedside, holding his hand until his breathing slowed and finally stilled. While his lessons assured me that life would go on, in this moment it certainly didn’t feel that way. In the quiet of the hospital room, surrounded by those sterile white walls, I whispered my final goodbye to the man who had been so much more than just a grandfather to me.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

As mentioned earlier, death was never far from a number of stories this month – and some of them dealt with revisiting an older relative at the end of their life. We’ve selected this story not for any sensational deathbed confession or other looming backstory questions, but rather for its clearly drawn out scene that in turn draws you into these two characters and the special connection they share. Only two words are spoken by Gramps, but they are full of meaning for our protagonist – with the final quote (and story’s title) a lovely nod to the colour prompt. And speaking of this prompt, starting and ending in the ‘sterile white walls’ also provides a keen observation on the stark surroundings so many find themselves in when desperate for colour and texture during these final interactions.

OLDER NOW by Tim Law, SA

I return to the wood, so lush and green. The place where my childhood bloomed. With each step I take along the familiar path, I feel the weariness of age seep from my bones, my shoulders straighten and there is a lightness to my stride. It helps that I have company, three generations walking side by side.

“Go on,” I say to my grandson, Sam, and I smile as he runs down the forest path and then out of sight.

His little legs are fast, but I am certain I was faster than he is at the same age. Familiarity I suppose, fear prevents us from throwing ourselves into the new.

“Samuel!” my daughter, Jessica, calls after her boy. “Don’t go too far, please stay where mummy can see you.”

“Nonsense,” I scoff. “We won’t get lost, for I know these woods as I do my own hands.”

My daughter rolls her eyes, but she does not argue that this is a fact, for I have changed as the years have gone on, but these woods are satisfactorily constant. Every bump, scrape, scar, I own these woods almost as much as those whose name is on the deed. At the very least I have owned my right to claim experience.

As I look down at my hands, I see the wrinkles, the sunspots, the markings that betray a life of free-spiritedness. Looking across at my daughter’s hands, they are soft; a creamy white, evidence of a city life, growing up watching screens. I am truly happy she said yes when I asked her to bring me here.

I am feeling sad too though, my life working in the city, I did not think I had the time to bring my children here. Opportunity was the buzzword of my twenties and thirties, and money was something I did not have growing up. There are other kinds of wealth though, and I have played the worst kind of thief in stealing away the experiences I have enjoyed in my youth; taking them without asking, myself, my wife, my kids. Thanks to me, Jessica and her brother Michael have never known the joy of camping beside a stream, a blanket of sparkling stars overhead, freshly caught trout for breakfast, and singalongs around the campfire. My choice has robbed Michael, Jessica too I suppose, robbed them of the chance to climb a tree and race to the very top. There truly is nothing like seeing the world from up high, holding on tightly as the breeze sways you from side to side. Sadly, you miss all of that when you live in a concrete jungle.

“Look at me, mum, grandpa!” calls Sam.

He is perched on one of the lower limbs of a forest sentinel.

“Get down!” commands Sam’s mother.

“Go higher,” I laugh.

For, I remember climbing to the very top of the tallest oak here. The view from my perch amongst the canopy so lush and green, recalling such helps me smile.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

“His little legs are fast, but I am certain I was faster…” And with that, we have a delicious insight into this grandfather who still has a spark in him – made more shiny thanks to this return to a favourite patch of nature. As the three generations walk side by side (okay, the youngest has raced ahead), our protagonist reflects on how easy it was to get busy ‘earning a living’ while forgetting about the ‘living’ part. Older now and wise with the realisation that this special place has skipped a generation while on his watch, he seeks to make amends – to encourage Sam to “go higher” and recapture the lush green of his youth. Simple storytelling that climbs to great heights.

LITTLE BLACK DRESS by Lena Jensen, SA

I’m wearing a little black dress in the faded photo. Scooped neck, cinched waist, hemline finishing above slender calves. I’m blushing, but only I know that. Twenty-four of us are lined up on the stage in two even rows, waving at the photographer.

‘Is that really you?’ he says, peering from the photo to me.

I suck my tummy in and sit up straighter.

‘You were hot!’ he says, topping up his glass of red.

I open the email again. ‘Thirty year reunion at the campus! Partners welcome!’

‘What’s that?’ he says.

‘Nothing.’ I turn the screen off and take plates to the kitchen.

***

‘Last chance to RSVP!’ the message the next morning says.

I look at him sleeping next to me, pink spittle trailing from his mouth to the pillow.

I take the photo out of the bedside drawer. All those faces, gleaming with youth, eagerly anticipating what would come next. The places we’d go, the careers we’d forge, the partners we’d meet.

The young man standing next to me in the front row is grinning. You can’t see it but his arm is around my waist. I can feel it now. Its warmth, its sinewy strength.

That exquisite feeling of nerves and excitement, wondering if anyone has noticed.

I Google his name. Nothing comes up.

‘I’ll be there!’ I reply.

***

I peer at myself in the full-length mirror in the bedroom. Round-bellied, hollow-cheeked, frizzy-haired.

I go to the mall and try on dozens of black dresses, none of them little. I find one that almost fits.

I dig out the straighteners and practice taming the frizz.

I start skipping breakfast.

***

‘You’ve made quite the effort for a girls’ evening,’ he says as I come down the stairs. ‘Isn’t that dress a bit…tight?’

I turn my phone’s location services off after I get in the Uber.

‘We’ve got a full house!’ the woman at the door says, a glass of sparkling in her hand. ‘Well, you know. As full as it can be.’

I head straight for the bar, eyes scanning the room.

‘Fabulous dress!’ a voice calls after me.

I move between groups, emboldened by the wine. Talking about the old days. The parties and gigs, the lectures accompanied by hangovers. My eyes dart around the room.

I want to say ‘Does anyone know what happened to…’, but stop myself each time. Unease is rising in my guts.

At the end of the evening, we line up on the stage for a photo. Two rows. Uneven numbers. No arm around my waist.

A woman shouts above the chatter. ‘Let’s raise a toast to someone who sadly can’t be with us tonight…’

Dread seeps through my stomach, curdling the wine.

She says his name. I cover my ears.

***

Back home, I look at the photo one last time. The gleaming faces. The even numbers. The grinning young man. I put it back in the drawer.

I hang the black dress in the wardrobe and climb into bed beside him.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

As we said at the top, school reunions made for some fertile story fodder this month – and this piece deals with it in a familiar yet unique way. Broken into a quintet of short acts, we see the stages from RSVP to return, becoming immediately aware that the person our protagonist married is not someone she wants to show off to her old school buddies. In fact, there is a particular reason why – with hints at ‘the one that got away’ through an old photo and the efforts to fit that titular outfit. But fantasy and reality once more collide (a common theme this month!) as the tragic truth turns this hopeful fling of the class into a thing of the past. Even numbers return to being odd and the drawer is slipped shut on the spark of an old flame. In other hands, this storyline could have gone big and bawdy, but the restraint shown here is impressive.

THE PLACE WHERE THE GIRL USED TO PLAY by Laura Byrne, QLD

They repainted the walls a bland eggshell white. A hidden and tired sort of grief crept up on me, fast, making my eyes watery and shoulders heavy. It was the final nail in her coffin. She was gone and here I was, selling off her tomb.

A fresh wave of grief sparked with each passing memory. The carpet was new, hiding the stains the girl had caused. The walls were repainted to hide the marks where she had decided to play soccer inside the day before her year 6 camp. Her bedroom door, that she had once painted to look like the sea, was replaced. Little by little, she was erased. If I went outside to the mango tree on the mound, would her initials still be carved into its trunk? Or would nature itself have forgotten her? Had it healed over the scars of her history?

I could see her twirling around me as she slowly disappeared until I was left alone in the bones of a home. I almost didn’t even recognise her. What a sin, to not recognise your own reflection.

“Alright, ready to go? Oh honey! What’s wrong?” My mother asked, picking up the last of my boxed-up childhood home.

“I don’t know why I’m so upset. I moved out years ago. I just don’t remember growing up. When did I stop believing in magic and the pure goodness of people? When did I stop staying up just to watch the stars? I’m so lost, Mum. I thought I would have everything figured out by now. I thought I would know who I am but I don’t. I’m scared I’ll never figure out how I fit in this world. But that girl was never afraid. Seeing this empty house just cements that she’s gone.”

“She’s not gone, just buried. She’s there when you can’t help but smile and tip your head up to the sky when it rains. And when you laugh as it drenches through your clothes, it’s her giggles that are heard. She sits beside you, in the passenger seat, as you scream along with the radio through the open window of your car. She choreographs your moves when you can’t help but dance in the street, regardless of who is watching. She races waves at the beach and still smiles at pretty skies. Don’t push her away, my love. Embrace her. Too many times people wither away before they own a gravestone. They’ve kissed their youth goodbye.

“So, take some time, say goodbye to the place where that little girl used to play, but never say goodbye to her. Hold her hand and take her with you wherever you go, and she will show you how to live.”

Outside, on a mound by the house at 55 Parkland Road, there is a mango tree. At its trunk, though lightened into a white scar with age, are the initials ‘SLW,’ forever marking the place where the girl used to play.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Saying goodbye to a childhood home can be an emotional experience – and it’s clear that many writers used real life events to fuel their stories in this vein for this challenge. The thing that we liked so much about this one was the way that it truly felt like stages of grief, to the point where at first we actually wonder if it is a lost child that SLW is mourning – such is the distance the narrative keeps from “the girl”. By the third and fourth paragraphs however, the fog clears and you can get on with the relatable grief of an adult dealing with the memories of childhood and the realities of moving on. The dialogue with the mother – including the mother’s beautiful reply – is surely sponsored by Kleenex, while the final paragraph sticks the landing with just three letters. Nostalgia done right.

THE JOY OF A NAME by E B Davis, ACT

Her blue tail glowed brightly within the night sky, as she beamed with joy. Small parts of her floated towards the onlookers, sparking off the earth’s atmosphere and giving an impressive light show. She had shown up just as they had predicted she would. Finally proving to them that she was the same comet who had been visiting them for centuries. A man from one of their smaller islands had named her, she was now Halley’s Comet. Sure, she had hoped for a cooler name, Sky Blazer for example, but it was a name all the same. Halley had been visiting this speck of dirt and water, or the blue dot as she called it, for hundreds of thousands of years, and today she had been recognised. There had been others before that had noticed her, how couldn’t they, she was the only naked-eye comet that could appear twice in a human lifetime. It was a shame they didn’t remember her. That all changed today, they had truly discovered her.

Halley beamed as she rounded the sun, forgetting in her excitement, how close she came. Sure, 88 million km sounds like a lot, but when you are travelling at 70 km per second it feels a lot closer. The sun’s heat was melting her ice core slightly or was it due to the joy she felt about her new name? she couldn’t tell, and she didn't care. Sling-shotting herself she once again raced past the speck. Halley tried to wipe her tail out of her face as she headed away. It seemed silly to be flying into your tail, but that was the biggest pain of the trip out, the solar winds blowing her tail away from the sun. She couldn’t go fast enough this loop, barely stopping at the other planets to chat, instead just yelling. ‘Hi, I’m Halley.’ as she whipped past. She beamed brightly as she rounded Pluto and started her way back. There it was again, starting as a blue dot, and growing to the speck that had named her. Speeding up to route and show off her good side, tailback, she blazed again in their night sky. Over the years and loops, she watched them as much as they watched her. She loved seeing the different campsites all waiting to see her.

After a few more loops, the tents and telescopes turned into buildings and large telescopes. Rounding Pluto for the fourth time since she was named, she mentioned to him that they had watched her this time from outside the speck. They had made a smaller speck that orbited their speck, it was incredible. Halley was happy, it would be good to have friends in the wide vacuum of space. Pluto had become more distant and colder than usual lately, muttering something about a stolen title. Halley didn’t mind, she was just happy to be on the return journey again. Glowing with joy she once again raced towards her blue dot, Halley’s Earth.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Amid all the nostalgia and lifelong recollections, finally we present a story that dared to mix things up a little – ‘starring’ one of the most famous of all celestial return visitors to Earth, Halley’s Comet! The choice to commit to making the comet the story’s protagonist is such fun and allows for a quirky narrative. Hilarious insights (“she had hoped for a cooler name”) ensue, as we see the world from a comet’s perspective – starting during the 1700s as it is finally chuffed to be noticed and jumping forward in 76-year increments (a mere moment for a comet) to witness the observational equipment getting bigger and fancier each time. Even the chance to comment on Pluto’s demotion does not go to waste, with the final reveal of her using her own name for us being the icing on this flipped cake!

HOME IS WHERE THE TRAUMA IS by Courtney Bayer, USA

This is where Mally's date said her dress was too yellow, that he hated the color yellow, and Mally ended up going to prom alone. It's the bottom of the front staircase that is so close to the entryway if you tripped at the top there's a chance you might cartwheel into the street if the door was open.  Mally doesn't remember it being this close. The entire house feels like a wool hat sent through the dryer: hot, too tight to squeeze into, with a strange odor throughout all combining to give her a headache.

This is the couch where Mally sat and listened to her aunt and mother debate about which “fat camp” their daughters should attend the summer they both turned 14. Mally's cousin Roz got herself addicted to diet pills the next day and lost 30 pounds before spring break, so she went to dance camp instead. Mally spent two days at the fat camp in the mountains, but suffered such an extreme panic attack from heights she was sent home and she got a job at the movie theater with unlimited popcorn and soda.

This is the backyard where her father threatened to shoot her dog Sparky if he dug any more holes. Mally has stepped out here to take some deep breaths. She spies the broken brick marker for Sparky's grave. In the end it wasn't a bullet that killed him, but he ate something he found while digging and it lodged fatally in his intestines. 

This is the wall mounted telephone, its shiny black veneer rubbed dull around the handle and earpiece from many long conversations. It's in the kitchen and the only phone they had, so there was always shouting and background noise even if you stretched the cord as far as it would go and hid in the half-bath under the stairs. Mally was never fast enough to answer its ringing when she was up in her room. If her parents got to it first and there was a boy on the other end, they would just hang up. 

This is the second floor. Mally stops in the hallway and turns in a circle. Parents' room, her room, bathroom, and the room that should have been her baby brother's but instead became their storage space and occasional guest room. Officially it was known as the “sewing room.”

This is the front porch. Mally smiles broadly at the estate agent and drops the keys in the woman's manicured hand. “Everything can go,” she says, waving her arm in a wide arc to encompass the whole house. “Let me know when I can sign the paperwork and collect a check.”

This is Mally's car. It's bright yellow, big and older just like Mally, and it carries her away from that house forever. 

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This is the story that reminds us that not all childhoods are created equal. Once again, we’re saying goodbye to a childhood home, but this time it’s a not so happy upbringing. The story uses clever repetition to divide the narrative into a series of vignettes – with snippets revealing some of the milestones that are etched into Mally’s heart and soul (including being stood up for both prom and fat camp!). Once more, we have that confusion of things seeming smaller than they were, as the trauma is rolled out – from the backyard to a quick circle of the second floor that reveals an important detail. And it’s the efficiency in how much it chooses to share that makes it powerful – nothing overstaying its welcome and the final wide arc of Mally’s hand the perfect wrap up.
This is the ideal accompaniment to Laura Byrne’s earlier piece!

RED FLAGS by Rebecca Belov, QLD

The red flags weren’t so obvious at the start.

Scratch that.

They were there.

But through Emma’s rose-coloured glasses, they seemed less of a warning and more like a parade, celebrating her once-in-a-lifetime romance.

She had fallen in love so hard, so fast. The spark between them was electric. Eyes met. Hearts fluttered. Kisses so hot they could melt glaciers. All the cliches you read about.

Every moment spent together. Exclamations of how it’d never been like this before. Fervent I Love You's said after weeks. All the warning signs you read about.

The ones you can easily explain away. The ones you grow up believing are fate. Where the cameras stop rolling on insta-love romcoms, but you assume the happily ever after never ends.

To Emma, it felt so right. They were living together before the end of the summer. By winter her happiness had faded to fear, and it was twelve turns around the sun before Emma saw light once more.

She never expected to be here again. Camped out in her old bedroom at her parents’ house, as though she’d never left. It wasn’t the same, though. The mattress was lumpier. The celestial quilt cover she adored as a teen had faded with time. The single bed felt smaller, no matter how tightly she curled herself up at night as she tried to hold in her tears.

God, it hurt to be back.

Drawing in a deep breath, Emma smoothed down the fabric of her dress, brushing away invisible creases. She barely recognised herself in the mirror. Hair falling gently around her shoulders; it still felt strange after years of not being allowed to wear it that way. Her dress softly showing off the figure she had spent a decade having to hide.

She had scraped together as much money as she could since leaving. It wasn’t much. Her parents had helped to pay for this dress – “something new, for your fresh start” – though they didn’t have much to spare themselves. It was beautiful. Bold colouring juxtaposed with soft lace and silk, fitting just right as though it had been made specifically for her.

This dress was more than a piece of clothing. On her sleeve she wore her heart, broken and bruised, and the threads of hope for her future were weaved with a lifetime’s worth of love. When she’d slipped on the dress in the store, for the first time in years, Emma felt alive again. Beautiful again. Herself again. Wearing it gave her a confidence she thought she'd lost forever.

“Emma, love, are you almost ready? We don’t want to be late.”

Grabbing her purse, Emma raced down the stairs. Her mum and dad were waiting by the door, stoic expressions not quite hiding their nerves for what lay ahead. Court days were always heavy.

“I’m ready. Let’s do this. Thanks for coming with me.”

“Always.” Her mother squeezed her arm reassuringly. “Oh, Em, you look beautiful. Red really is your colour.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Using the colour red so well in both the beginning and end (shout out to all those stories that offered a whole new meaning with the colour for each bookended appearance), this is a story that sneaks up on you. Just like Emma herself, we too are wooed into the heady throes and blushes of early romance, despite the red flag foreshadowing. Using the seasons to document the change is masterful as is the way the timeline is revealed – “it was twelve turns around the sun before Emma saw light once more”. The second half deals in the present and another return to the childhood home – yet again in different circumstances. The way it is revealed that the dress is for a specific occasion is also done with superb care that matches the whole story’s choices in sharing a dark time with narrative restraint.

In Australia, support for those impacted by family, sexual or domestic violence is available at www.1800respect.org.au or by calling 1800 737 732.

THE HOLIDAY CYCLE by David Van Uffelen, Belgium

A blue dot appeared on the intergalactic radar of the alien spaceship as soon as it entered our solar system. A giant 3-fingered hand reached for the console and zoomed in on the dot. The display started to fill up with information in an alien language.

“Go wake the kids, honey. We're almost there.” The commanding alien said.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” A second alien replied.

“Of course I'm sure. This is the only habitable planet in this solar system. There used to be another one, but the species who lived there all left and the whole place has now decayed into a giant ball of red dust.”

“I'm still not convinced it was a good idea to travel all the way here. This whole neighborhood seems neglected.”

“Trust me, honey.” the commanding alien replied, “My parents took me here during every vacation cycle. The kids are going to love this place. This planet has everything to offer for a fantastic camping trip.”

“Is that a warning message on the dashboard?”

“Probably just a warning that I'm speeding too fast again. Not that anyone is going to notice in this part of the galaxy. I'll just (…) hmm, that doesn't seem right.”

“What's wrong?”

“The planet seems to be inhabited now.”

“How is that possible? You told me there was no intelligent life present on the planet.”

“There wasn't! Hold on, I'll scan the entire system again.”

The two alien figures watched the terminal as the ship's sensors gathered the information.

“Well, that's new,” The commanding alien said. “It seems a genetic malfunction sparked an evolution with the tree-hugging animals on the planet. They've taken over the entire place!”

“Is it still safe for us to spend our holiday cycle there?”

“I'm not sure, they are producing a lot of noise at the moment,” The alien said with a worried voice. “I'm surprised our scanners hadn't picked up on them already.”

“That doesn't sound good.” The other alien replied. “I don't want to take our kids down there. Do you remember what happened to that family, who ran into another intelligent life form during their vacation? They were probed, Julian! Probed! And not in a good way!”

“It seems they have started exploring other planets in this solar system as well.”

“In that case, we need to turn back and warn the authorities. If they are about to start exploring space, we need to monitor them and find out if they're the probing type of species.”

“Fine, I guess you're right.” The commanding alien reluctantly said. “But it doesn't look like we're going camping any time soon unless we can find another blue planet before the kids wake up.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

A bunch of stories played on the theme of journeying back to a favourite holiday spot, but this one delightfully turns our family into a shipful of aliens. Of course, that alone isn’t enough to get it on this list, but the playful details and dialogue throughout is fun to read – with our 3-fingered family slowly realising that someone may have essentially gotten to their secret camping spot first. “They are producing a lot of noise at the moment,” worries one of the aliens, as we get another insight into how we might be viewed by things outside this planet. The fear of being probed is hilarious and it once again subverts a well-worn trope to deliver something fresh. Three thumbs up!

OVERDUE by K.E. Fleming, NSW

The red dust is ever-present at the end of the world, even in the Library.

The Librarian’s daughter – nine years old and mad about it – violently beats their ratty welcome mat just outside the door. Although most of their little leftover world has long since accepted the pervasive grit, Nina is almost militant in her quest to keep it out of the Library.

Olivia watches in amusement as her daughter sparks up at the poor fool attempting entry before the mat is ready. There’s been a real shortage of entertainment options recently, and a grown man getting berated by a pre-teen wielding a beating brush is the next best thing.

The visitor sheepishly (and thoroughly) wipes off his shoes on the freshly returned mat before heading directly into the wilds of the ‘Household Tools & Gadgety Things’ aisle. He leaves a contrail of red dust from his goggles, mask and clothes but not – hallelujah! – from his boots.

He’s at her Check Out desk only a scant few minutes later, arms loaded with odds and ends.

“Back again, Steve,” Olivia greets him. “Bessy playing up on you?”

Bessy is the crotchety old generator keeping the lights on in their little slice of wasteland. Left to her own devices, she has a worrying tendency to rattle and smoke, adding to Steve’s growing collection of grey hairs.

Steve – the closest thing they’ve got to a mechanic, many steps removed – is in the Library most days, borrowing new tools in his ongoing quest to keep the Bessy-beast fed. It doesn’t bode well that this is his second visit today.

“No, no, the old gal is ticking along just fine, thanks Olivia.” He tells her with tight eyes. “How are things here?”

Her bookshelves are packed with hard-edged tools, rope and chemicals. The books have been stacked with military precision by Nina against the far wall – paperback soldiers at camp. The windows that haven’t been boarded up scream with harsh light, glaring down from the red skies above. Despite Nina’s best efforts, the dust is everywhere. It stings and irritates and stains. Sticks fast to palm lines and nailbeds, to the downturned creases at her daughter’s mouth.

Olivia smiles, finishes the final curl of ‘621.31WRE – Wrench (Blue Handle, Size 3/8”)’ in her ledger. “We’re just fine over here too, thanks Steve.”

Steve nods his thanks, arms full of hopeful doodads and whatsits. At the door he awkwardly sidesteps Nina’s vicious eyes, juggling tools and refitting his mask and goggles.

“See you tomorrow,” the Librarian murmurs, watching him step out her door and vanish into the red haze, off to steal them one more day.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There is something particularly well-defined and compelling about the world-building (end-of-the-world building?) in this story, despite a very intentional lack of backstory to explain just how these characters came to find themselves as capital-L Librarians here (take your pick of an assortment of apocalyptic fare). But that’s the clever play with flash fiction – if it’s not needed, strip it bare. After all, who needs to own such storytelling whatsits when you can borrow them from Olivia and Nina, just like Steve is regularly doing with his tools. The larger fate of our players here isn’t on the agenda – instead choosing to lay out the welcome mat on a simple red-skied day in the life of this dusty reality. Please wipe your feet.

TURN THE PAGE by Minnie Zimmerman, VIC

In the shed, Jamie pulled the light blue notebook out of the old box, almost dropping it as the scribble on the front cover came to light: Jamie’s Storys*. She was catapulted back twenty-five years, to her childhood home.

The writing was wobbly and the tail of the “y” swung in the wrong direction. She had replaced the dot of the “i” with a flower, as she did back then for a short period of time. The flowers turned to love hearts which turned to big bubbles, which settled into a fast spike of the pen on the page. She didn’t have the time to flower her letters anymore.

Opening the scruffy notebook, she let the leaves fall to a random page. There was a title written on the left-hand side: The Princesses Scary Night

A smile grew. She read the short piece. Straight to the point – the beautiful princess, the ghost in her tower, the sparkle in her gown and the prince who saved her. One hundred words later and she had her happy ending.

‘If only,’ Jamie scoffed. She was thirty-two and her own life story was at least seventy-thousand words so far – the happy ending hadn’t even been drafted yet. It’s like her writer had thought of one and then scrapped it; “not believable” they’d have said, shredding the paper and starting again.

She turned to another page at random: The Girl Who Lived By A Lake. She remembered this story; it didn’t go anywhere, she just had always wanted to live by a lake. She had written about a boy camping in the woods and coming across a girl taking a dip in a shimmering lake. Her house was close by, covered in flowers, with a pet horse who roamed out front. The two talked about her favourite things to do by the lake. Sometimes the horse would even go in the water. The boy and girl laughed. The End.

Jamie was grinning at the nothingness of the stories. Nestled in her still was the joy she’d found when writing these winsome words and creating characters so flat they couldn’t hurt a fly. It was a childhood happiness that would have fused into her subconscious, and that she knows won’t leave no matter how many villains enter her life.

In the box of her things, the things that she’d, at multiple points in her life, deemed too important to discard, she looked through the MVP trophy from basketball, the friendship bracelet her best friend had given her, the photos from when her dad was still around. She placed the notebook back inside, wanting to jump inside the box herself, live in the castle and by the lake and in a time that couldn’t be touched by outside circumstances. Where letters donned flower caps and happiness was a page away.

Actually. She took the notebook back out and hugged it to her chest. She would turn to its crinkled pages whenever she was feeling blue.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We wanted to end on this delightful piece – maybe because it combines many of the themes we’ve seen so far, with the very ‘meta’ addition of finding old stories you’ve written. Many of us know the pure joy of revisiting something we wrote as a child, and here we all get to share in Jamie’s ‘storys’ (sic) – the ultimate time machine and certainly more reliable than any Delorean! The little details shared about this younger self are head-noddingly authentic, as are the stories themselves (complete with dodgy grammar!). In particular, the hilarious lake story feels so true-to-life that we think it could be based on a true story (i.e. one Minnie actually wrote!). A lovely box of nostalgia to end this month’s showcase on, and an unlikely reminder( via young Jamie’s efforts) to keep your flash fiction stories simple!

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we like to include an extra LONGLIST (approx 5-10%) of stories that stood out from the submitted hundreds and were highly considered for the showcase. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, enjoy a moment of satisfaction! And to ALL who submitted stories, we’d LOVE to see you again for next month’s challenge!

THIS MONTH’S LONGLIST (in no particular order):

• THE YEARLY WAIT by Georgia Napier, WA
• A SUNSET TO REMEMBER by Wendy Hewett, USA
• THE COLOURS by Samantha Pollard, WA
• THE ICK by Chelsea Chong, QLD
• FOREST GARDEN CEMETERY. ROW 17. PLOT 23 by Jeff Taylor, NZ
• THE SEA by Sarah Swarbrick, NSW
• CREATION by Ian Coombe, QLD
• THE FAREWELL by Nelly Shulman, Israel
• THE RED MAN IN THE PEDESTRIAN LIGHT WON’T TURN GREEN by Olive Moon, NSW
• KILAUEA, 1995 by L.A. Bowen, USA
• A PEARL BEFORE SWINE by Lisa Harding, NSW
• BLUE by Melly Mula, NSW
• VISITATION by Marie Anderson, USA
• MEETING GRIEF by Sophie von Blanckensee, SA
• MOVING EARTH by Averil Robertson, VIC
• STELLA, THE STELLAR TELLER by Cheryl Lockwood, QLD
• A DAY IN THE LIFE by Tuhina Raman, USA
• UNTITLED by Laura Summerfield, Canada
• AS FAR AS THE EYE CAN SEE by Anthony Sevil, NSW
• ARE WE THERE YET by Chris Waterson, UK
• THE FORMULA by Becca J, NSW
• JULY, 2009 by Hannah Taylor, NSW
• DO YOU LISTEN TO THE BLUES? By Mel N, USA
• UNTITLED by Dante Oberin, VIC
• 17 by Monica Paige, USA
• THE STORM by Avalon Dziak, USA
• ONCE MORE AROUND by Greg Schmidt, NSW
• WITH YOU, I SHALL DEPART by Dustin James Gillham, USA
• THE FALL by Alexander Beckett, UK
• COPPER COINS by Louise Leech, NSW
• THE SPARK by Cath Rushbrooke, VIC
• SUMMER MEMORIES by Julianna Pochatko, USA
• UNTITLED by Lydia C. Lee, NSW
• THE SWIMMER by Rosie Francis, USA
• UNTITLED by Jen Tombs, Canada
• IRON BOTTOM SOUND by Andrew Harrison, NSW
• 8 SECONDS. ON REPEAT by Simon Shergold, USA
• ENDURANCE by Helen Carter, NSW
• THE COLD END by Simon Taylor, VIC
• UNTITLED by Nicole Prill, USA
• RED LETTER DAY by Rananda Rich, NSW
• THROUGH THE EYES OF YOUTH by Kim Stevenson, USA
• MANY HAPPY RETURNS by RM Liddell Ross, QLD
• K’GARI by Kevin P, NSW
• GOING HOME by Elizabeth Coby, NSW
• TRIUMPH by Heather Maywald, SA
• NOT RIGHT by Susan Steward, USA
• I’M ON MY KNEES by Tatiana Samokhina, NSW
• WHAT EXACTLY DID YOUR MOM TELL YOU, DEAR? by Brian Parisi, USA
• CLOVERDEL by Skye Abraham, VIC
• JUST A SECOND by Tim O Tee, UK
• RIPTIDE by Tatum Schad, USA
• I MADE SURE by Fiona J. Kemp, NSW
• THE INFINITE POSSIBILITY OF WHITE by T.L. Tomljanovic, Canada
• JUNE by Stephen Circeo, USA