• 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

• Each story’s first sentence had to include something being POPPED. 
• Each story had to include a character referencing a FILM title.
• Each story had to include the words LEAP, BOTTLE and SHADOW. (Longer variations were okay if original spelling was retained.)

And ‘pop’ – let there be lightbulbs, as hundreds of story ideas presented a variety of scenarios and of course, a variety of film titles. Favourites were ‘Groundhog Day’, ‘Back to the Future’, ‘Aladdin’ and ‘Psycho’ (and hundreds more!) – with some stories even deciding to cram as MANY movie titles and references as possible! Along the way, we saw leaps of faith, leaps to conclusions, leap years and frog leaps. Messages in bottles, bubbles in bottles, water bottles and liquor bottles of all shapes and sizes. A lot of pets named ‘Shadow’ along with figurative and literal shadows too. All in all, a WIDE range of stories – as the showcase will illustrate.

POP GOES THE STORY

In flash fiction, it’s all about opening with a BANG – but this month, we thought that starting with a “POP” would take you to far more places. And wow, you did not disappoint! Here are just some of the creative things that were popped in the stories we received:

• Body parts! Including heads, shoulders, knees and toes (knees and toes). Along with ears, eyes, knuckles and teeth! (Oh, and entire weasels.)
• Champagne! Any opportunity to celebrate something was explored – from weddings and birthdays to untimely deaths – it was all fair game and we were frothing for it.
• Balloons! Children’s parties featured heavily, as did a plethora of other celebrations – from retirement parties to 70th wedding anniversaries. And a very 21st century celebration – the gender reveal party!
• Cherries! Yes, popping the cherry was also pop-ular, described in a variety of ways!
• Clogs! Death turned up in a number of opening sentences this month, usually accompanied by clogs. Americans take note – to ‘pop your clogs’ is like kicking the bucket!
• Guns! Often related to the previous point, we saw everything from assassins to kids with cap-guns. 
• Questions! Ahhh yes, we were quite literally ‘asking for it’ weren’t we? And you answered, with dozens of marriage proposals gone right, wrong or somewhere in the middle. (We end with a fun one below.)
• Bubble wrap! From the utilitarian to the alarmingly seductive (you know who you are), this ASMR-ish of all packaging featured heavily, and we couldn’t help but be wrapped up in it!
• Rice bubbles! Snap, crackle… you know the rest. Breakfast cereals definitely popped up milking it more than usual this month and a certain slogan is most definitely to blame.
• Pimples! Oh my. Wow. The number of stories that opened with mirrors being splattered with pus was truly a sight to behold. Just like those faces, we’re still a little scarred.
• Buttons! A lot of large (or exploding!) bellies and chests sent buttons popping in a cacophony of wardrobe malfunctions that most certainly pushed our buttons.
• And of course, popcorn! From stovetops to microwaves to those big fancy machines you see in cinemas, we saw it all – and the reasons to be dining on this salty treat were as varied as the storylines. 

On that note, grab your own popcorn and settle in to enjoy the show(case). We’ll be starting with our top pick of the month, followed by our showcase shortlist and longlisted stories. And as always, to ALL WHO ENTERED – congrats, you’re all “pop” stars and we hope to see you popping the cork on your creativity again next month!

FEBRUARY TOP PICK

THE GENIE AND THE COST OF LIVING CRISIS by Susan Elizabeth Wacker, QLD

The genie popped out of the beer bottle, spitting obscenities like bullets. He was a little man and wore an Akubra hat, RM Williams boots, faded jeans and a flannelette shirt. He swore, rubbed his lower back and groaned. ‘Give us a minute, mate, been in there 10 years.’

My eyes burned from the smoke and I looked stupidly at the bottle in my hand. ‘You were in a beer bottle.’

‘So?’ he asked. I thought I saw something dark and shadowy in his eyes.

‘I didn’t know genies lived in beer bottles.’

‘Not too many Arabian oil lamps around here, mate!’ He stood straighter but still had to look up at me.

‘You don’t look like a genie.’

‘And you’re no Aladdin, yet here we are.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Let’s talk about your two wishes.’

‘Two wishes? I thought there were three!’

‘Haven’t you heard of inflation? The cost of living crisis? You get two wishes these days and that’s a bargain!’

I took a deep breath. ‘I wish for….’

The genie held up his hand. ‘I’ll stop you there, mate. First, I have to read you the genie wish policy.’ There was another flash and smoke again filled the old cellar. When it cleared, I saw the genie was holding a scroll. He took a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket and perched them on the end of his nose. ‘This is being recorded by the way. For training purposes.’

‘Okay.’

‘You have two wishes. I strongly suggest you use them wisely. However, any advice I give you is of a general nature and does not take into account your personal circumstances.’

‘I don’t want financial advice. I want to be rich! So rich I can do whatever I want for the rest of my life!’

The genie leaned forward, a little too eagerly. ‘Is that a wish?’

I opened my mouth to say ‘yes’ and something stopped me. ‘No, I need to think.’

The genie swore. ‘You want to be wealthy, yes? You want to buy cars and houses and diamonds? Just say it. I wish to be wealthy. It’s not that hard!’

I smiled. ‘I wish for wealth and a long life.’

‘That’s two wishes.’

I nodded. ‘I don’t want you making me rich and I drop dead two seconds later.’

The genie laughed. ‘You’re clever, mate, but not clever enough.’

‘What do you mean?’ I started to feel lightheaded, as if I’d drunk too much alcohol. Even though it was only midafternoon, the light was fading.

The last thing I remember was the genie leaping at me and then I woke up in the beer bottle. I panicked, pounding on the glass. From what sounded like a long distance away, I heard the genie say, ‘Genies are wealthy. We just don’t get to spend our wealth. The good news is we do have a very long life. Enjoy yours, mate.’

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Humour and dialogue – two things that are notoriously tricky to get right. But here we have an example of nailing them both. We had a number of ‘genie in a bottle’ (thanks Christina Aguilera?) stories this month, but there was something charming and disarming about the topical yet atypical interplay between our two characters here – each trying to stay ahead of the other. Nothing is sacred as the back-and-forth hits its comedic straps and we are happy to enjoy the ride right until the final fate is revealed. The result is a story that is not afraid to shake up the bottle for a lot of bonza fizzy fun!

THE TRUTH ABOUT THE TOOTH FAIRY by Jo Skinner, QLD

I give my tooth a wiggle with my tongue, and it pops out just like that. I’m lucky I didn’t swallow it to be honest. It’s been loose for a week now, the last person in my class to reach the first-tooth milestone.

There’s blood on my finger when I hold it up for Pop to see. I stay with him on weekends while Mum works. She rolls her eyes when I tell her he really believes in fairies and magic, so now I just keep this to myself. Pop even built a fairy path down to a tiny bottle-green house he built in the overgrown laneway beside his apartment. Fairies live there when we aren’t watching. When I’m with Pop, I believe in magic too.

Pop props his glasses at the end of his nose and peers down at my tooth. A real beauty, he says. Let me wash it for you.

I drop it into his big hand, and it falls into one of the cracks on his palm. I explore the new gap in my mouth with my tongue and it tastes like blood. It makes me a bit woozy to be honest, but I don’t want to worry Pop, so I don’t say anything. Just what the tooth fairy is looking for, he says inspecting it with his magnifying glass. Put it in a glass of water next to your bed tonight.

I’m determined to stay awake so I can see if the tooth fairy is real, but I fall asleep. When I wake up, it’s still dark and I need to pee. Then I remember to look and the glass with my tooth is gone. She left me two gold coins. My heart beats faster and I wonder what Mum would say. It might be one of those things I need to keep to myself.

I tiptoe out to the bathroom and hear Pop snoring. I peep into his room and nearly fall over. He has not one but a whole set of teeth in a glass. The tooth fairy must have missed him. Or maybe she can’t carry that many. I stay up and worry, would hate to see Pop sad. I keep awake this time, sit in the shadows and keep watch.

It lightens and Pop’s teeth still sit there. I don’t know what to do. I creep back into my room but don’t have any money, except for my Tooth Fairy coins.

I remember my Peter Pan book. I bought it after I watched the movie on TV and it’s my favourite. I hesitate then tear out the picture of Tinkerbell. It will have to do. I tiptoe into Pop’s room. He moves.

I hold my breath.

He starts snoring again.

I place Tinkerbell next to him and take the glass. I run to the rubbish chute, throw Pop’s teeth in, hurry back, leap into my bed and pretend to sleep.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This delightful piece is very clever. Not only does it give us a tooth popping out AND a Pop as a main character, but it also draws the reader in with a shared experience. We may not all have had acne or celebrated with champagne, but we have ALL lost baby teeth. (If you’re reading this and are yet to, we’re impressed!) What follows is a story full of whimsy and charm that appears to be heading for a happy, sleepy end. That’s what makes the child’s innocent ‘act of kindness’ so hilarious – and the payoff truly feels earned. We really want to be there the next morning!

DATE NIGHT by Ryan Klemek, USA

Draad shuts off the stove as the final few kernels burst into deliciousness. While the popcorn is still steaming, he adds copious amounts of salt and goat blood.

“I can't believe you've never seen It's a Wonderful Life,” he says as he plops onto the couch next to Zally.

“I'm not really into horror movies.” She swallows a fistful of popcorn in one gulp, then licks blood from her claws.

“But the angel doesn't even have wings or a halo,” Draad says. “He just looks like a normal guy.”

She shudders. “It's the thought of it. You know me; I'm afraid of my own shadow.”

She's six hundred pounds of muscle with fourteen-inch horns, so her shadow is rather intimidating. Draad keeps this thought to himself as he opens a bottle of 1996 Virgin Tears and pours two glasses.

“Well, thanks for humoring me,” he says. “It really is a classic.”

“Ok, but if I have a nightmare and murder you in my sleep again, you'll have nobody to blame but yourself.”

He laughs. “Fair enough.”

They toast and Draad starts the movie. The moment the camera pans up to Heaven, Zally leaps into his arms.

“Why didn't you warn me there was going to be praying?” she whispers.

Draad can't help but smile as he caresses her scaly back. This is why horror flicks are perfect date movies.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Short and sweet, this 220-word date-night romance is dripping with hilarious topsy-turvy energy – playing it straight with such a simple and fun flipped concept. After all, it’s likely that a monster’s version of a horror movie would indeed be something sweet and angelic. The double-take on the first reference (wait, goat blood?) swiftly moves to even more funny observations and it’s an idea that certainly doesn’t outstay its welcome. We especially loved the explanation of why Zally is likely to be afraid of her own shadow!

THE CLUB by Ruby Barber-McLeod, NSW

Her cherry had been popped. Her V-card renounced, she had ridden the pleasure train and decided it to be no different an experience to that of trying a mango. She didn’t feel very different, if anything a little contemplative over the slip n slide experience, over and done with in the span of 4 minutes. Which, she had heard, was pretty good for your first time.

She rolled onto her side and stared at the dude who had done it. He was snoring with a bit of drool dribbling down his chin. Rolling onto her back she stared at the ceiling, satiated yes at having ‘done it’, but rather underwhelmed at the physical and emotional side she had thought so long and hard about. There had been no sexy moans or any stream of dirty talk like all the books depicted, no naughty mention of any genitals in any form at all as a matter of fact. He’d taken one look at her breasts, in a bra mind you, and nearly passed out from excitement. It had taken all of 12 seconds for him to start acting like an over enthused puppy, left to its own devices humping the leg of a chair. There were no gentle kisses, no mention of sweet nothings whispered in her ear, only the banging of teeth against teeth and the frenzied biting of her top and bottom lip before he’d stumbled over the words ‘are you ready?’ And, barely able to contain himself over her nonchalant nod, began to ‘clean the pipes’. It was not the lusty pounding of bodies she had hoped for, she hadn’t thrown her hand against any steamy window to leave a trace of love behind. There had been no scandalous destruction of any bedroom furniture as she’d hoped, nothing like the sex in Twilight or Dark Shadows. Just a little bit of wiggling around, basically. What was with the hype? All the twitter comments of ‘yeah sex is cool, but have you ever…’ suddenly made sense.

Rolling onto her other side she eyed the bottle of lube, lying unused and forgotten on its side. The words ‘mango flavor’ were written boldly across its front, and she wondered aimlessly at what it tasted like. She sighed. She had been pegged, plowed, railed, and perhaps even deflowered, and she sure as shit was counting that as a successful leap into adulthood. Content with just that, she smiled smugly. She was in.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Ah yes, the popped cherry cometh, so to speak. And this piece chooses to take place in the awkward ‘afterglow’ of a first encounter. Our protagonist reflects on the card that has just been renounced and the inevitable fantasy-versus-reality that plays out as a result. In particular, the references to the “over enthused puppy” and other clumsy pawing descriptions are fun. Rolling out as a three-act stream of consciousness, what might at first seem like it’s building up to regret and anger actually plays out in perhaps a more realistic way. Welcome to the mango club!

THE FINAL SWEEP OF THE BROOM by Steve Cumper, TAS

She turned the key and leaned on the door before it yielded with a pop. That familiar sweet biscuity aroma filled her nostrils and in an instant, she had time travelled back ten years.

She had just made the leap into the world of flour, butter and sugar. Having traversed a progression of kitchens as a journey-woman she was lured by the emergent and significant reputation of her mentor to be, and shadowed her for a job.

Eventually she wore her down with her doggedness, nimble flattery and a well lobbed quote from the movie Babette's Feast. The homework she had undertaken on her quarry, had clearly paid off. She got the job and celebrated with a bottle of rum.

Stepping further into the room, the familiar shapes of the stainless steel, squared tiles and hard edges funnelled her through like trickling water in a brook, past the banks of crouched cooking machinery, resting between shifts. They quietly ticked and squeaked, cooling incrementally, catching their breath like race horses after a gallop. She ran her hand along the workbench as she passed. It was cold and she could picture the fat slabs of pastry being rolled into submission hours earlier. She considered the space, her eyes becoming accustomed to the dim, and could make out the ghostly footprints left in the fine mist of flour that remained on the floor. Evidence of the former artisan of this venerated space sent a thrill of anticipation through her and she deftly matched her stride to meet each tread. Her boots fitted neatly within the outline of her predecessor's print creating a halo-like effect that irritated her momentarily until her petulant feet scrubbed the floor of it.

As an afterthought, she ran a finger across another bench and examined the collected flour on it. ‘Thought it would be spotless?’ she said out loud almost daring for a response, her pretend bravado surprisingly imbued with a pinch of self-doubt and uncertainty, even after all this time.

The hum of the cool room beckoned and she followed its call into the next room. Shelves appeared, laden with all manners of sugars, flours and flavourings. In a corner by a tiled wall graffitied with a thousand sharpie numbers and notes, was a scruffy looking landline.

Above it, what looked like the most recent doodle read, ‘Get Beurre Boscs from Col, 0428629444’

‘I Love your BUNS Shellie!’ was scrawled across the coolroom door. She found herself smiling at the message despite herself. Everywhere she looked she saw the suggestion of her old mentor, her touch and her mark.

It’s my turn now, she thought.

Tomorrow will see a new custodian of this space. All the cakes and pastries that preceded her would be memories, just that. No memorial signpost, commemorative plaque or official ribbon cutting. Just a quiet baton change of ownership and a life of baking measured by flourprints that eluded the final sweep of the broom.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Sometimes locations themselves can be just as main a character as the people that inhabit them. Such is the case here in the gloomy half-light as our protege-turned-protagonist prepares to take the baton/apron and fill those flour-dusted shoes. The details of the kitchen and its contents not only give us an insight into the BTS workings of such a place (much like the lauded show The Bear has done), but act as a literal and narrative funnel through the story. Along the way, snippets of backstory are deftly kneaded and folded into the action and even the prompts melt like butter. A tasty offering, baked to perfection!

I HATE MELANIE HOPPER by Helen Renwick, WA

My parents popped in. That’s what they do. Perky, beaming.

They are serial popper-inners whose finely-honed instincts ensure they only come when there are dog hairs clumped around the table legs, last night’s plates sitting on sofa cushions, food on the floor in the kitchen and beer cans and empty wine bottles on the coffee table. Only then.

I knew it was them before the doorbell rang because I could see the car in the driveway. I should’ve leapt into action to get some of the rubbish out of eyeshot, but that particular day I literally could not be arsed.

Stuart muttered “Don’t fecking tell them I’m here” and shot out towards the office. I experienced almost pure hatred for the man I definitely loved, but it was a WFH day for him and if he came out they’d stay longer so …

Two shadows appeared on the hall floor in front of the glass front door.

So there they were. “Hello darling! Dad and me are on our way to see a movie. It doesn’t start till 11.30 so we thought well let’s drop in on Josie.”

Well let’s NOT, I thought in my murky headspace full of festering resentments that jostle with my better self. My mother’s eyes ranged over the detritus of life with two untidy adults and three children: my mouth joined forces with my better self and said “Sorry about the mess mum – late night.” Good job, better self. And she said “Oh no problem darling. We totally understand. You’re so busy. It’s just nice to see you!”

They don’t totally understand. They don’t even partly understand. And I’m not entirely sure it’s nice to see me, either. It’s convenient – on the way and the coffee is free.

But I smiled politely and made the coffee.

Then suddenly they were flapping around in a panic because they weren't sure it WAS an 11.30 start anymore and they couldn't check because it was an online booking and …

I checked for them.

“Mum … are you seeing ‘Thanksgiving’???” I asked politely.

Mum said yes, they’re so looking forward to it. Melanie Hopper (their neighbour whose husband is a tax accountant and they’ve got a new holiday house down south and their children are doing SO well at school they’ve got them all at private schools and she never has a hair out of place you know) told them it’s a comedy about a dysfunctional family who get stranded in a campervan over Thanksgiving and Melanie Hopper said it’s hilarious and the family tensions will resonate.

RESONATE?

I hate Melanie Hopper.

I said, clearly: “11.30 is the start time, Mum. Enjoy.”

***

Melanie Hopper’s out of favour these days. She said she didn’t realise “Thanksgiving” was so violent, but anyway it set off my dad’s angina and he was in hospital for a week.

Did I know it was violent?

***

He’s fine now.

They still pop in.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Many of us will relate simply to the notion of parents ‘popping in’ – a fun use of the prompt and starter for this slice of life. We loved Stuart’s frantic disappearance (and the truth that even on a WFH day, you’ll probably not be in the office unless hiding!) and the familiarity that would usually be casual rudeness if draped on anyone else but family. Here, the film title also gets a big role to play, thanks to the erroneous recommendation of the title character. There’s also a particular authenticity throughout – even the grammatically incorrect dialogue of “Dad and me” are exactly what someone WOULD say! The bunny-hop time jumps at the end act as tiny but fun footnotes to this suburban encounter that many will connect with.

THE HORDE by A.M. Obst, UK

A loud pop next to my ear makes me jump, though I should have expected it. It is how they wear you down, turn you into a gibbering wreck.

I’m backed up against a wall, surrounded by a ring of hungry faces, young ones nearest with adults behind, egging them on. Teeth bared, eyes shining, their screeches a blunt knife across my frayed nerves.

I won’t let them see this is getting to me. I stretch my mouth into a smiling rictus, hoping it’s enough to hide my churning fear.

I barely stop myself from flinching when another one leaps towards me. Hands grab my trousers and shirt in pincer-grips, stopping me from escaping.

My fingers stray towards my pocket, where I’ve hidden a tiny bottle containing an escape from this living, writhing nightmare. No, I won’t succumb to the temptation. Not yet.

When I started this work, I loved putting myself directly on the frontlines, using my talents to preserve the sanity of others. But stepping into the breach over and over again with ever-diminishing returns has taken its toll.

Another object bounces off my head. I raise a hand to my temple, but there’s no blood. I think it was some kind of utensil; they’re improvising their weapons now, I don’t know what they’ll launch at me next.

At last, the arrival of other food distracts them, and I spy an opening among the furiously heaving bodies. I make my move while I have the chance.

As I dash past, a woman says, “Oh, this is marvellous, just like being in The Wiggles Movie!”

More like The Hunger Games, I think, but she doesn’t wait for a response as her attention shifts back to the mayhem in the living room.

At last I reach shelter and close the door, savouring my moment of respite in the oasis of the downstairs toilet. Hands shaking, I take out my hip flask and unscrew the top, but the sharp scent of gin brings me back to my senses. It would be a terrible way to end my long career.

I examine myself in the mirror. At least the makeup hides the shadows under my eyes. My red nose has been yanked to one side by one of the more ebullient children. I straighten it, ensure my wig is firmly on, pat down my bow tie with inbuilt water squirter.

“OK, you, get back out there,” I tell myself firmly. “Less than half an hour to go. The balloon animals didn’t work, so you need to try the next trick in your arsenal. It’s time to break out the kazoo.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

While this appears to start out as on some kind of Saving-Private-Ryanesque battlefield, the reader is pretty sure there’s something else at play here. Such is the specificity of the inner monologue of our weary narrator – stuck in the trenches and seemingly fighting for their lives. The fog (of war) slowly begins to clear with reference to The Wiggles and a conversation that places it more residence than regiment. The final pep talk is likely one that every birthday entertainer (or theme park costumed character, sports mascot etc) has had to have with themself at one point or another – and the decision to leave it there allows the story’s battle-hardened alter ego narrative to never quite burst (like a balloon animal) entirely.

QUEEN OF THE CASTLE by Emily Jenik, VIC

Maybe I’ll regret it later, but in the moment it feels so good to jam the scissors down, hear the loud pop and feel the rush of air leaking out.

Maybe it’s petty. I’ll probably get in trouble. A lot of trouble. But right in this second, it feels damn good. The air hissing out echoes the shrill scream inside my head that’s been growing louder ever since I got here.

Maddison’s party. Maddison’s perfect party. 

Maddison with her perfect outfit, in her perfect garden outside her perfect mini-mansion. Maddison’s party has canapés and waitstaff. Maddison’s party has a roving close-up magician and a celebrity guest list. Maddison’s party has a frozen margarita machine. Maddison is turning four for Chrissake! 

Blake’s birthday party was last week. Suddenly our homemade Lego cake and backyard sprinkler party feel shameful and small. 

So yes, I took the tequila bottle from the margarita station, and yes I’ve been taking swigs from it since midday. I guess I won’t be winning Mother of the Year today.

A shadow descends as the jumping castle deflates. Little kids leap out of the way as a flaccid turret flops down from above. Maddison’s Pomeranian starts yapping and my brain plays the theme music from Howl’s Moving Castle as I edge away from the scene of the crime, hurriedly chucking the scissors into a perfectly manicured hydrangea as I go.

Blake rushes to me and hugs my knees.

“Let’s go, baby, this party’s a bust,” I say with an innocent swagger I certainly don’t feel. Blake looks up at me pleadingly, but then her face suddenly lights up with an idea.

“Can we go home and play in the sprinklers?!?”

I smile.

“Yes baby, yes we can.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Another story, another kid’s birthday party! But here, we get the perhaps-more-relatable POV of a parent observing the lavishness and playing the comparison game. Faced with one of those mega parties where no expense has been spared, our protagonist decides to take out her frustrations on Maddison’s square garden attraction, the bouncy castle. (Fun movie reference too!) Small details sprinkled (or is that sprinklered?) throughout – pomeranian, hydrangeas, canapes and so on – tell us all we need to know. And this hissy-fit does indeed feel damn good!

A SPOONFUL OF SUGAR by Edward Bicioc, NSW

First thing I see when I open the door is Mary, poppin’ a fistful of Percs. She’s trippin’ alright, over her own dress down the apples and pears, flappin’ her arms at me like a ruddy goose as I walk in. When she does land it’s right in me lap, slurrin’ and smearin’ lipstick down me pinstripe whistle and flute, sayin’, “Gi’us a kiss, Henry, ya sexy beast!”

I says to her, “No chance, love, I ain’t no Dick Van Dyk, and you can go fly a kite.” I dodge her uppercut but fall back over Barry, who’s drunk on his bottle and glass on the floor behind me. So I says to meself, “Right, this is gunna be one of them nights,” and fish around in me rocket for somethin’ to take the edge off. I dig out a thumbful of Bob Marley and shove it up the ol’ fireman’s hose, and now we’re bloody laughin’. Spit-spot, lovely jubbly.

But now Mary’s comin’ up behind me again, crowin’, “Gi’us a spoonful o’ sugar, would ya, Henry?” But I ain’t feeding this bird, so I says to her, “Cost ya more ‘n tuppence for a bag o’ this, love.” I leap over Barry and past Jamie, who’s enjoyin’ a leisurely slash up the chim chiminey, when I catch sight o’ Wendy, all on her Jack Jones havin’ a smoke by the Gary Glitter.

Now, Wendy’s practic’ly perfect, so I give her a wink, a double blink, and light us up a Jimmy Cliff, which sets her off about some bloke called Danny, who sounds a right James Blunt. But I never hear how it ends, ‘cause now Mary’s beltin’ Jamie up the Khyber Pass with an umbrella, yellin’, “Teach ya to take a Johnny Cash in me fireplace!” And Jamie counters with, “Yer lucky it weren’t a Richard the Third!” And me and Wendy are havin’ a right laugh at the two of ‘em, but the fact is me mind’s miles away, dreamin’ of Wendy’s thruppenny bits and raspberry ripples, and the sight of her Alan Whickers.

So, I says to Wendy, “Don’t mean to sound precocious, but how ‘bout we head down to yours for bit of a zig and zag?” But before she can answer I hear the loo flush and the ol’ trouble and strife comes out the Gary Glitter. She takes one look at Wendy, and one look at me, and her Chevy Chase says she’s heard everything. I know without a shadow I’m brown bread, so I hop out the window and take me chances in the alley.

So here I am, no Wendy’s Alan Whickers and not a bloody raspberry ripple in sight. Nought but a Barklay’s Bank in store when I get home. Chim chim cher-bleedin’-roo.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

You’ll often hear about the importance of a unique narrative voice and for that alone, this one stood out immediately for its sing-song apples-n-pears Cockney vernacular. But rather than merely act as a conveyor belt of fun East End rhymes, this piece manages to not only sound great (painting a lavish picture dripping with Mary Poppins references) but tell a story too, complete with motivation, conflict and resolution. You simply can’t help putting on the accent (innit?) and playing the part, grabbing your persian rugs and having a bubble bath with this artful dodger. And that’s what makes it one of this month’s treacle tarts!

SQUARING THE LEDGER by Michael Donohue, NSW

No one was sure which ruptured first, the aneurysm of the cerebral artery or the translucent lilo that came to drift just below the surface of the water. The bloated body was discovered floating face down in the newly refurbished swimming pool, naked except for a Rolex watch and a small ring attached to the nipple. I’m sure this wasn’t the way the deceased envisioned the final check out. Most people hope to pass away peacefully in their bed. Being found bobbing around bare-arsed in the shallow end doesn’t rank highly in the list of ‘top ten exit strategies’. It’s not a great way to go, and it doesn’t take a giant leap of the imagination to picture the flailing fear that accompanies such a violent end. However, in my experience, it is better to focus on the richness of a life’s journey, rather than the sudden arrival at a desolate destination.

He will be celebrated now. His friends and family will crack open a bottle of champagne and raise a glass in his honour. His life will be eulogised to the point where it bares only a passing resemblance to the life he actually lived. The character of the man will be championed to give him a hero’s farewell, when in reality he was as weak as he was bold and as self serving as he was generous. He was, like most people, an unruly mess of contradictions, driven as much by his emotions, as his intellect. On being laid to rest, the wrinkles of his existence will be ironed out in order to present a tidy facsimile to the world; one that can be neatly folded away for posterity.

He will be missed by those he leaves behind and his legacy will be the gift of a temporary enlightenment. People who knew him will savour life’s pleasures a little more intensely, knowing that it can all be taken away in the burst of a bubble. In time, the intensity of the feeling will fade, along with the memory of the man.

Perhaps I should confess that I was present at the time of his passing, arriving at the poolside shortly before the fateful ‘pop’. However, I did not intervene, it was not my place to do so. I waited patiently in the shadows and let nature have her way. After all, I was simply there to balance the books, to collect what was owed. A debt. No more. No less.

Brevity and efficiency are critical in my line of work, there is no time for the symbolic chess games of Bergman’s ‘The Seventh Seal’, nor a need for hooded costumes and primitive farming equipment, that is the stuff of celluloid nightmares. My job is to assimilate, to blend in until the time comes to square the ledger. At which point we can say ‘it is finished’.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The character of Death has featured heavily in submissions of the past, and it has to be said that if you’re going to personify such a well-trodden concept, you need to do so in a fresh way. And that’s what elevates this story – unfolding without the need to identify its narrator and relying instead on the simple observations of a particularly deflating passing. The second and third paragraph do a great job of showcasing the intricacies and complexities of remembering a life lived. It’s only then do we get clues to our narrator’s identity and the part they had to play. The reference to a dislike for “hooded costumes and primitive farming equipment” is a lovely touch – confirming at last who has come to square the ledger at the finish.

HOME SWEET HOME by Christy Hartman, Canada

The neighbour’s inflatable Santa taunted my deflated snowman with its incessant whirr and jolly wave. She, and the kids, left for good three weeks before Christmas. He’d driven away months before. Last year he’d draped me with tasteful white twinkle lights, and she hung a ribbon-laced holly wreath on my front door. I know she tried to hold on to me. Begging the bank to take a leap of faith. He let me go as if our years together meant nothing, walked out and never came back.

They were my first. My white walls a blank slate to create their perfect nest. They’d hung dusty rose and forest green wallpaper. My style is more contemporary, but their joy was infectious, so I absorbed the glue and hung tight to the flowery vinyl. Today, paper peels at the corners. When they stopped holding on, I did too.

The week he left she’d shared a bottle of wine with her sister. Admitting she didn’t know how it all fell apart. I knew how. I watched it happen.

The kids had needed her less, she’d returned to work. New challenges, new friends, new confidence. My days became quiet, the hum of the fridge replacing the television and sounds of dinner being made. Evenings were filled with arguments over dishes, laundry, and homework. I’d turn off the Wi-Fi, hoping to lure them to the kitchen, like the old days, when games of Candy Land and Uno had been a nightly ritual.

When I was busy settling my creaking bones, she’d whisper in the bedroom shadows that he needed to do more, be more. He’d agree, holding her tight. When the morning sun spilled through my windows, wet towels and milky cereal bowls erased the reassurances of the night before.

He’d started sleeping on the couch, blaming her snores and hot flashes. Peaceful midnight blackness was broken by cell phone glare. Late night texts turned to whispered complaints about how cold she was, how unappreciated he felt. I’d blown drafts through door jambs and windowsills, hoping to send him scurrying back to the warmth of their bed. He’d just add another blanket.

I saw the receipt before she did. It fell out of his navy blazer. There was nothing I could do. She confronted him after dinner. The kids put on headphones, drowning out another argument. He left before the sun had set. Hoping to draw him back to me I plugged the kitchen sink and tripped the fridge breaker. She handled it, he stayed away.

A moving truck pulled up today, followed by a red SUV. He opened the door and helped her out. A good sign. She glows with the exhausted beauty of late pregnancy; I worry my split-level stairs will be hard on her. He wants to replace the dining room wallpaper; she says it reminds her of Steel Magnolia’s and wants it to stay. He agreed to repair it. I miss my people, but this is my chance to try again.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

So often we say, “if these walls could talk!” Well, here, they did – with the story choosing to ‘address’ a relationship breakup from the POV of an empty home pining for its former housemates and wondering (but also knowing) where it all went wrong. By embedding very human feelings within its walls – e.g. “I absorbed the glue and hung tight to the flowery vinyl” – the story makes us feel for this collection of building materials, so much so that “when they stopped holding on, I did too” has real impact. The choice to show the breakup of the humans from this same viewpoint (and their subsequent ‘break up’ with the house) is nice, including all the ways said house attempts to alter the outcome. Finally, a hopeful ending adds to the street appeal of this tightly packaged story.

FEBRUARY 14th 1999 by Tara Frey, QLD

‘No.’

Suitably deflated, I debated internally if I should laugh, cry, or get off my knee and race to stop the marching band due at any moment. Strangely, all I did was wonder what their refund policy was.

‘Marcus?’

I snapped the ring box closed and rose, avoiding Valerie’s gape.

‘It’s only been three weeks!’

I slumped. They were right on time. It wasn’t cheap organising a band of seventeen on short notice to serenade the love of my life in the local park. On a Sunday. At noon. They weren’t great, but I had to commend them for their punctuality.

Valerie blanched. ‘Did you…is that…for us?’

I winced as the cymbals, just shy of hula hoop size, crashed together. I nodded.

‘Are they playing the theme song to Rocky?’

I shrugged and, again, I nodded. Our first date—movie night. It seemed so long ago now. Memories of our time together leapt through my mind. Holding hands. Snuggling in the mornings. Shadowing her on her daily errands. Just to be clear, she knew I was there.

We were attracting attention now. Frisbees ceased flying. Banter was quashed by the clangour and the park became an auditorium of gawking, dumbfounded spectators.

The photographer I’d hired crept from the shrubbery and gestured questioningly. A cringe plastered his expression. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have nodded, but my faculties had been interrupted and it seemed to be my default in the moment. I mean, who doesn’t want a record of the most mortifying moment in their life?

‘Stop. Just stop.’ Valerie shouted at the band and they clumsily dwindled to silence.

Never before had a park been so still. So quiet. The champagne bottle I had cooling in an ice bucket adjusted itself as the ice melted. That gravelly whisper, the only sound daring to emerge. That and the click of the camera zoomed in on my face.

‘Um. So, I’m gonna go,’ Valerie crouched to grab her purse. She took one last, swift review of the scene and walked, rather briskly, away.

The trombonist stepped forward. ‘Er…’

‘You can go,’ I said.

The photographer lunged awkwardly towards me.

‘You too.’

‘I’ll email the photos.’

‘Don’t.’ I was fairly certain I wouldn’t have any trouble remembering this. I wilted to the picnic rug amidst the array of canapés and cupcakes.

‘You put on quite the show,’ a haggard voice said. I looked up at an elderly lady standing before me. ‘Never before have I seen such an extraordinary example of poor judgement,’ she added.

I nodded. At least I was consistent. Foolish and consistent.

She motioned to the rug. ‘May I?’

‘Sure.’

With more ease than I expected, she sat. ‘You know what’s wonderful about poor judgement?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Regret.’ I considered that to be more brutal than wonderful until she added, ‘And that girl’s poor judgement will haunt her for the rest of her life.’

I smiled, sitting up a little straighter. ‘Cupcake?’

She smiled too. ‘Sounds wonderful.’

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Nawwww, poor Marcus! We asked for something to be popped in the first sentence, and this simple “No” does it sublimely – performing double duty as signalling the popped question and also deflating an ego/heart. Choosing to begin here also allows the humour to unfold. We didn’t need any backstory – instead we get a literal parade of premeditated cringe as Marcus’s efforts are put on full display. (The ‘Rocky’ theme – brilliant way to insert the film reference!) No one is the villain here (apart from our narrator’s terrible ability to ‘read the room’ after just three weeks), which leads to a delicious array of dialogue and mayhem in between this couple’s awkward farewells. (“I’ll email the photos” from the shrubbery-stealth snapper is great!) Pacing is also on point, allowing us the final act to sit with the result (literally, on the picnic rug) and raise a glass to all the poor judgement choices we’ve made in our lives. Cheers!

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we like to include an extra LONGLIST (approx 5-10%) of stories that stood out from the hundreds and were highly considered for the showcase (it was a close thing for many of these this month!). Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, well done! And to ALL who submitted stories, don’t lose heart – we’d LOVE to see you smash next month’s challenge!

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

• JUST ONE OF THOSE DAYS by Paul A. Freeman, Mauritania
• THE CALM VERSUS THE STORM by Emma Daniell, QLD
• ROMEO SIERRA TANGO by Greg Eccleston, NSW
• SWISH by Becca J, NSW
• BEN by Heather Maywald, SA
• HIS BOTTLED HEARTS by Artemisia Allan, QLD
• ANOTHER NIGHT by Vrishin Bhatia, India
• NOT THE DEAD POET’S SOCIETY by Athena Law, QLD
• UNTITLED by Reagan Ross, USA
• BASIC, BETTER, BEST by R. M. Levi, ACT
• UNTITLED by Joshua Kepfer, USA
• LITTLE TOY GUNS by Connie Boland, Canada
• LA DOLCE VITA AMERICANA by Hannah Andrews, USA
• THE POSTIE ALWAYS COMES TWICE by A.K. Scotland, NSW
• IS IT CHAMPAGNE? By Immy Mohr, NSW
• LEAP OF FAITH by Suma Jayachandar, India
• UNTITLED by Russell Roberts, VIC
• NOW AND THEN by Punxsutawney Phil, VIC
• CORPORATE DRAFT NIGHT by Cameron Burnett, NSW
• THE FINE PRINT by Diane Lee, SA
• THE ROOM by Emma Jane, QLD
• IT ACTUALLY SOUNDED A LOT LIKE SCREAMING by Brian Parisi, USA
• THE BOY by Courtney Bayer, USA
• LETTING LOOSE by Lisa Knight, NSW
• IF YOU HADN’T by Patricia Q. Bidar, USA
• THE RACE by Cathryn Girdwood, QLD
• THE FAIRY GODMOTHER by Shayne Denford, NSW
• BILLY’S CAR by Mark Gamtcheff, SA
• A SURPRISING JETTISON by Duane Fogarty, NSW
• POPPED THE QUESTION by Tom Penrose, NSW
• TILL DEATH DO US PART by Carol Kirwood, NSW
• SLIDING DOORS by Elizabeth Hilton, QLD
• OLD MOTHER HUBBARD by Christine McCarry, NSW
• UNTITLED by Sawyer Kuhl, the Quiet Dad, USA
• THE JOY OF A NEW PLEASURE by Julia Ess, VIC
• BLOOD TO AIR by Asha Sands, Indonesia
• WHODUNNIT by Chris Waterson, UK
• SOMETHIN’ BIG by Ashlee Chester, WA
• MOMENTS by Ingrid Fernandez, NSW
• BEST FRIENDS FOREVER by Anushka S, India
• UNTITLED by Michael Linggoputro, NSW
• THE INFLATOR CREATOR by Cheryn Witney, SA
• BURST by Dermott Fairfield, VIC
• FERMENTING by Matt Goddard, UK
• DATE NIGHT by Skye Abraham, VIC
• A LOVE AFFAIR WITH SAM NEILL by Fiona Crowson, NSW
• MERCY by Inez Rivera, NSW
• A REVEAL OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS by TJ Edwards, NSW
• BAD SPIRITS by Gemma Ryan, NSW
• 12 ITEMS OR LESS by Rachel Howden, NSW
• COMPULSORY UPGRADE: TEENAGER by Anne Wilkins, NZ

• Each story had to take place on a character’s FIRST DAY OF A NEW JOB.
• Each story had to include something being stolen.
• Each story had to include the words TRIP, TRIANGLE and TSUNAMI.

(Longer variations were okay if original spelling was retained.)

Love triangles, Bermuda triangles, trips overseas, trips over rugs and a tsunami of emotions all came flooding in. Accompanying this were stolen treasures, stolen stationery, stolen glances and stolen identities, to name just a few!

FIRST DAY NERVES

This month, we asked for each story to take place on the first day of a new job. From a story perspective, creating a construct of something new or novel is a great way to add a sense of curiosity and discovery for your character – and for your reader.

• There are often many emotions on the first day of a new job. Nervousness, excitement, anticipation – perhaps something else. 
• Not all jobs are created equal – and we received everything from meteorologists to masseuses, detectives to dishwashers, babysitters to brain surgeons. Oh, and a LOT of teachers!
• Even though we asked for the first day of a new job, the story didn’t necessarily have to take place AT the job. It could be early morning or at the end of the day. Or in a flashback! (By the way, if you’d like to master the art of flashbacks, check out our upcoming online event.)

So, that’s your induction over with. Please enjoy our selection of stories below, followed by our longlist of highly commended pieces from the many hundreds received. Congrats to all those featured this month and we hope to see YOU lining up for our next challenge on Friday 2 February!

OF OLD FOES AND FAMILIAR FACES by Madelyn Grace, NSW

You’re never prepared for your first day in the morgue.

Alright, you think. I’ve studied for this. I’ve spent years getting ready. And after my last job, nothing in this world could trip me up anymore. I’m unshakeable.

You start your day like you’d have started any other shift in your old line of work. You slick your hair back, neat and professional. You keep your makeup to a subtle minimum, foregoing foundation and glitter for a thin powder and lip balm. You dress nicely, but with room to move and bend. You start your electric car up silently, and move soundlessly through the city, drumming your fingers on the centre console. Smooth. Casual.

Unshakeable.

When you arrive, the air harbours a strange chill that had not been there this morning. No matter—your last workplace had carried a cold atmosphere, and so you’re used to it. You strut through the front door with ease and confidence. A breeze, you think, dropping your belongings in an empty locker. Compared to my previous role, this will be child’s play.

Your very first body for the day is that of an elderly woman, who had passed gracefully in her sleep. Straightforward. Not one issue.

Your second body is somewhat more difficult. A toddler, with glassy eyes and blue lips—her mother had drowned her in a bathtub in a fit of rage, the report reads, and had coddled her corpse to her chest until the police arrived an hour later. It’s gruesome, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. You saw worse during your last employment.

So far, so good, you tell yourself, pleased with your efforts and with the simplicity of such a job. This is the type of work you’d be happy to wake up to. Perhaps a little stomach-churning, but once again—it holds nothing over the last job.

But then they give you your third body. And you recognise his eyes. And you recognise the clean wound across his throat. And, as a tsunami of dread floods your stomach, you realise you recognise his name.

You had made it a point not to know anyone’s names at your previous job. It made it easier to ignore their obituaries. But the client that had asked you to take this man out—the man now laid out before you like a mannequin—had insisted you know everything about him. He was a father. He was a husband. He was filthy rich. He was Andrew Bartelli, one point in a triangle of men who ran a money laundering scheme, the consequences of which had gotten your client’s wife murdered.

And you know, with unshakeable certainty, that you must not let this body fall into the wrong hands.

You’re never prepared for your first day in the morgue. You can prepare for the bodies, and the gore, and the sob stories. But you’re never prepared to recognise a body as your own kill.

And you’re never prepared to smuggle one home.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

What better place to begin than at the end – of life, that is. And here we follow the first day of our unnamed protagonist as she seems to effortlessly go about her work. The spectre of her mysterious previous job is ever-present but just out of reach, until the third body. With nice repetition of ‘unshakeable’, all is revealed and ultimately all is concealed in a killer ending.

BERNIE ROGERS’ TRIANGLE by Bill Boyd, NSW

Bernie Rogers is sixty-seven years old. Starting a new job. Today. Is he excited? Anxious? Nervous? Not in the slightest. Every year since he’d turned fifty, he’d started a new job. “Keeps me young,” he’d tell himself. Before fifty it was a new job every two years. “Just cruising,” he’d tell himself, “getting ready for middle age.” A new job was simply a matter of fact. Anyone else would have been excited. Nervous. Sleepless. But not Bernie Rogers. Cool as a cucumber.

You see, Bernie Rogers could do any job. Perfectly. He didn’t mind if the job is in an office. “Paperwork and bureaucracy were made,” he’d tell his friends, “for me.” No-one else gets it. Factory jobs are equally good. “Process and procedure is everything,” he’d explain. “Nothing like a well-designed process. Well-oiled procedures. Just follow them to the letter.” A tsunami could wash through his factory. Wouldn’t matter a jot to Bernie Rogers. So long as processes and procedures are being followed. Indoors? Outdoors? No matter. Just do the job. No shirking. No cutting corners. “I’m Bernie “Just-do-the-job” Rogers,” he’d tell himself.

Fact was, however, that Bernie Rogers could not hold a job. Any job. Didn’t take long for Bernie Rogers to lose every job. “They stole my job from me, again,” he’d calmly explain when he got home after another firing. They. Whoever ‘They’ are. Always ‘They’. He is, it turns out, extremely good at applying for the job. Extremely good at interviewing for the job. And, yes, extremely good at doing the job. For the first few weeks. Then along come the tripwires. Lazy colleagues. Incompetent managers. Shonky machinery. Suspicious invoicing. You name it, Bernie Rogers found it. And Bernie Rogers was not afraid to say something. “You’re a square peg in a round hole,” his managers would tell him, “You don’t fit in.” “No,” Bernie Rogers would think to himself, “It’s not me. Its you who doesn’t fit. This job is made to work. You just don’t want it to work.” And, unfortunately, he’d say so.

So he’d be back on the unemployment-employment cycle. Which Bernie Rogers didn’t like. He wasn’t bothered by the unemployment-employment bit. After all, he could get a new job with ease. It was the circle bit. Another black mark against the employment industry. “They should study geometry,” he’d mutter to himself. Bernie Rogers knew it was a unemployment-employment triangle: Get the job — Do the job — Lose the job. “It’s life,” Bernie Rogers would explain when he got home again. No-one else got it. But Bernie did.

So Bernie Rogers is sixty-seven years old, starting a new job. His orderly autistic mind had done its thing. Interviewed perfectly. Got the job. It’s just a matter of time before all the incompetencies, sloppiness, laziness around him trip him up. Another job will be stolen. Bernie Rogers doesn’t, however, mind. He’s starting a new job. A job to be done perfectly. That is all that counts.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The curious story of Bernie Rogers works well in this short-sentence structure (17 in the first paragraph alone!). For this is a man who seems to enjoy short stays, or so it first appears. The plot thickens as we learn about his work ethic which flips the script on who you’d expect to be continually fired from a role. In a nice bait-and-switch, we realise that Bernie is not the problem – he’s simply too honest in a world of corruption and corner cutting. A clever, albeit hyperbolically (we hope!) cynical comment on the modern workplace.

THE BOSS by Jo Skinner, QLD

I’m careful to look confident like I’ve been doing this for years. It’s a trick Sandy taught me when I started my training.

Just look like you know what you’re doing, Boston my friend.

Lenny nudges me. I look straight ahead and remember the drill. Coffee first. We’ve been going through her routine and one of the first things she said was, Ignore anything I say or do before I’ve had my caffeine hit.

Her hand is shaking. It might be that she’s decaffeinated but it occurs to me that she’s as nervous as I am. It’s a first day for her too. We are getting to know each other and becoming familiar with how we approach things.

I step out and lead the way. Lenny follows.

That’s something else Sandy told me.

You’re the boss, Boston. Let her think she’s the boss but you’re the one making the big decisions. And sometimes, mate, they are life and death. Don’t ever forget that.

The boss. I like that, even though it makes me anxious as hell I’ll stuff up and be deemed unsuitable for the job. I don’t want to let Lenny down. I want her to depend on me. I hold my head up, proud to be here after all that training.

We weave through the morning crowd. Lenny is hesitant and I slow down and remember to let her believe she’s taking the lead. It’s harder than I imagined. Getting to the café is a relief to be honest. We head to the counter, and she places her order. A flat white, double shot. Just a water for me.

The place is heaving, and I scan the room for a spare seat. There’s a tiny table in one of the odd corners. I nudge Lenny. She nearly trips on a bag left lying on the ground and I panic, but she rights herself.

The table is tiny. A triangle wedged into the wall. I squeeze myself into the gap and wait for Lenny to finish her coffee. The radio is on in the background. She leans forward to listen to the news.

The thirteenth interest rate hike has been met with a tsunami of rage from the community.

Lenny sighs into her empty mug. ‘We might need to start doing overtime, Boston.’

She stands up and I’m by her side. It’s tricky to navigate our way around a pram the size of a small car. Outside, Lenny pauses. How about we work from home today?

It suits me. We turn right and go back the way we came.

At home she relaxes, unbuckles my harness, and scratches me behind the ears. Good dog, Boston. We did it.

I wait till she moves away then steal the ham sandwich she dropped this morning. I earned it today. I swallow it in one bite then nuzzle up against her. I want to let Sandy know she was right about everything. Lenny and I are good together.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Whether or not you click as to Boston’s identity early on or later in this story, that is never the point. Instead, it’s a reminder that all sorts of creatures great and small have first days on the job. We did enjoy some of the ambiguous misdirects however, such as reference to his training, being the boss and ‘taking the lead’. Thanks to the tight narrative and unique POV, we are guided Boston-style through the story with ease – a well told ‘tail’!

MAM by Molly Blunden, USA

The stars were disappearing that last morning she woke me. Eyes gluey, I reached for my bra, cloth triangles puckering against a stubborn flat chest. I dressed in a rush, holey wool no match for the chill, my breath pushing out opaque puffs. Mam’s back to me in the kitchen, hands busy. “Why so early Mam?” I tried to keep the whine out. Yesterday was Wednesday – the ‘getup early day’ so’s to beat the lines for the dole.

Tea mugs in hand, Mam turned, nodding to the rickety wooden 6-top table our family of 11 shared. Half-asleep, I slid onto the oak bench, unaware of the gathering tsunami, unobservant of Mam’s combed hair and careful makeup.

“I’m not going to lie to ya Ceildigh – ‘tis a job you weren’t askin’ to do. Truth is, I’m tired like no one my age should be.” Through the kitchen window, a grey car rolled to a stop – a shark parting the morning tule fog, idling. By the door, Mam’s brown leather purse relaxed on the back of the family’s only suitcase.

Mam kept her eyes on my face, steam from the tea wetting my cheeks. Mam clutched my hand, eyes urgent. “I’m takin’ a trip an’ I’m leavin’ things to ya for now. You’ll be Mam to the youngs an’ don’t take guff from the older boys. Make sure they hand earnings t’ya – not Da.” Her dark eyes pinned me into place. Outside, the shark revved in impatience.

Mam rose, sleeved her coat and wound her scarf. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, Mam gave me one last glance. “Remember to hide the whiskey from Da under the floorboard and fill th’other bottle only t’half like I showed ya.” Her hand reaching for the doorknob, eyes still on mine. “And no one would blame ya if ya take a nip from time to time. You’ll have earned it.”

I sat in the silence long after she left. The cold tea no comfort, I opened the top cabinet and on tiptoe, felt for the cigarettes stolen from Da. Picking tobacco off my tongue, I ashed into a jar cap the way I’d seen our real Mam do – that was before my sister Irene became the Mam that left today. I couldn’t remember real Mam’s face anymore, just her cracked palms and chapped hands flicking ashes into a jar cap.

Looking back, I’d been trained for this job for as long as I could remember – I thought it’d begin when I married or fell pregnant, whichever came first. I couldn’t fault Irene for leaving me to it, she’d no choice either, once.

I crushed the butt into the lid and pushed myself from the table. I began pulling beans and bread from the larder whilst I set the kettle to the flame. Clara shuffled in, red hair wild, rubbing her eyes. “Where’s Mam?” she asked behind a yawn.

“I’m Mam now,” I said, my back to her. “Come here and help me with the potatoes.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Loaded with descriptive details that furnish this humble abode, we too are stirred awake to take in our surroundings, beautifully brought to life in authentic fashion. Clues come slowly as we fill in the gaps – the ‘grey shark’ parting the morning fog outside and the hushed torch-passing ceremony in the half-light. A list of instructions does double duty as exposition and it’s only in the cold-tea silence that the true line of succession and expectation is revealed, our narrator finally earning her jar-cap as ‘mam’. A poignant slice of hard life and seamless use of all the prompts, with a perfectly simple title.

DATE_HUMAN_RESOURCES_WELCOME_ PACKET_TEMPLATE v.3 FINAL DRAFT by Erin Brandt Filliter, Canada

Welcome to [INSERT NAME OF NEW EMPLOYEE]!

You have successfully completed your first assignment by opening this handbook. Well done!

It could have ended much differently for you, with flesh-stripping gelatinous cubes, poisonous fog geysers, and the tsunami swarm of soul-stealing dementors barring the office entrance.

Management is impressed with your initiative to disarm the explosive canisters lining the high-security safe where this welcome packet was locked. And, truthfully, it is nearly unfathomable that you found the safe at all hidden in the piranha pond jungle exhibit complete with sabre-tooth tigers. Great work!

Take notes on how you circumvented these (and subsequent) obstacles; you might need to refer back to these later in your career if you survive the rest of the day. 

Through overcoming the death-defying task of entering the building, you have demonstrated resourcefulness and survival instincts and desperation. These are exactly the qualities that we, at [REDACTED] corporate headquarters, are looking for in an employee in [INSERT EMPLOYEE ROLE]..

Now that you have entered the building, please note that you will be unable to leave. Ever. We recognize the hardship in this circumstance, but it is a requirement of your position (see Section 6, Clause 12 of the fine print of your contract).

To ease your stress, we have equipped the building with the following amenities:

1. Biometric sensors ensure we track everyone and everything entering and exiting the building. We will know where you are at any given time so we can extract your body should you  perish. 
2. Climate control keeps the environment at a pleasant temperature. Occasionally we have to flush the coolant system. If you feel the temperature begin to drop dramatically, you can find extreme weather gear such as parkas, balaclavas, mittens, and boots in the storage closet on the third floor.
3. The fridge in the break room is always filled with a selection of juice, exotic fruit, and prepackaged soft and hard cheese triangles. Crisps and crackers are kept on the shelf beside the coffee mugs and man-eating plant seedlings (please change their water once per week).
4. The second floor break room offers dozens of games such as Twister (with a twist!), Operation (real scalpel included!), and Pictionary. We hope you take full-advantage to keep your skills sharp and instincts sharper!

Additionally, we would like to highlight some important rules and guidelines for the facility.

1. Do not ever, upon penalty of immediate life-limiting consequences, enter Board Room #[REDACTED].
2. Do not feed the gizmos after midnight and do not let them go into water unless it is the piranha pool.

You will have received a calendar invite for a full orientation session eventually. Meantime, please reach out to [INSERT NAME OF MANAGER] if you have any questions. You can speak to a bot/AI representative of Human Resources by calling our 24/7 toll-free line at 1-800-HELP-ME.

Thank you for your service to [REDACTED]. We are happy to welcome you to the team!

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Anyone who has especially worked in an office role may be familiar with the welcome pack – and this piece cheekily plays with the format (literally) to show just what employees of this particular company can look forward to. Along the way, thanks to the strikethroughs, we can see an attempt to hide some of the less palatable aspects – not unlike an actual first day orientation. Perhaps this story should have come with a trigger warning for anyone who has ever worked in a corporate environment!

TV SPIRIT GUIDE by Molly B Rodgers, USA

Marvin’s first day opened with a drowned man arguing The Sopranos was the greatest piece of media ever composed.

“More than Fellini? Miyasaki?”

The man shrugged. Seaweed clung to his purpling skin; that tsunami had tossed him good. “When Tony smiles in the mirror… total body chills, man.”

Marvin rolled his eyes.

His supervisor, Sandy, poked her head in after the man had left. “Knock, knock. Marvin, we try not to debate the recently deceased, but I love your willingness to engage.”

Marvin met her enthusiastic thumbs up with a lethargic one.

A grandmother in a handknit sweater requested to finish the pornography that had given her a heart attack. “They seem like a nice couple,” she said. A jittery man asked to complete the Doctor Who series.

“How many seasons have you seen so far?”

“Um, one. Episode.”

So, only 39 published seasons to go, plus the 17 as-yet unmade ones. That would only set Marvin’s schedule back by an insurmountable degree. 

“Sure thing,” he said with a closed lip smile. The onboarding materials had said to give those swirling in denial special consideration, like Mr. Trip-and-Die. Marvin groaned as the Doctor regenerated for the umpteenth time. You can only stall so long, buddy.

Marvin had dreamed of the excitement of the field, but instead he was marooned at this B.U.N.C desk, pressing play. The Bureau for Unfinished Narratives in Cinema had been established to deal with the logjam of specters gumming the system, unable to cross over without knowing the ending to XYZ. His day’s only excitement was a man trying to pinch a copy of Barbarella to bring Beyond. But that’s what happens when you fail the Reaper physical three times.

743 down, one to go before close. 

“Hello, how can I help you?” Marvin monotoned.

“I wish to see a movie I haven’t seen in years,” came an elderly man’s quavering voice.

Marvin grumbled the whole 1.3 mile walk to the Single Use Section. When he returned, he shoved the VHS tape in and plopped into his chair.

The TV’s glow washed over the man. Onscreen, a wispy haired girl pointed to shapes in a book. “Circle. Square. Triangle. Daddy!” She rushed out of view, then the camera chased her to the front doorway where she clung to a man’s leg. “Daddy’s home!”

The man touched the screen. “She’s forty-two now, but she’s always four.” He stood and shook Marvin’s hand. “Thank you, son. Been looking for that for a long time.” Then he walked down the hallway to the double doors and was gone.

Marvin ejected the tape and looked at the label. 1986. From his seat, that was the blink of an eye. He held it for a long while.

“Knock, knock. Ah, home movie?”

“Hmm? Yeah.”

Sandy gave Marvin a thumbs up. “Do it all again tomorrow?”

The next morning, Marvin greeted his first arrival with a smile. “Never got around to the last season, I see? That Tony Soprano, huh? Chills.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We love an inventive world – and this Bureau for Unfinished Narratives in Cinema is marvellous ( Marvin-lous?) story fodder. The old lady who just wants to see the ‘happy ending’ of her ‘nice couple’ was fun, as is the seemingly dusty public-servant-esque setting that has our main character so filled with lethargy. However, the home movie adds a sense of purpose to his job and the story – perhaps a reminder for us to savour the real loved ones in our life, rather than TV characters!

SUMMER SIZZLER by Lianne Darby, NZ

I was at the caravan early, standing outside on the pavement while the sea sssshhhh and ahhhhed behind me and a spiral of seagulls floated overhead calling in sharp, melancholy cries. The caravan was named “BEN’S CART” and was painted with random shapes and colours, giving it a psychotic appearance.

Ben, himself, arrived to open up. “Made it then?” he said, so glum I wondered who had died.

I was shown the counter, menu, the ordering system, where to find serviettes, plates, sauces and drinks, and the money jar.

“Cash only,” Ben told me. “Don’t want those bastards at the tax department knowing how much I make.” He threw open the hatch in front of the counter to show a splendid view of a shimming sea.

“You’ve got a great spot here,” I said.

“Not if there’s a tsunami,” he replied. I swear, the man was serious.

I was to take the orders, deal with the money, and hand over the food. Ben would be at the end of the caravan cooking over hotplates and deep fryers.

“Stay out of my patch,” he said, flicking switches on to start cooking. “There’s no room for two of us.” The kitchen area was clean and sparse, much as you would expect except for a small contraption hanging on a hook.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Slingshot,” he replied. “For thieves. I’m not allowed to use bullets.”

“Thieves are a problem?”

Ben curled his lip. “Gangs of the blighters. Keep your wits about you.”

The customers started arriving as the day heated up. I managed the counter as cheerfully as I could while Ben hissed and swore out the back, doing battle with boiling fat and fussy orders.

Then I saw them; three youths, looking suspicious in beach shorts and jandals. They were standing in a triangle, arms folded, but with their heads turned, watching me. My suspicions prickled. I pushed the money jar a little further under the counter as one approached.

“Chips,” he said, handing over a fiver.

I took his cash and gave him a punnet of hot chips.

He gave me a suggestive wink!

As he took his purchase, there was a sudden flurry of wings, a shove, a knock. I squealed, flinching. The customer yelled, tripped. Food was tossed. Immediately, a squabble of seagulls dive-bombed to claim the scattered chips.

“THIEVES?” bellowed Ben. He turned and ripped open the caravan door. “WHICH ONE?”

“On the pole,” I replied, pointing high to a smug seagull scoffing its snatched chip in great gulps. That was the prime offender. Then an odd thing happened. One moment the seagull was standing tall and satisfied, the next, it was a cloud of detached feathers and a tumbling, lifeless lump of poultry.

I blinked, stunned.

“Got him,” snarled Ben.

When I looked at Ben, he was hanging the slingshot back on its hook.

“One less bastard,” he said, glancing at me.

I could tell he was thrilled; the corner of his mouth twitched.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Complete with sound effects, our seaside scene is expertly set within the first sentence. It’s easy enough to picture this food cart – we’ve all either worked in one or purchased from one before – and with ‘jandals’ on feet, we’re clearly in New Zealand! The ‘tsunami’ line was great – no metaphors here – and the reveal of the real thieves was a nice surprise. A small (but not poultry) slice of seaside life, with a strong voice throughout.

SHOCK JILL by John Walker, NSW

It must have been scary – first day on the job – to follow the absolute master.
Anything less than a triumph would be seen as a total disaster!
A shock-jock’s remit is to stir up the rabble and generate tsunamis of hate.
But if that’s what the station heads wanted, they were sadly out of date.

Jill had fibbed a bit in her submission; stolen words from her forebear’s CV;
So it seemed to them that she’d carry on with their class warfare repartee.
But, instead of the far-right tirades they were used to, she displayed a more balanced style,
Enraging some usual listeners, but she countered their hatred and bile.

She placed herself in a triangle, with guest speakers from left and from right,
And she armed herself with proven facts, much to some listeners’ delight.
She’d constantly trip up polemicists who couldn’t support their positions,
And the radio station’s ratings climbed on the backs of these inquisitions.

But the management couldn’t abide her approach, which exposed their bias and greed,
And facts and figures on their radio station were things they just didn’t need.
They wanted conspiracy theories – the sort that appeal to the mob,
So they turned off her mike. It was indeed scary – her LAST day on the job.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Poetry and politics aren’t always the most compelling of story submissions we receive, however this one deftly balances the two much like Jill balances the left and the right in this well-paced, pocket-sized piece. The well constructed rhythm helps create a seamless storytelling experience, and the final stanza is a fair statement on the state of shock jock radio shows today!

WE’RE NOT GOING TO BE FRIENDS by Brian Parisi, USA

During her orientation, you explain to the summer intern that there are no firm “weekends” at this law firm. If Paul Bruce decides it’s crunch time, then it’s all hands on deck, no excuses. You worked until midnight last Christmas Eve. Paul is a full managing partner now, so there’s no point complaining.

You don’t tell her that she will end up crying in a bathroom stall at some point. It’s not a question of “if,” but “when.” You’ve been there. Everyone has. All the women, anyway. Probably some of the men, too, but you haven’t been in the men’s room enough to get an accurate sob sampling.

You explain that if she doesn’t like the long hours, there’s the door. Go clerk in the public courts. See how fast that pays for law school. Young lawyers get worked to the bone. The intern nods like she’s fully on board for this trip. Look at her; she’s probably on cloud 9. You don’t tell her you’re jealous that she gets to jump ship in August. If she’s smart, she’ll figure that out soon.

Glum portraits of the firm’s partners adorn the main conference room. Paul, his grandfather, and father. Bruce, Bruce, and Bruce LLP. Paul’s ascension to partner formed a perfect triangle of nepotism as if that outcome was ever in doubt.

As you’re explaining that Paul’s parents met while his mom was an intern here, your trainee picks up a pen off the conference table and casually slips it into her pocket. It’s one of Paul’s; a Montblanc Rollerball. You tell her it’s like a three-hundred-dollar pen, but you don’t tell her to put it back because you don’t care. If she already has a healthy capacity for larceny, maybe she’s picked the right career.

You tell her some good people are working here, truly there are, and they can be fountains of knowledge when they’re not getting drowned out by the assholes. She seems more interested in the espresso machine, which you tell her is broken even though it’s not.

You steer her away from Paul’s office for now. He hasn’t seen her yet, and she’s pretty enough that it would be best if he didn’t on her first day. You do not tell her that, nor do you give her a heads-up about Paul’s cocaine habit. The guy blows an absolute tsunami up his nose most days. It’s a wonder his heart hasn’t exploded by now. Anyway, she’ll find out about it soon enough. Paul will offer her a bump in the stairwell or maybe the lunchroom and she’ll either take it or not. Instead, you show her where her cubicle is and fake-apologize for all the document boxes stacked up inside.

You ask her how many late-night document reviews it takes for one to question their decision to become a lawyer. She laughs. That’s not a rhetorical question, you know the number.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Whereas most stories this month made the protagonist the one whose first day it was, this piece uses second person POV to great effect to put you in the place of the jaded existing employee showing the new girl the ropes. The law(firm) of the land is handed out in true orientation style, with our narrator’s inner monologue revealing plenty of insights the new hire will learn in time. A clever format, fun title and excellent final sentence!

I, BEAKY by Stephen Martin, VIC

It really stinks in here.

Not just a little bit, but seriously rank. It smells like 20 sweaty heads have been in here before mine – which is probably true, there have been six occupants in the 11 games so far this season. Today is my first outing as Beaky the Buzzard, noble mascot of the Clear Point Eagles high school basketball team.

The job is pretty basic. Lead the team out of the change room onto the court, high five the coach, then cavort.

In the first five minutes I learn that my cavorting skills could use some refinement. The 14 year olds in the front row of the stand certainly think so. The alpha male has blonde tips and wears a Def Leppard t-shirt. I loathe him instinctively. I will call him Brad. ‘Get a real job, loser’, calls Brad with his platinum-edged wit. His acolytes snigger as expected. I’ll teach him. I jump, spin and trip over my own ridiculously padded feet, slamming beak-first into the boards. Sniggers become a tsunami of outright mockery. I roll to my feet, straighten my beak and dance awkwardly to the other side of the court.

Half time comes – it's now the mascot race and I am up against Alvin the Aardvark. The result is pre-ordained of course. As the home team mascot I will win our three-lap race of the court perimeter. Also as pre-ordained, I cheat – as Beaky always does. As I round the third traffic cone I take a shortcut, turning the last lap into a neat Isosceles triangle. I comfort myself with the thought that Brad and his friends could not tell the difference between Isosceles and Ice Magic.

10 minutes of game time left and I have been wearing this headpiece for over an hour. The humidity is causing the dried sweat of previous occupants to condense, running through my hair and down my forehead and cheeks like a salty satanic lotion. My neck hurts – true to his name, Beaky is front heavy and I am feeling the strain of keeping my head upright. I wonder if there is a medical term for this affliction. Perhaps I can specialise in it.

The game ends. Alvin is doing a victory dance and the Eagles fans are trooping gloomily toward the exits, as they do most weeks. Brad and his crew left early. Great, I can avoid the indignity of a final taunting.

I retire to my private change room, otherwise known as the cleaner’s closet. I pull off the headpiece and the bleach-tinged air comes as a relief. I feel like something has been stolen from me. Dignity perhaps, self respect?

No, I’ll be fine. I’ve done plenty of lousy jobs over the last few months, and I can handle a few more games in the Beaky suit. I have been accepted to pre-med and I start next semester. Maybe I’ll tell Brad.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

A great opening line that could go anywhere – and perhaps inside a mascot costume is one of the last places you’d expect. But it’s a brilliant choice for a first day on the job occupation, loaded with funny observations and tensions. The prompts are worked in nicely, especially the late reveal of what has been stolen. Good luck in med school, Beaky!

THE BIGGEST JOB IN MY LIFE by Elizabeth Evans, NSW

The full force of what I had committed to felt like a tsunami closing in on me. The realisation left me panicked, but also slightly in awe. It was the job of a lifetime. The ‘one’ I had wanted for as long as I could remember. And finally it was mine.

When I found out I had landed the job I felt slightly nauseous and suddenly doubtful. Could I really do this? I talked to a friend who was in a similar role to gain some insight. ‘The job is unrelenting’, she had said. ‘Be prepared for long hours and not much sleep. Delegate where you can and don’t try to do it all yourself’. These were good insights. I made notes – I wanted to be the best. And yet as I sat in my chair, on the first day of the biggest job of my life, I felt woefully underprepared.

It’s not that I hadn’t had time to prepare. I’d had a substantial stand-down period before I could start the role. I remember the weeks that had stretched into months. It felt like it was never ending. Especially as my start date got closer. But my first day on the job had arrived with gusto – the induction had been overwhelming. I still felt a little dizzy at the pace of it all, as if I was coming down off a frenzied hallucinogenic trip. A dazed glance at the clock on the wall confirmed this. It was already 11am. I’d had a quiet couple of hours to myself in the aftermath of the morning's events and had achieved nothing. I could feel the mounting pressure of an impending summoning. Surely the boss was ready to see me now.

Gingerly I pushed myself out of my chair and crossed the white walled room. I stuck my head out the door and looked up and down the bustling corridor. Everyone that passed by my door looked busy and important. Suddenly I felt insignificant and unsure. An imposter. Then I heard it. Her call was unmistakable – one that was only meant for me. Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I steadied myself and turned towards her call. It was time for some proper introductions.

I padded across the hard floor, passing the door to the triangle-shaped ensuite, to my chair where a bassinet lay beside it. Holding my breath I peered into the bassinet and smiled at her – my new boss. Uncertainty dissipating. She was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. I couldn’t stop staring at her big brown eyes. Picking up and cradling my tiny daughter I sat back down in my chair. Her pink chubby hands were waving sporadically, as if trying to gain their balance. Suddenly her hand latched onto one of my fingers and squeezed it. In that instant she had stolen my heart and I knew I was ready to take on the biggest job of my life with everything I had.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We received a handful of stories this month that played with this particular idea of the ‘first day on the job’ – a wonderful take on the prompt! What we liked especially about this one is that it kept the reveal hidden, with nice clues throughout (“When I found out I had landed the job I felt slightly nauseous”). The intentional choice to create this ambiguous narrative was clever, as even if you cottoned on early, you could still enjoy the details. What perhaps sealed the deal however is meeting ‘the boss’ – a brilliant insight into who’s really in charge in those early days! 

REALITY by Adrienne Tam, NSW

As the tsunami rose above us, I thought back to what my mother had said when I’d called her to tell her I was going to be a contestant on The Bachelor.

“If you become a reality TV star, the world is gonna end,” she’d shouted over the phone.

“At least it’s not Married At First Sight!” I had yelled back, hanging up.

Those were the last words I’d said to my mum. Because she was right, of course. The world did end.

[See Exhibit A: The deadly tidal wave about to wipe us out.]

Everything had been going great before the tsunami. It was my first day as a reality TV contestant and I was excited to meet the Bachelor. I mean, what if he ended up being The One? I knew realistically he wouldn’t be. This may be reality TV but it wasn’t reality.

This year they were filming The Bachelor in Fiji to avoid paparazzi spoiling the ending like they had in previous seasons so I was up at 4am, at the airport by 5.30am, and sitting in the lounge with 20 other excited women by 7am.

I had never seen so many stunning women in all my life. It made me feel self-conscious.

“Have you been to Fiji before?” A beautiful woman wearing head-to-toe athleisure clothing asked me.

Before I could reply, she barrelled on. “This is my third trip. It’s OK,” she said, with a shrug. “It’s no Maldives, that’s for sure.”

“Oh… yes,” I stammered.

Luckily I was saved by the stressed-looking production coordinator who ushered us aboard the plane. Four hours later we were in Fiji and two hours after that we were sipping welcome margaritas at the hotel. An hour later we were standing on a beach in somewhat inappropriate ball gowns, waiting to meet the Bachelor for the first time.

And then there he was.

He was gorgeous. But more than that, he was funny and kind and sweet and he liked Pokemon and horror movies, and oh my god, this was it. This was what people meant when they said mushy, cliched things like ‘love at first sight’. The Bachelor had stolen my heart. And it was only the first day.

At the rose ceremony, there were rumblings of a love triangle between the Bachelor and two ridiculously good-looking women named Jessica and Lauren. They got roses first. And then everyone else got roses.

Soon it was just me and another Jessica – there were a few Jessicas – standing there on the beach.

The Bachelor picked up the last rose. Like my heart, it had begun to wilt a little.

And then he said my name.

“Will you accept this rose?” he asked, smiling so gently.

“Yes,” I whispered. One of the producers asked me to repeat my answer louder but I ignored her.

This was the start of something wonderful. I could feel it.

Above us, there was an enormous shadow.

It was the best day of my life.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We loved how this story opened – the classic “how did I end up here?” set up, made more perilous by the impending wave. What followed was a hilarious commentary on the state of reality dating shows, gently nudging at the format (“there were a few Jessicas” haha) and its total unrealness. The final line sums up everything, how getting a rose really can be more important than life itself! Now if the wave can just head for Love (and FBoy) Island next…

FEEF by Kate Gordon, TAS

“It’s rabbit’s first day,” Daisy said.

I looked down at her. Her peach-red curls were still wild from sleep. Her face was flushed and happy. She wore her pyjama top and socks. Her pants were who-knows-where and I probably wouldn’t find them again until I’d bought her another pair.

She proffered a drool-soaked bunny, one ear chewed in half. Its squat little form was squeezed into a Barbie’s black suit jacket.

I cleared my throat. “First day?” I asked.

She tripped over her words. “Brabbit … Rabbit has … one job,” she tried. She shook her head, cross with herself.

“Take it slowly,” I said, gently.

She stomped her foot, a triangle of annoyance between her eyes. “Rabbit has a job.” She smiled with pride.

“Oh …” I hid a tickling smirk. Daisy hated it when I boked fun at her, and I hadn’t had enough coffee for a tsunami of toddler rage. “Rabbit has a job? What is it?”

“Guess.” Daisy’s face turned serious. Her big blue eyes flashed with a steeliness I’d come to recognise as I dare you not to.

“Okay.” I smiled. “I’ll try. A teacher?”

Daisy shook her head, laughing. “You’re silly. That’s silly.”

I didn’t know why a teacher was silly. My father – her poppy – was a teacher.

He was a little bit silly, I supposed, when he was with Daisy. All funny dances and jokes.

I tried again.

“Lawyer?”

“What’s that?”

“Someone who …” I looked at her tiny, scrunched up face. How could I explain the law to her? “It’s like when Mummy says you’ve done the wrong thing.”

“Eating all the biscuits.”

I remembered when I’d found her in the pantry, covered in crumbs, an empty choc-chip packet on the floor. Protestations of innocence. “Yes. And I said no more biscuits until Wednesday. Lawyers do that but for grown-ups.”

“Who eat all the biscuits?”

I sighed. I chose the easier road. “Yes.”

“Rabbit is not a la-la.”

“Firefighter?”

“No.”

“Doctor?”

“Not today.”

“Soldier?”

“What’s that?”

This one, I couldn’t explain. Not without breaking her heart. And mine.

“Never mind. How about … an artist? A writer? A baker? An … IT Systems Development Operations Officer.”

Daisy blinked at me. “Def-nally not the last one.”

I scooped her up in my arms – my funny, dawn-haired baby girl, so full of big words now. “I give up,” I said. “What is Rabbit’s new job?”

“Feef.”

I cleared my throat. “Sorry, what now?”

“Feef. Rabbit is a feef. A stealing person. A … nasty crook.”

I felt my forehead tighten, my eyebrows raising. “Right,” I said. “And what is rabbit going to steal?”

“Already.”

“Already?”

“Rabbit has already feefed.”

“Oh. How clever Rabbit is, to have already feefed so early in his tenure. Well, then. What did this prodigious Rabbit feef so skilfully, on his first day on the job?”

Daisy smirked, her eyes twinkling brightly. She leaned in close to my ear. Her breath smelled of milk and sleep.

And she whispered, “Pants.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Out of the mouths of babes… You have to love a cute speech impediment, and you also have to love a well-crafted back-and-forth conversation – easier said than done (literally). Here, the early-morning dialogue is effortless between parent and child as a pantsless Daisy delights in the make-believe world that kids are so good at, all while fielding a tsunami of questions. By the time we get to the ‘feef’ of it all, we’re totally invested in this bunny’s first day and the final reveal is perfick.

TALK ABOUT THE WEATHER by David Weiss, ACT

It took less than a day for my idealism to be stolen. A lot less to be honest – less than a morning.

Four years studying for a Bachelor of Meteorological Science, and now I was starting my dream job at the Bureau of Meteorology. Their mission, and now mine: to provide trusted, reliable and responsive weather services for Australia – all day, every day.

It was my first day. After getting my security pass, I was escorted through to meet my new boss, Bill Radford (‘but everyone calls me Radar,’ he’d said). We’d chatted briefly and then he took me to meet the person I would be working alongside.

‘I’d like you to meet Greta Wilson,’ he said as we approached a middle aged lady sitting at a window seat. ‘Greta’s been here almost as long as me, so she’s a great person to show you the ropes. I’ll leave you in her capable hands.’

Before he left he said ‘Greta, don’t forget to mention the bingo game.’

‘The bingo game?’ I asked when he’d gone.

Greta looked at me with pity. For a long time she was silent as she carefully weighed her next words. Finally she spoke.

‘Look, I hate to rain on your parade on your first day – sorry, a little BoM joke there – but you may as well know the truth. The job is boring, OK. Computers do most of the work – we just make sure the forecasts they’re spitting out don’t look stupid, and then put some commentary over the top that goes on the website and out to media outlets. There’s the occasional cyclone to look forward to, and we have fun adding “five percent chance of rain” to some of the forecasts just to mess with people, but for the most part it’s just boring.’

‘So, we spice things up a bit. For the commentaries, we have a daily list of words we need to weave in. Today, we’re up to T, and the words are trip, triangle, and tsunami. Radar’s taking it easy on your first day with only three words – he normally sets at least five. But wait until Friday when the words start with X. If anyone external notices, like we get feedback about a word not making sense, whoever’s responsible for that word has to put ten bucks in the kitty to subsidise the Christmas party.’

I could feel my idealism slipping away. Four years at university and she was telling me a computer did all the work and my job was essentially playing word games.

Greta was looking at me, as I suspected she had looked at numerous others like me over the years, watching as I processed the news and wondering how I’d respond.

I was cornered. Where else could I go with my Bachelor of Meteorological Science? I slowly turned to her, defeated, and said, ‘Do you think we could get away with saying there’s a five percent chance of a tsunami in Darwin today?’

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

While the technical details of this story may not be 100% correct, there is a five percent chance that they COULD be, and that’s fine with us. We enjoy seeing behind the scenes in some of the more unique roles, and also slow clapped at this sneaky way to use all three T words in one fell swoop! Don’t think too hard about the logistics of it all and simply let this homage to workplace games wash over you! (Like a Darwin tsunami…)

READY by Christina Abraham, USA

My girlfriend was asleep as my 4:30 alarm went off, and I slowly sat up in bed and stared out the skyscraper window. I didn’t have my glasses on, so I couldn’t see any of the streetlights – I only looked out into the abyss of fog and stars. I don’t know if I’m ready for today. I don’t know if I’m ready for this job to become real. I should be proud of myself, shouldn’t I? I’ve trained for years trying to get here. So why don’t I feel ready? I am ready! Right? I’m ready? I wasn’t going to cry, yet my chest still hurt from heartbreak. I wasn’t afraid, yet I couldn’t stop staring out the window. I couldn’t start getting ready. A part of me knew this was going to happen, so I picked up my suit and stared at my reflection in a triangle copper pin. I’m ready. I’m ready. It’s not that bad. You’re gonna make it. You’re gonna make it. Right? I jumped at hearing my girlfriend’s 6:30 alarm.

She drove me to my flight that morning, and I remembered how I used to drive my dad on this trip. I also once drove my brother. But now it’s me in the passenger seat. Now I’m the one sinking in this suit, pretending to be ready.

No, no, no. I am ready. I am.

She jumps out of the car, and it insults me. Is she ready for me to leave? Is everyone ready? Is it just me? She sets my bags on the curb, and she looks at me with tears in her eyes. I don’t remember what she said, but I do remember watching her drive away, realizing this was it. She wasn’t coming back. I stole her lucky penny from the cup holder hoping she would turn around and think it was a sign, but maybe she knew I stole it. Maybe she knew I needed it.

No, no, no. I don’t need luck. I’m ready. I am.

I tried to fall asleep on the flight, but I couldn’t. I kept checking if my pin was undone and stabbing me, but it was in place. Why, everything was. I’m in this silent city on a sunny day, and yet I’m praying that the danger will be too much. A tornado would strike. A tsunami would hit. A family emergency would come up and save me. I know I’m supposed to be a savior, but I think I need saving right now. I’m heartbroken. I’m scared. I’m not ready. I’m not–

“Ready soldiers?”

“Ready!”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We really enjoyed the build up of this story – that pensive early morning contemplation and recollection. The small clues but mostly obscure details about what this first day will bring. Reference to a father and brother in a similar role. A flight to catch. And a farewell. Without saying a single word about the occupation until the penultimate line, this story is so powerful in its foreshadowing. The repetition (including in the title) of the word ‘ready’ works well from start to finish, and it is of course a very real scene that is likely playing out somewhere in the world, every day.

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we like to include an extra LONGLIST of stories that stood out from the hundreds and were highly considered for the showcase. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, well done! And to ALL who submitted stories, we hope to see you in the next challenge…

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

• UNTITLED by Isaac Freeman, SA
• NEW TEACHER by Hannah Southcott, NSW
• DIZZLO by Becca J, NSW
• NEW BEGINNINGS by Jall Rangarajan, India
• THE DISASTER EMPLOYEE by Bruno Lowagie, Belgium
• HARD LESSON TO LEARN by Susan Sheehan, USA
• A WILD TIME AT KINGDOM CINEMAS by TJ Edwards, NSW
• THE FIRST FIRST DAY AT WORK by Kenneth Mann, UK
• THE SHOW MUST GO ON by Anne Wilkins, NZ
• ANTI CLIMAX by Amy Morgan, VIC
• UNTITLED by Tanner Goldberg, USA
• ALIAS by Djuna Hallsworth, NSW
• HOW THE SAUSAGE GETS MADE by Averil Robertson, VIC
• UNLUCKY by Athena Law, QLD
• WATCHING by Nick Story, USA
• SHAUN THE SHAPESHIFTER by Dylan Mudge, SA
• SCATTERED DREAMS by Tanya Allen, SA
• MY PRAYER by Freya King, QLD
• DAY ONE by Dana Stewart, WA
• THE DEVILS IN THE DETAILS by Megan Elizabeth, USA
• THE HOUSE by Jennifer Adams, QLD
• VICTIMS OF THE SEA by Jamie Gregory, USA
• ANNIHILATION by Alison Elizabeth, NSW
• LUNAR NEW YEAR 2024: ENTER WOOD DRAGON by Kristof Mikes-Liu, NSW
• DON’T GO by Janet Preston, ACT
• FLOWER ARRAIGNMENT by Autumn Bettinger, USA
• JUST BAD LUCK by Claire Whitelaw, VIC
• CLASS WARFARE by Simon Shergold, USA
• CONFESSIONS FROM THE GROTTO by Jeff Taylor, NZ
• A SONG FOR NAMAZU by Russell Mickler, USA
• POSTPARTUM by Jenny Lynch, WA
• FINE ANGLES by Thomas Fletcher, VIC
• DISPATCHED by Deidra Lovegren, USA
• THE NEW HIRE by Matt Best, NSW
• THE GATE by Mark Tarantina, USA
• UNTITLED by John McParland, NSW
• SCAVENGER’S ODYSSEY: NOTES FROM 2084 by Nan Ho, QLD
• PERFORMANCE by Courtney Bayer, USA
• UNTITLED by Linda Demaagd, SA
• CLEAR SKIES by Tina Mills, WA
• LOOK AROUND by Amy Anshaw-Nye, NSW
• PERFECT by Melanie Winklosky, USA
• UNTITLED by Cameron Burnett, NSW
• NO REAL COFFEE IN HELL by Suzanne Wacker, QLD
• FINAL CALL by Jenny Baker, VIC
• LIEUTENANT OGBOG AND THE EARTH HUMANS by Katie Ess, USA
• UNTITLED by Maggie Brooke, QLD
• A SLICE OF REVENGE by Pam Lonsdale, USA
• BUCCANEER ME by Sally Eberhardt, QLD
• UNTITLED by Louise, WA
• POSITIVE SPIN by Sheryn Witney, SA
• ON THE WRONG FOOT by Megan Hipler, QLD
• GERTRUDE THE GHOST HUNTING CAT by KE Fleming, NSW
• UNTITLED by Lisa Verdekal, Ireland

• Each story had to take place at either an AIRPORT or TRAIN STATION.
• Each story had to feature an awkward hug. 
• Each story had to include the words EIGHTEEN, EGG and ELEPHANT.
  (Longer variations were okay if original spelling was retained.)

Did we receive more train stations or airports? Actually, there were about half of each – reflected, quite by chance, in an equal number of each location in the showcased stories below! There were all manner of awkward hugs of course and plenty of eighteen year-olds, eighteen-year gaps and gates or platforms numbered ‘18’. (And yes, we have even picked eighteen stories.) As for eggs and elephants? Well, you’ll just have to see for yourself!

ARRIVALS & DEPARTURES

As we predicted, airports and train stations really ARE great locations for reunions or farewells. But there are also plenty of people who work in these locations every day, and a couple of the stories chose that angle instead. 

• Familiar settings work well in flash fiction as you don’t need to waste words setting the scene. Your reader is likely to already have a clear idea of what the location looks like.
• The REASON for someone to be departing or returning was often the difference – coming up with something original helped certain stories stand out.
• There was a lot of fun to be had with these prompts, and humour played a big part in many of the stories.
• These locations can also be places of observation or reflection, with some quieter pieces finding their way to our attention.
• Every day, thousands of stories take place in trains and airports – it was nice to see the variety in stories this month!

And on that note, please enjoy our selection of stories below, followed by our longlist of highly commended pieces from the many hundreds received. Congrats to all those featured this month and we hope to see YOU lining up for the first Furious Fiction challenge of 2024 on Friday 5 January!

HOME FOR CHRISTMAS by Cee Ford, WA

(B-B-BING) The next service to… Cripplingregret…will arrive on Platform Eighteen in…ten minutes.

(B-B-BING) Attention passengers… the last service to… Avoidingmyfamily via Dreaddingit… is departing now on Platform Five.

(B-B-BING) Passengers are advised not to leave unattended luggage, eggs and other personal items on the platform. Unattended items may be removed or destroyed by security services. Also, passengers are reminded that today is Christmas Day, not Easter.

(B_B_BING) The next train to arrive on Platform… Eighteen… goes to… Cripplingregret
First stop…Toomanychampagnes.
|Then express to… Anawkwardhugwithyourmotherinlaw.
And then… Vodkakaraoke.
Then all stations to Cripplingregret.

(B_B_BING) Closed circuit and remote video monitoring is used at this station to record your dead-eyed faces as you scroll your phones and ignore other passengers instead of spreading festive cheer with your fellow human beings.

(B-B-BING) May I have your attention. We are sorry to announce that the train to Cripplingregret… will be diverted due to a track issue. This train will no longer be express and will terminate at… Yourimpendingdoom. We apologise for any inconvenience this may cause.

(B-B-BING) Passengers are reminded that the riding of skateboards, elephants and reindeer driven sleds is not permitted inside the station. On-the-spot fines will apply.

(B-B-BING) Attention passengers… We are sorry to announce that the train to… Yourimpendingdoom… has been slightly delayed due to the Devil’s tennis match running to five sets. It will now arrive in six minutes.

(B-B-BING) The train to… Avoidingyourfate… is now approaching Platform Nine. This train does not stop here. Please stand clear of the edge of the platform and take stock of your life.

(B-B-BING) Existential Railways would like to thank you for travelling with us today and remind you that any feeling of intense embarrassment caused by your actions during the silly season is merely a metaphorical form of death. Family Christmases can be painful and disastrous but we urge you not to take your loved ones for granted.

(B-B-BING) Attention passengers..The next service to… Yourimpendingdoom… is arriving now on… Platform Eighteen… Alternatively… we are pleased to announce… a replacement bus service to… Cripplingregret… has been provided… and will depart from the upstairs Bus port in… thirty minutes. Merry Christmas.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

What better way to start this pre-Christmas showcase than with some announcements, and from the first “B-B-BING” we are already doing that electronic voice in our heads as we read the mix of hilarious ‘destinations’ that are sure to capture the mood of many at this time of year. This piece means no real harm – playful and ultimately well-meaning about the family obligations that accompany this time of year, with the repeated announcement structure a fun device throughout. While there was no requirement to have stories set at Christmas, this one is a welcome humorous addition to the frantic holiday season. (Also, we wouldn’t be surprised if “Cripplingregret” is an ACTUAL British village, not far from “Little Whinging”…)

GOODBYE MAMA by Scott Davies, UK

The largest airport in the Universe is found on Galactagar, a planet found on the outskirts of the Protoneggular nebular. It is named the Interplanetary Exchange and has no less than eighteen terminals.

It is from here that hundreds of species travel on lightspeed aeroplanes to far flung planets on business trips, vacations, and interspecies speed dating events. Mostly interspecies speed dating events.

The bathrooms are vast, with mirrors as far as the eye can see. The stalls are so large you can swing an Elephant in them and find it to be relatively unharmed by the time you are done with it.

This happened so often on the opening of the Interplanetary Exchange that signs have been erected on the inside of each cubicle door depicting an elephant inside a red crossed circle, beneath which the sign reads, ‘Quit swinging Elephants, we don’t have big enough shovels’.

The sign has had little impact.

At terminal 187, Space Flight Colonel Franz Tasteech is bidding farewell to his mother.

Franz is boulder sized, standing at twelve feet tall and looking every inch of it. He walks with a stoop, more out of habit than necessity, and his hands cup inwards into constant half-fists, the hairs neatly combed across his dry, cracked knuckles. His eyebrow is the texture of a yard broom and is cut once a year by a brave tree surgeon. His navy blue suit screams for help at the chest where its buttons close over the top of a white shirt and short purple striped tie. The medals of valour pinned to his blazer tell the story of a well-seasoned veteran of the National Space Division.

His mother sits on his shoulder, her handbag in her lap, a pink cardigan draped across her shoulders.

“It is dreadfully cold in here, Franz. Why did I have to come with you?”

“Mama,” Franz booms, his voice rattling his mothers chest, “this is my last trip. I want to wave goodbye. Like the humans do.”

“Well it seems silly to me. Do you know how much the parking costs?”

“Mama, I pay.”

“You’ll do no such thing. I won’t hear of it,” she scolds, her leathery skin wrinkling at the brow as her eyebrows raise above her cat eye rimmed glasses, “have you had a wee?”

“Mama…” Franz dips his chin to his chest, “I don’t need one, mama.”

“Are you sure?”

Franz thinks for a moment. You can tell by the smell.

“Yes, mama.”

“There’s a good boy. Now,” she says, straightening the hem of his trouser leg, “you better get going. You don’t want to miss your flight.”

“Be back soon, Mama,” he lies, stooping as low as he can and wrapping both arms around his mother until she disappears inside his arms, “I loves you.”

“I loves you too, Franz.”

With that he collects his briefcase and walks to the boarding desk. He turns and waves his gigantic hand. His mother returns his wave, just like the humans do.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

World-building brownie points go to this intergalactic piece – one of very few to decide to set a story off planet. Within its vast expanse, we learn that while things aren’t quite the same as they are down here on Earth (elephant swinging, anyone?), they’re also not completely alien either – with said alien hoping to replicate our soppy farewell rituals. We loved the efficiency of Franz’s speaking and the general ridiculousness of the scene as we witness a touching moment, just like the humans do. Yes, it’s silly, intergalactic nonsense – but well-written silly, intergalactic nonsense.

UNTITLED by Emily Jenik, VIC

His focus is absolute, eyes on the train as it pulls into the station. He’s spent hours and hours perfecting the scene, crafting the tiny benches along the platforms, even filled his miniature bins with rubbish. He eases the train alongside the station then pulls the levers to open the doors one by one. He looks at his watch. He will wait exactly three minutes before closing the doors again and sending the train on another journey around the track.

I cannot help but love him. Maybe it’s just biology – he grew from my egg, so he’s a part of me. But every day I get to spend with him fills me with equal parts joy and anguish. Yes, he’s happy to sit here and play for now, but I can’t ignore the elephant in the room. What happens when he turns eighteen? When other kids his age would be moving out, starting to become independent? What happens when I’m not around anymore? What does his life look like after his parents are gone?

I know better than to pull him towards me for a hug, but my emotions overwhelm my senses and I give it a shot anyway. My arms around him, he paws at me to release him, grunting wordlessly with distress. His hand connects with my face, fingers poking my eye, and I’m rocketed back to reality. This is not a child who hugs. I let him go, ashamed of my selfishness.

Free from my embrace, I see panic dart across his face as he hurriedly pulls his sleeve up. Relief washes over him as he sees the three minutes have not yet ended, and he watches the second hand tick around until it does. Then one by one he closes the train doors and sends it off on another trip, starting the cycle all over again.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

So simple in its premise and with a ‘why didn’t we think of that?’ idea at its core, this story delights in flipping the script to set it at a miniature railway station. Having already got our attention with this clever diversion, it goes on to make the setting meaningful with a loving mother watching her son enjoy a pastime that is famously popular for those on the spectrum. Her inner musings and genuine worries read as authentic as the hilariously attempted hug that follows (we loved the ‘he paws at me’ description). And again, the time-keeping and pure focus matches what is clear but unsaid in this tenderly crafted story. 

PICKING UP STEAM by Athena Law, QLD

The shriek of the whistle echoes, causing a fraction of a pause in the bustle of bodies around me. The royal-blue locomotive stretches along the tracks, a curved iron dragon huffing out steam into the chill of the morning air.

A crackle as the two-way clipped to my belt shouts my name through static, directing me to Trailer 3. Shouldering my portable makeup kit, I navigate through piles of carefully stacked vintage suitcases and hordes of excited extras.

Stepping from the party-like atmosphere on-set into the tense silence of the trailer, I see a blonde, Marcel-waved wig slung onto the floor, and the usually effervescent PA cowering in the corner. The star is sitting on a stool staring silently into the mirror, hair clipped unforgivingly to her skull. The PA meets my gaze, grimacing, and I nod towards the door, releasing her gratefully to the outside.

‘You have approximately five minutes to make me look eighteen again.’ The star’s tone is rueful as her tired eyes meet mine in the mirror, but she forces a smile.

‘Your face was perfection when I left.’ I say sternly as I position the wig back on its stand, smoothing out the pale curls.

She points to her iPad. ‘That was before I saw those awful paparazzi shots. Taken in the sun, wearing that hideously bulky wool coat, looking like a literal elephant wearing makeup! Preposterous, who am I kidding?’

I’m behind her now, smoothing her face which is creased in dismay and embarrassment, this face that I have gazed upon for perhaps my whole life. In my career I’ve formed an immunity to being starstruck, but there are always exceptions.

Picking up a soft brush, I begin gently applying makeup.

‘Forget the paparazzi. What do you see?’ I ask, delicately contouring along her jawline.

Her sigh is deep. ‘I see an ancient crone who thought she could make a triumphant comeback, who can’t leave her trailer.’

I catch a tear with my brush before it escapes down her cheek.

‘Well, I see a woman with a fabulous sense of humour, one wonderful son, two Cavoodles, immense talent, three Oscar nominations and hundreds of adventures…. Who has earned some lovely laughter lines to go with the stories. You’re magnificent, and I would love to be you when I grow up.’

Mere minutes later I am escorting her to the platform, heads turning in her dazzling wake.

‘One last piece of advice.’ I say quietly. ‘Forget the egg-white omelette tomorrow morning and insist on a bacon buttie, you’ll thank me later.’

She steps closer, those famous denim-blue eyes lit up in a smile.

‘I’m going to thank you right now. And as they say, I’m completely ready for my close-up.’ Carefully, so as not to disrupt her well-draped wool coat and perfectly positioned wig, she brings one arm around my shoulder in an approximation of a hug. I inhale Chanel as they call ‘Places please’, and the shriek of the whistle echoes.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Places? Please. As here we see another clever take on a train station – this one being a filming location and our protagonist a part of the crew. All that said, the opening paragraph plays a big part in drawing the reader in here, with its iron dragon huffing into the chilled air – far more dramatic than any star tantrum could have been. We also appreciated the lack of any “And cut!” twist (it gets done a lot, FYI) – instead being open about its setting from the beginning. And then, liberated from any need for arrivals or departures, we see a rather different storyline, one that still ends in an awkward, fragrant, hug. (Clever title too!)

OLFACTORY TRIGGERS by Joe Durham, UK

I remember standing with my parents at the airport with my stupid cardboard sign. ‘Aunt Agatha’.

And I remember that smell.

As the blessed-aunt herself swept into the arrivals hall like a battleship arriving in port, she gave a little happy shriek, then presented me with a big fluffy toy as a gift. A cuddly elephant, this time, and I gave my own little whoop of glee inside. Outside, I stayed stony-faced, as only twelve-year olds can do.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: twelve year old boys don’t usually welcome fluffy cuddly toys, elephantine or otherwise, but you only think that because you know little of our dysfunctional clan. A few facts:

1. Aunt Aggie is a very rich widow. Simply loaded. And as we are her only relatives, thoughts of her eventual demise always prompt discussion of bequests and heirlooms, and the importance of not alienating The Rich-One.
2. Aunt Aggie is bonkers. Not a diagnosed mental illness, early-life trauma or learning difficulty, I hasten to add. Just, well… bonkers. She has eighteen prize hens in the back garden of her palatial home and pays a local man handsomely to look after them. To my knowledge, they have never laid a single egg.
3. I learned long ago that if I simply overlook my aunt’s foibles and tolerate her age-inappropriate gifts, then my avaricious parents would reward me handsomely.

So, basically I reckoned that I only had to offer grateful acknowledgement to my idiosyncratic aunt, and I could trade the elephant up later for a new i-Pad. But not till I’d made my parents suffer a little.

As I received the offending elephant I kept my face cold, and I could feel, as well as see, the anguish in their faces, terrified in case I hurled my padded pachyderm to the floor, berated my airhead aunt and got us all disinherited. So I waited until my parents were practically gibbering with worry, then I stepped forward with an angelic smile and gave my dear Aunty Agatha an awkward hug.

My parents exhaled loudly in relief, while I suffered the bear-hug and inhaled the strange olfactory cocktail that my elderly aunt carried with her everywhere. A subtle blend of parma violet and pickled eggs. That smell.

Smells are funny things. Especially unusual ones. They carry associations as well as memory. And I still involuntarily smell Aunty Aggie now, twenty years later, whenever I encounter mercenary behaviour, hypocrisy and greed.

I realise now that she was unquestionably a good person, unlike my childhood self or my parents. She was kind to all she encountered. She was mocked and made fun of, but tough enough to take it. She was energetic and creative and deserved her wealth.

And so does the Pampered Poultry petting farm, to whom she bequeathed every cent.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Smells are quite possibly the most powerful time machines – able to transport you back to people and places with just one whiff. So the fact that this story is told as a memory immediately makes sense/scents. On top of that, you have some truly wonderful turns of phrase – “swept into the arrivals hall like a battleship arriving in port” painting a brilliant picture of Aunt Aggie! Some fun bullet-list facts give us an insight into what we’re dealing with, but eventually it all comes back to that signature fragrance (“olfactory cocktail”) of parma violet (a nostalgic British sweet) and pickled eggs. Mmmmm. Wonderfully bonkers fun and such a satisfying ending!

A MOUSE CALLED ELEPHANT by Bruno Lowagie, Belgium

He greets her with a European kiss; she goes for an American hug.  She’s surprised by his lips on her cheek; he didn’t expect her arms around him. For a moment they freeze.

Then she breaks the ice: “How long has it been?”

“Seven years,” he replies. He resists the urge to add: “Two months and eighteen days.”

They were lovers once. Now she is back for a three-day conference.

“Thank you for offering me a place to stay after all that time.”

He waves away her gratitude, as if he would not have wanted it any other way.

“Do you still like your eggs sunny side up?” he asks.

He used to make her breakfast, even before they were a couple. She was a foreign student at the Université Libre de Bruxelles. He had a spare room to let.

She smiles: “You remembered.”

Once graduated, she returned to the US. The long distance killed their relationship.

He smiles back: “Some things never change.”

She doesn’t answer with words, but her eyes tell him that nothing is the same anymore.

He looks away from her: “Is that your luggage?”

She nods.

“I upgraded to a dog,” he tells her as he picks up her suitcase. They used to have a mouse called Elephant as a pet when they lived together. “I hope you’re not allergic. It’s shedding season. There’s hair everywhere, even in the bathroom.”

“I have a dog myself. Do you want to see a picture?”

She grabs her phone and swipes through a series of pictures of her Golden Retriever.

“He’s cute,” he says, happy to know that his own Labrador won’t be a problem. “Let me show you mine.”

They are both aware that she would have responded with a naughty pun — eighteen years ago — but now she doesn’t take the bait: “There's no need to. I've already seen him on your Insta. His name is Twister, isn't it?”

They leave the train station in silence, pondering how they’ll deal with the giant mouse in the room for three full days.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The ‘he said’, ‘she said’ format works very well in this reunion of former lovers – setting the scene (and a little foreshadowing) with the awkward American meets Euro style of greeting at the very beginning. While we had a lot of stories of people meeting up again after some time, this one stands out for its efficiency – no lengthy backstories or side tangents. Just a real-time back-and-forth that works in part because it too is awkward and stilted – one perhaps still hoping for a flicker of requiting. In short, it feels real. Also a cute way to incorporate the concept of an ‘elephant in the room’ without never actually saying those words!

SILENT NIGHT by Fulva Took, USA

The sirens wailed. Roland ducked, pulling his helmet more tightly over his head as the next bomb hit. There hadn’t even been time to get out of the train station before the Luftwaffe came again. The Nazis were especially focusing on the main supply areas in Manchester, and Oxford Station was one of them.

The bomb shelter in the station was small and cramped. The cement looked rather unsteady: hairline cracks spiderwebbed across it, like when you hit an egg against a bowl. Roland flinched every time a bomb hit. He couldn't help but wonder if the bunker would collapse, raining debris down upon their heads.

Not the cheeriest Christmas Eve he had ever spent.

He shut his eyes, thinking of home. Away back in Sussex. Had it really been eighteen whole weeks? He sighed. Mother and Father were there. Danny, Will, and Annette. His family. He remembered that last hug with his younger brothers, wishing he hadn’t been so uncomfortable about it. He should have held them tighter, told them how much he loved them. And now, he would never get the chance.

And there was Kitty, too.

They were to have been married three days ago, on December the 21st, if not for this bloody war. Roland pictured her lovely, shining face, with the softly curling, honey-colored locks, the bright blue eyes which always seemed to sparkle…

Another bomb. Roland flinched as a bit of plaster dropped onto his pack before he withdrew once more into his mind.

Kitty would be decorating the Christmas tree with her little sister, Rosana (who would, of course, be sucking on the tail of Gerald, her stuffed elephant). They would be lighting the candles, setting the golden paper star at the very top of the tree. They would sing carols and line up the stockings at the fireplace. Would they be praying, too? Of course they would. They would be praying for everyone to come back home. For all their loved ones who had gone off to war to defend their country.

Roland prayed, too. Prayed that, if he died, the last thing he would see in his mind would be Kitty’s face.

His prayer was granted that very night.

The Nazi pilot never knew that the last bomb that he dropped, the one that hit his mark perfectly at Oxford Station, crumbled the failing cement bunker beneath there. He never knew that beneath the rubble lay a young man, a mere boy, clutching a faded picture of a girl with bright blue eyes and softly curling brown hair. The boy was smiling.

The sirens wailed as the bombs rained down over England on that Silent Night.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Another Christmas tale, but this one hits somewhat harder – literally – as we are transported back to what is likely Christmas Eve 1940 and the bombs falling on Britain. Here, our Manchester train station becomes a target as our protagonist shelters from the storm and reflects on a world turned upside down. The comparison that incorporates the ‘egg’ prompt rings true to the crumbling setting and while we know the war would eventually have a happy ending, this particular encounter – and story – do not. The call back to the title at the end, with the repeated sirens wailing provides a tragic bookend to this historical piece.

THE ARRIVALS HALL by Leonie Jarrett, VIC

“Please let’s go Mum. Pleeeeease.”

“OK, OK, we’ll go.”

After all, it was the Summer school holidays and I wasn’t working that day. I should make the most of this time. It won’t be long before eight year old Oscar doesn’t want to do anything with me any more like this older brother who is hell-bent on breaking the World record for the most hours playing Fortnite or his older tweenager sister who watches YouTube make up tutorials incessantly.

I hadn’t planned to pick Dave up from the airport but Oscar wanted to surprise him.

Dave has always travelled a lot for work. I used to count the days (literally and figuratively) until he came home to me.

Now that we’ve been married for over eighteen years, the days blur with the busyness of kids and work. I feel like life is easier when Dave is not there. The kids and I get into a rhythm. And, let’s face the elephant in the room – there’s no arguments. Well, there are arguments but just with the kids. I can deal with the kids. The arguments with Dave are a whole other story.

If we’re not arguing, we’re treading on eggshells around each other.

“How did we get here?” I wonder silently as I drive. We were so full of hope and dreams and love Dave and I. Now, I’m driving to the airport to pick him up out of a desire to please our son rather than a desire to sweep Dave up in my arms.

The traffic isn’t too bad for once and we arrive at the airport as Dave’s plane lands. That gives us time to park and be waiting in the Arrivals Hall. We see Dave come out of the sliding doors. Oscar runs into Dave’s outstretched arms (as I used to do).

I stay put. Dave looks up over Oscar’s hug, finds me in the crowd and smiles at me. It’s a surprised smile. Nervous. Halting. A smile that tells me that Dave doesn’t know if I really want to be here at all.

Dave comes over to me with Oscar hanging off him. He sort of gives me a hug.

I feel like Emma Thompson in “Love Actually” as Alan Rickman arrives at Heathrow. Without the tawdry affair but with the tension.

“Nice surprise Sarah. Missed you,” Dave says to me.

“Yeah, me too,” I lie. “Let’s go home.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

A gentle study in the evolution/dilution of a relationship here – summed up perhaps by the question “How did we get here?” that our narrator Sarah asks halfway through. She’s driving at the time and while it’s often asked in a navigation-trance context, here it’s about the state of her marriage. Told through the lens of an airport pick-up, this is an example of not needing anything big, bold and dramatic to create a compelling, relatable (for many) narrative. In fact, it is that very lack of excitement that drives this story – “without the tawdry affair but with the tension”. Ordinary and extraordinary at the same time.

LOST AND FOUND by Emma Rigney, QLD

As the peak hour rush picked up through Central Station, Benita let a wide yawn escape. Being posted at the lost and found desk was her favourite position, but she struggled somewhat with the early start. The desk offered the best view of the Station, allowing Benita to people-watch. It was her most loved past-time. She perched on the stool at the counter, watching the early morning commuters hurry by.

It wasn't long before a small child approached the desk, tears welling in her eyes. She turned to gaze at her mother, who rested a hand on her shoulder and nodded encouragingly. The girl looked up to Benita and spoke quietly.

“Excuse me please. Have you seen my elephant? I lost it yesterday.”

Benita smiled warmly at the girl. “What colour is your elephant sweetheart?”

“Yellow,” came the timid response.

Benita turned to look at the numbered cubbies lining the back wall. Housed safely in number eighteen was a well-loved plush yellow elephant. She scooped it up and brought it back to the counter.

“Is this your elephant?” she asked the girl.

“Effie!” the girl squealed. “Oh thank you so much lady!”

Benita grinned, her heart swelling seeing the little girl so happy.

“Thank you,” said the girl's mother before leading her daughter away.

As the commuter crowd thinned out, the school children who relied on public transport began to take over the Station. Unlike the workers before them who were quiet and laser-focused on getting from A to B, the kids brought with them excessive noise. They yelled back and forth to one another, ran because they were about to miss their train, or were just being generally rambunctious.

Throughout the morning, Benita reunited a young woman with her flowered umbrella, an old man with his grey golfer's hat, a middle-aged man with a square package wrapped with brown paper and a pink bow, and a small boy with a hard-back picture book about frogs. She also received several found items, which she dutifully catalogued and placed in a cubby.

Benita snacked on her egg and lettuce sandwich as she watched early afternoon commuters and travellers bustle through the Station. She could always pick those who were returning from holidays, or were about to leave on one, as they had a single commonality. A suitcase on wheels.

Sometimes she would become captivated by the hello's and goodbye's that took place. Loud exclaims as family and friends reunited upon someone's long awaited return. Passionate kisses of lovers about to part as one ventured into the world. Awkward hugs between siblings as they said good-bye before leaving on their first solo adventure.

As her shift ended, Benita reflected on the day. In addition to reuniting twelve people with their treasured possessions, Benita had witnessed many moments. Some that were amusing, some that were heart-warming and one that was heart-wrenching. She looked forward to her shift tomorrow, where she could return to her people-watching post.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Why wish to be a ‘fly on the wall’ in a train station, when you can be at the ‘Lost and Found’ desk instead? When we offered these locations as prompts, it was suggested that as well as the travellers who pass through these places, there may also be stories to be found in those who work there. And so, here we join Benita as she goes about her day of reuniting people with their things (we’re sure it was fun coming up with the items – the umbrella, hat, package with pink bow, picture book on frogs!) as well as observing the comings and goings. It’s a great idea and we’d happily green-light a full series from this pilot episode!

ADVENTURES FOR DIFFERENT TIMES by Amy Zander, SA

The station is quiet as I sit on the edge of the platform, legs swinging over the open air above the tracks now overgrown with weeds. Mum says this used to be a bustling hub of life, that eighteen years of disuse and abandonment have turned it dead and boring. Mum thinks adventure is about bright colours and big crowds and things that feel impossible, like the circus she saw when she was ten, with acrobats and elephants and fire-breathers.

I think the station is alive and exciting now more than ever. Flowers grow between cracked bricks, visited by bees and butterflies when the sun glows down. The trees around breathe in a cooling rhythm of rustling leaves; birds dart between branches, filling the air with their songs; snakes slide amidst the grass and sun themselves on the pavement. My adventures consist of following the tracks as far as I can before my legs grow tired and I’m forced to turn around. Mum says it must be dull, the same walk all the time. I tell her that it’s not the same: I never know how far I’ll walk, and I’m sure the number of steps I take is different each time; the weather changes more than the tide at the beach, some days hot or sunny or rainy or cold in infinite combinations; the clouds are an endless gallery of abstract art; the plants grow and bloom and die; sometimes, where the tracks run beside the river, there are ducks, and sometimes there are ducklings. There’s always something new.

And there’s always the familiar home to come back to, nestled behind the main station building, with the same dented kettle on the stove and the patterned blanket on my bed and the wooden humpty-dumpty that sits on my windowsill in all his eggy glory. If I fell from the platform right now, I wouldn’t end up in irreparable pieces, but sometimes I wonder what would happen in this were a different time, if I could step off the platform and take a train far away, to a new city, a new life. If I would fracture. Sometimes the idea is as enrapturing as the storm clouds swirling and sparking on the horizon, other times as terrifying as the flooding rain and cracking thunder. It would be a different adventure. Someday, I might take that leap, risk that fall. Today, though, I open my arms and breathe in the fresh scent of the misting rain like I can embrace the sky. Lightning flashes and the wind rises in an abashed huff, making me shiver and let out a small chuckle of embarrassment. Adventure is a fickle friend, the world not as devoted a lover as I try to be to it. I hug my jacket close around me. The wind whips my hair into my mouth and stings my face with cold. The rain picks up. I run inside, and watch the storm with humpty dumpty.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Here’s a great example of a quieter, reflective story that still captures your attention in the way that it sees the world. We meet our young adventurer enjoying a leg-swinging moment of thought – in disagreement with their mother over the definition of an ‘adventure’ and also the perceived state of this abandoned station. The observation that in its decay and reclamation by nature the station is “alive and exciting now more than ever” is delightful in helping us understand this child’s perspective. We also, with the help of the humpty dumpty toy, take a final-paragraph detour into a glimpsed future, or is it a past? – to a time when a train would have whisked one away from that spot. Simple, yet expertly layered, storytelling.

ALONE TOGETHER by Jeremy Newsome, SA

Inching his way through the glittery ‘welcome home’ signs, he grabbed hold of the barrier with one hand and tightened his grip on the bouquet with the other. One red rose for each of the eighteen months they had known each other.

The tailored suits were first. They marched out of the frosted doors that opened intermittently, providing a glimpse into the bustle of border guards parading golden retrievers, and passengers desperate to hold onto items undeclared. Glued to their phones, the business class elite were oblivious to the echo of security announcements and the air of anticipation that lined their exit, the sound of trundling suitcases left in their wake. A small child being towed on a blue and pink novelty elephant suitcase behind two weary parents signalled the divide. She wasn’t far away now.

He had constructed her image around her sensual and soothing tones and dreamt of running his pale lanky fingers through the silky jet-black hair that cascaded down her long frame, resting just below her delicate shoulder blades. The urge to laugh in the face of years of awkward speed dating events and the apps that had been banished seventeen months ago was quelled by the fluttering in his stomach.

‘Sheila!’ The primal scream drew his attention to the right. A middle-aged woman ducked and weaved her way against the tide of returnees, sunglasses tumbling from her head to the floor and bouncing along behind her. The two women stood holding each other tight as the stream of luggage carts parted naturally around them. That was the prime position; the mouth of the river where loved ones reunited amongst taxi touts and the airport volunteers in their eggplant-coloured t-shirts. His footsteps fell in line with the heartbeat pumping in his ears, positioning himself for nothing less than a grand gesture.

The crowd slowly melted away and a lone cleaner appeared in its place to deal with the dusting of glitter, the odd streamer and a snotty tissue. ‘When’s the next flight from Honolulu?’ he asked meekly. ‘Honolulu? The old man leaned on his broom, sighed heavily and shook his head. ‘Who knows? but the last flight was way back in 1984 if memory serves me correctly’.

Frozen, in disbelief.

A lone frail woman was the last one. Her tiny frame hunched over the trolley; the wrinkly folds of her neck hidden by the floral inflatable travel cushion. The squeaky wheels stopped at his tan loafers, and she shuffled into his shadow. Her veiny hands pulled him awkwardly into her embrace. ‘Lesley, my favourite grandson, are they for me?’. He slowly detached himself, momentarily lost in her demented state, placing the bouquet in her hands. Petals floated to the floor as if they were crying for what was never to be. He smiled with a slight nod and then they stood there alone, together.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Anyone who has ever stood and waited at an Arrivals Hall will recognise most of the well-described details here – from the ‘welcome home’ signs and excited people running “against the tide” from the mouth of the river of returnees, to the order of appearance (the tailored suits marching out, followed by the weary parents, and so on). Even the small glimpse back to where the customs checks are taking place behind doors is well observed. As for the final realisation, the squeaky wheel gets the bouquet as our protagonist is left holding the old lady – but neither have found who they’re looking for. Relatable, heart-breakable stuff.

FLIGHT CANCELLED by Yelena Crane, USA

Only three years ago flights were grounded and Boeing 737 and 777 had time to get to know each other.

“You’re never home anymore,” 777 said. It was a rare moment both were on the tarmac, their elephantine bellies sagging from passengers, crew, and too many carry-ons. Sagging from time used and needed maintenance.

“I miss you too,” 737 said in defense. Neither could control their fight schedule. Why fight over it?

737 was older. It knew better than to start a romance on the wing but the times had been lonely, the skies so distant, and 777 plied it with stories of the places it had seen and flown over. Now 777 never spoke about where it flew. Said where it went didn’t matter so long as it returned to meet 737.

Already in the loading dock, 777 knew they had little time left. It used to enjoy the march of crew preparing for take off, the feel of heels pinching into its old carpet. Now the march meant another flight, another destination without its companion. All that purposeless traveling back and forth with people who had become crueler since the shutdown. Planes didn’t have the walls of houses, but they shared the same burden of secrets.

“I wish we could fly away together,” 777 said.

They’d never shared the skies, not freely, airplane wing to airplane wing. 777 tried to maneuver its wheels, just enough so it could share the same breath of exhaust as the 737 but not raise any suspicion among the humans.

“Don’t you?” 777 nudged.

“I do.” 737 had dreams before 777. They’d changed since, grew, but those dreams didn’t die. It wanted to fly a mission that would change the world. Maybe it had done so already, and it didn’t know. Carried a child future-hero or an important person for burial in the salt and earth of their home. A plane that could bring skyscrapers to their knees and the world to tears. A plane that could… and it realized it had already done something only one other plane ever could. It had loved.

Everyone on the tarmac and inside the airport heard the announcement. Take off in eighteen minutes.

“Don’t be sad,” 737 said, “even a minute can be an eternity in the air.”

“We’re not in the air.”

737 hadn’t docked yet. By slow incremental millimeters it wheeled closer to 777. They couldn’t show affection the way humans did. Could never make sperm and egg and plane babies. They only had this, a soft scrape of metal hugging steel to steel.

Inside 777, the pilot shouted to the command center, crew tried to usher in calm, passengers jumped out of their seats ignoring the seatbelt signs and pointing out their windows. Outside 777 moved closer to 737.

They estimated the investigation would keep them grounded for months.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

What a refreshing way to introduce two unique characters in this setting – a ‘flight of fancy’ in which flights fancy (each other)! It’s immediately clear simply from their names exactly what we’re dealing with here, and who doesn’t love a good old fashioned anthropomorphised story, right? It seems that this long-distance, long-haul relationship has been difficult for both of these air-crossed lovers, as they sag from a lifestyle of ‘too many carry ons”. Desperate to fly away together, eventually they settle for the next best thing – being grounded together. Yes it’s silly (planes don’t have feelings, right?), but with lines like “they shared the same burden of secrets”, it’s good stuff!

SOCIAL MEDIA CIRCUS by Rob Tuckerman, ACT

Nelson, like all elephants, hated flying. The leg room was atrocious, the packet of nuts laughably small, and wisecracks about stowing his trunk in the overhead locker were as predictable as the turbulence. Taking to the sky was an affront to a three-ton pachyderm. That’s what made Dumbo such an absurd film in his mind – no one in the herd would ever fantasise about escaping gravity’s grip.

Today’s flight, though, was unavoidable. Departing on a period of mandatory service as a circus performer was a burden that awaited every male elephant on the day of their eighteenth birthday. A perfectly cruel way to celebrate a milestone – a first taste of root beer over lunch then quickly whisked away to the airport.

“A proud day, son,” his father uttered, his face unyielding as they approached the boarding gate. “There is no nobler service than to entertain.”

His mother’s heavy eyes spoke volumes, carrying the weight of every hushed bedtime conversation she had shared with her son. The war on apathy was real, but they’d never understood why elephants were on the front line of a conflict of man’s creation.

Nelson’s sister was next in line, her trunk swaying anxiously as she took one last long look at her big-top-bound brother. Her right ear jarred against Nelson’s developing tusks as their lumbering bodies came together clumsily in one final embrace.

“Don’t forget me,” whispered Nelson.

“I never will,” she replied. “I’m an elephant.”

Nelson dipped his head and plodded through the bridge.

“I thought oversized luggage had to be checked in,” snickered the man in 3A as Nelson boarded.

Nelson halted in the narrow aisle, glaring at the man, who continued to snicker as he stared at the device in his hand. With a flick of his trunk, Nelson swept the phone from the man’s hands, flinging it into the side of the cabin and cracking it open like an egg in a pan.

“I’m sick of you zombies!” Nelson bellowed. “Always expecting others to pull you out of your brainless existence. Elephants are not here to entertain you! I should not have to parade on a circus stage for peanuts, just to force a temporary smile on your detached faces.”

The man in 3A grunted.

Nelson scanned the cabin, his rage unabated. Blank faces with outstretched arms pointed camera phones from all angles as a steward grabbed him from behind.

“You don’t need carnival sideshows, you idiots – just get your head out of your hands,” Nelson roared as the steward began dragging him from the plane.

“This is the best day ever,” a man in the emergency exit row gleamed. “I’ve got 34 likes already!”

Nelson’s stunned family watched from the departure lounge as the young Elephant tumbled from the plane and into the hands of airport security. Hashtag #DumboJet was trending, and the circus continued.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Entertainingly realised, this alternate world sees elephants proudly running away to join the circus once they reach the right age. “There’s no nobler service than to entertain,” announces Nelson’s dad – and if that’s true, this is a very noble story indeed. From the debunking of Dumbo’s premise to the viral scene onboard the plane (“on a circus stage for peanuts”), it’s a jumbo-sized hilarious ride, yet underpinned by a more sombre sentiment – “carrying the weight of every hushed bedtime conversation”. Our favourite line however, belongs to the sister after Nelson pleads not to forget him: “I never will. I’m an elephant.” 

LAST FLIGHT by Danielle Hrapoonov, Canada

Eighteen minutes till the end of the shift. David looked up at the conveyor belt and yawned. Night shifts always felt longer; fewer flights departed, and less luggage needed to be loaded onto airplanes. One more flight to go… He could almost smell the bacon and eggs Jen would make for him at home.

Suddenly, the monitor lit up: Barvo Airlines, Rome, 85 bags expected. David frowned; he had been working in the luggage department for ten years and knew all the airlines. Maybe he missed the update during yesterday's team meeting because it was 7 AM, and yes, he was daydreaming about the bacon. At least, it looked like a smaller flight, probably half-empty. Rome… He had always wanted to go there; becoming a gladiator was his ultimate childhood dream. David sighed. “Maybe next year…”

The conveyor belt woke up, twitched, and hundreds of wheels began rolling. David looked around, hoping to see Marcus, who was supposed to be working with him.

“Marcus!” he yelled. “Come over, buddy. The last flight is here.”

Nothing.

David lined up the carts to load the bags. Four would be enough, but why should he do all the work?!

“Marcus!!”

The first luggage appeared on top of the belt. It was bright red and looked like a massive piece of salmon. Sometimes, David imagined that he was working in a sushi restaurant and the bags were different dishes running on a conveyor belt. He and Jen went to that kind of Japanese restaurant once. What was the name of that place? Something sushi… It was a bit expensive, but they had so much fun. They were still dating then; everything was new and exciting. David watched the salmon luggage slowly making its way towards him. He quickly picked it up and placed it on the cart.

“MARCUS!!!!”

The next suitcase was small and green. “Wasabi”. When David picked it up, he noticed a cute grey luggage tag shaped like an elephant. Its belly had all the personal details, and the trunk was attached to the handle. David liked to read luggage tags; he felt like a pilot, getting to know the passengers.

David read, “Stacey Ronald.” He froze. No way… He checked the address; it was her! His high school sweetheart, his first everything… So, she moved back with her parents after the divorce. Why was she going to Rome? Why did she pack so light?! Did she have an Italian boyfriend?!! Was she moving there?!!!

The wave of all sorts of forgotten emotions crashed into David like a tsunami. He raised the green luggage and pressed it against his chest. No, he was not going to let her go this time. He closed his eyes and held Stacey so tight…

“David, what's going on, buddy?”

David opened his eyes. Marcus was staring at him, bumfuzzled.

“Nothing.”

David slowly put the green suitcase on the salmon luggage and looked at the monitor.

He was done.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Another great behind-the-scenes story here, this time focusing on those workers we love to hate – baggage handlers! It’s the end of a long shift and David is dreaming of bacon and eggs, but what he gets instead is salmon and wasabi. The sushi train restaurant comparison is fun (we also like how he never remembers the name of the restaurant, a realistic moment of presque vu!). Daydreaming soon turns to long lost sweethearts and well, it’s all downhill from there. No wonder so many bags go missing!

END GAME by Heather Maywald, SA

The platform leads to the yawning blackness beyond and to the gates of hell as far as I’m concerned.

While I wait for the number eighteen to Kings Cross, I fiddle nervously with my top hat and wonder how I should address the elephant in the room when I meet with my fellow investors. They have prospered while I, by chance, have been languishing in jail.

How different it was when we first came to London. We all had money in our pockets, hope in our hearts and rose-coloured glasses. My plan was to acquire some cheap properties in unfashionable streets, improve them and then on-sell them to reinvest in more lucrative areas. Others wisely sought real estate in more prestigious locations.

Colin Thimble bucked the trend and decided that investing in utilities was the way to go. He did very well out of the Electric Company and the Waterworks while Tom Boot bought Fenchurch Street Station and three houses in Park Lane. When Tom added an upmarket hotel in Mayfair to his portfolio it seemed that his goose had indeed laid the golden egg.

My friend the Iron Lady, so named because her name is Meg Thatcher, bought up most of Fleet Street and reportedly made a killing. Rumour has it that she was bugging the royals but the jury’s still out on that. Nevertheless, she was the only one who came to visit me in jail. She offered to slip me her get out of jail free card, reached through the bars to hold me close and promptly got her arm stuck. It took two prison officers and a cake of soap to set her free.

While the others thrived, it seemed that the dice seldom rolled my way. I was honoured to be elected inaugural Chairman of the Board until I realised that I had to pay each of the others fifty quid for the privilege. Then came the taxes, the repair bills, doctor, and hospital fees. Twice I won second prize in a beauty contest, which goes to prove that there is no gender bias here. Unfortunately, the prize was only a tenner.

I was down to my last hundred when I had to reimburse Mary Cannon fifty quid for the opera ticket. As I’d already been sent directly to jail, I gave my ticket to the warden. If I thought it would curry his favour, I was wrong.

Mostly, I dread meeting with Barry. We dubbed him “The Battleship” because he always came out with all guns blazing. Nowadays he owns half the board and is also the banker. Perish the thought that I land on any of his properties. He’s not known for his philanthropy.

Finally, the penny drops. If I don’t pass go and collect my two hundred quid, it’s game over.

The train screeches to a stop. I climb aboard, set my topper to a jaunty angle and prepare to meet my fate.

Scrabble would have been easier.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

When we set the creative challenge each month, it really IS a challenge – to think outside the box and write something original. In this case however, it was all about thinking inside the (board game) box! The opening seems innocent enough, with a top-hat and talk of Kings Cross and jail. Then we start meeting the friends – thimble, boot, iron… waaait a minute. By the time we reach Fleet Street (and a cute ‘News of the World’ scandal reference), the game is afoot – unravelling with quickening pace as we delight in the way the squares are brought to life. ‘Second prize at the beauty contest’ seals the deal and when we finally pass GO, we’ve had a great time. The final line is like a mic-drop for this cleverly observed story that of all those received this month, had the monopoly on this particular idea.

WAITING ROOM by Susan Hobson, QLD

It’s funny how much of your life is spent waiting. Big things. Waiting to be allowed to join in with the adults. Waiting for him to call you back. Waiting for the nine months to be up. Waiting to hear if you’ve got the job. Waiting to hear if you’ve lost the job. Waiting for the verdict from the doctor. Little things. Waiting for your egg to boil, waiting for your turn at parent-teacher night, waiting for the prescription at the pharmacy. Shine a big light on anyone’s life, and the shadows it casts are all made out of waiting.

Fitting then, to be in a railway waiting room now. It’s a nice room. Clean, pale, minimalist even. It’s filled with a grey light – dawn can’t be far off, there’s a slight coloured edge to the window frames. Can’t see out, nothing to see. I’m pretty sure my eyes are closed, anyway.

I can feel Eric’s hand holding mine. So steady, so dependable. Dear Eric. Eighteen years and not a day too many. Every Friday evening a glass of wine. Every Sunday morning breakfast in bed – Sunday papers spread out on the duvet. His fingers speaking to me. Don’t go.

The train will be here soon. I can feel the rail vibrating in my bones, hear the compressed air parting before its engine like a wheezy breath. The light is growing, pulling at me, it’s nearly time.

Karen reaches over and tries to hold me. It’s difficult, the slightest touch feels like being trampled by an elephant, but I love her for it. I can feel dew on my face. You can’t stop the dew. It happens every day and yet it always seems special. Why is that? Part of life, I suppose, and the thing about waiting is that it is part of life too, both everyday and special, so special. I hear her, even though she’s silent. I hear the goodbye in her touch, in the softness of Eric’s fingers. Oh, goodbye, my dears, goodbye.

There’s a blaze of light. The train is here. It’s time to go.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We loved the concept of ‘waiting’ here – especially the many ways it is outlined in the all-important opening paragraph. And our story appears to take place in that most charisma-less (rizz-less?) of locations – the train station waiting room. There is no dialogue, just a quiet reflection of people and places. And as the train seems to draw ever-closer, you realise that this waiting room may in fact be something more existential. A final place to say one’s goodbyes… before the blaze of light. Beautifully ethereal and enigmatic storytelling.

PACKED by Simon Taylor, VIC

Hiding inside a suitcase isn’t as uncomfortable as you might think. At first it feels like an awkward hug, but once you’re all zipped up there’s a womb-like comfort to it. Fill in the gaps with socks and shirts and you’re basically in amniotic fluid.

You’ll want to have your back to the spine of the bag. That’s important. They’ll most likely lay you down that way. It’s not guaranteed though — you could have to endure the journey facing down, with your nose squashed back into your face. There may be bruising, but hey, being a stowaway comes with cosmetic risks. The other advantage of the spine-to-spine method is that if you’re ever worried about not getting enough oxygen, you can always press your mouth to the zip elements and suck in some of the outside air. It’s probably just psychosomatic but if it prevents you from panicking then it’s worth the little metal imprints it leaves on your lips.

The train is meant to depart for Paris at 07:18 but we haven’t left St. Pancras yet. The pins and needles are working their way up my calf now, so I’m desperate to adjust the angle of my foot. I can hear the grunting of train personnel still loading other luggage so I hold out. I'm sure it would get their attention if they see an elephant-grey suitcase wobbling on its own.

The next thing I recommend is not to drink a few hours before the trip. If a conductor notices a puddle on the floor, they might start investigating. I don’t recommend food too close to travel either. Whatever you do eat beforehand, be sure it’s nothing that makes you gassy. Beans are a no. Eggs are out. Spicy food? Forget it. Luggage-self-smuggling is precarious enough without the threat of broiling yourself in a Dutch oven.

The train is starting to take off now and the rocking motion is making my nose rub against the suitcase fabric. I’d scratch it but my hands are firmly curled around my knees and my clothes have locked me in place like a teapot in styrofoam packaging. I attempt to relieve the tingle by brushing my nose against the zipper but this just makes me sneeze. I'm now left with a spittle glaze over my eyes that I’ll have to endure for the next three hours. Fantastic.

Oh and my last piece of advice — this isn’t luggage smuggling specific, but potentially related— if you’re ever travelling internationally, to try not to lose your passport so close to when you have to be back home for your wedding day.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There is something just inherently READABLE about someone contorted inside a suitcase, totally of their own making. From the opening sentence, it’s clear to say we are intrigued – and the prose does not disappoint! Reading as part travel diary, part instruction manual, it’s ridiculous and riotous all at once – and it’s clear the author has (worryingly) given this an awful lot of thought. The important lesson – don’t lose your passport!

THE SHOW MUST GO ON by K E Fleming, NSW

Moving a circus was an absolute circus.

The strongman had broken eighteen suitcases in the last hour, the tightrope walkers couldn’t keep in line and the elephant handler had forgotten their travel treats. The clown cars had been overpacked, there wasn’t enough room for the contortionists and the jugglers kept fumbling the luggage. The lion tamer had finally gotten the big cats to settle; it was just everyone else that couldn’t be herded.

The Fantastical Company Circus – currently strewn all about Abbonathie Train Station – had set up shop on the outskirts of town two generations back to huge and welcoming fanfare. The city folk had flocked out in droves, fleeing their grey concrete cocoon for the brilliant dream of circus.

Acrobats and jugglers. Horse trainers and fire throwers. A gambolling galumph of clowns and jugglers, lions and bears. A highwire strung so tight you could hear it thrummmmmm. And at the centre of it all; the Ring Master. Bedecked in the toppest of top hats, wrapped in purple velvet, holding the show in the palm of his hand.

(Her grandfather, who would step in the 1000-watt fiery ring of the spotlight with the smallest of winks – a glimmer of a glimpse – for the little girl not-quite-hidden behind the canvas drop)

Natalia’s father had inherited the top hat and the Fantastical Company. He had followed in his father’s footsteps exactly, not a step further, while around the Big Top the outskirts became the suburbs and then the bad part of town. The city grew and the circus remained a technicolour dream, not a step further.

Natalia’s father had taken off the purple waistcoat in favour of a grey suit. He now walked through the egg shell white corridors of an insurance firm and by all accounts was deliriously complacent to be middle management.

That same purple waistcoat – designed for wider shoulders and narrower everything else – sat uncomfortably on Natalia. It strained at her chest and hips, strained at her patience, strained on the edges of belief.

Natalia drew in a great lungful of air despite the colourful chaos and awkward hug of her purple ill-fitting family heirloom. It was time to get this show on the road.

The toppest of top hats was easy to weep off her head. The star-spangled cape – a little too large and long since spangle-less – resettled on resettled shoulders into a new and mysterious shape. The waistcoat – made for someone else entirely – lost a few buttons in Natalia’s inhale and suddenly found itself just the right amount of rakish.

Her father had followed in her grandfather’s footsteps, without making any of his own. The approaching shrill of a train whistle made the new Ringmaster grin. She was going a lot further than the limits of plodding footsteps.

A circus, after all, should never walk when it can alight.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Opening lines are important. They catch our attention and set the scene. This story has a great one – and it paves the way for a procession of chaos. Broken suitcases, overpacked clown cars (ha!), claustrophobic contortionists (see previous story!), fumbling jugglers and herding big cats – it’s a recipe for silliness. But surprisingly, what unfolds is a more touching world through the eyes of a small girl – one that has failed to move with the times (“her father had followed in her grandfather’s footsteps, without making any of his own” – nice!). But moving it now is – under new management, with an equally sublime final line to bookend the story. It’s also an apt way to end this month’s (and this year’s) story selection… because the show(case) WILL go on – in 2024!

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we like to include an extra LONGLIST of stories that stood out from the hundreds and were highly considered for the showcase. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, well done! And to ALL who submitted stories, we hope to see you ALL next year!

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

• NOW BOARDING: THE GREAT ESCAPE by Madelyn Grace, NSW
• LILY by Miku Nakamura, NSW
• UNTITLED by Y.R. Liu, Canada
• THE LAST HURRAH by Alastair Pickering, QLD
• W by Lisa Angerame, USA
• KASEY’S DREAM by Ben Coppin, UK
• OOH by Averil Robertson, VIC
• ELEPHANTS AND EGGSHELLS by Denise Boyd, VIC
• UNTITLED by Cath Rushbrooke, VIC
• PEAK HOUR by Kat Element, NSW
• A TRANSIENT SPACE by Sussan Khadem, VIC
• UNTITLED by Sarah Swarbrick, NSW
• FELIX by Heidi Couvee, ACT
• HUMPTY DUMPTY: THE TRUE STORY by Tracey Zielinski, QLD
• HEART’S RATIONALE by Aaron Sanchez, VIC
• TICKET TO HAPPINESS by Harsh Mathur, VIC
• LOST by Philippa Freegard, WA
• OBLIVION by Tanya Allen, SA
• TERMINAL by Diane Lee, SA
• THE LOCKHART BOYS by Rachael Crane, NSW
• MISTAKEN IDENTITY by Dilrukshi Mendis, VIC
• A BETTER MAN by Holly Brandon, USA
• SILENT RUNWAYS by Kate Gurney, VIC
• BEWARE THE BEAGLE BUM by Rhyll Vallis, TAS
• FRIEND ANXIETY IS DUMBO by Elle Harper, QLD
• 10 SECONDS, DIE DOING by Golibe Ezenekwe, USA
• SEVEN CHRISTMASES by Nicole Kelly, VIC
• END OF THE LINE by Pat Saunders, WA
• CRUSHED by Cat Melville, VIC
• KLEPTOMANIA by Karen Uttien, WA
• INTERSECTIONS OF FATE: THE SILENT STORIES WE CARRY by Jessica Marshall, NSW
• ELE’S ESCAPE by Melanie Hawkes, WA
• UNCLE EDGAR by Katrina Brown, QLD
• RUNWAY RENDEZVOUS by Emma Tinning, VIC
• A NEW AWARENESS by Simon Bruce, VIC
• EYE SPY by Sarah Edmunds, WA
• YOU’LL NEVER GUESS by Helen Renwick, WA

• Your story must be set at a remote house or cabin.
• Your story must include three different three-word sentences in a row.
• Your story must include the words SPACE, KNOCK, WHISTLE, MYTH.
  (Longer words are okay if original spelling is retained.)

That was it. Time was short. The challenge, accepted. 

“A REMOTE HOUSE OR CABIN”

Storytelling has given us many great locations – but perhaps none more so than the “remote house or cabin”. It invokes immediate feelings of solitude and the freedom to tell an engaging story without distraction.

• The isolation has lent itself to many compelling thriller or horror stories over the years – the idea of no one being able to hear you scream!
• But it could just as easily be a romance – think Colin Firth writing his windswept manuscript next to the lake in Love Actually! 
• We also received many fairy tale-esque stories, with many (especially the ones about children wandering in the woods) involving remote houses filled with grannies, witches or bears – oh my!
• The rise of ‘AirBNB’ bookings gave a modern spin on many stories – a great place they had read about online, with five stars…
• We asked you to consider the motivations of the main character(s) – WHY are they there in the first place? Do they spend the entire story INSIDE or do they venture out? That was up to you!
• The criteria might initially give you ‘mountain cabin’ vibes. But it could just as easily be a makeshift shelter on a desert island! Or something MORE outside the box – as some of our showcase stories went with!

And on that note, please enjoy our selection of stories below, followed by our longlist of highly commended pieces from the many hundreds received. Congrats to all those featured this month and we hope to see YOU lining up for the next Furious Fiction challenge on Friday 1 December!

GRANDAD’s GIFT by Kim Graham, VIC

A house in a tree in the great beyond. That’s what my grandad said we were going to build, and when he said something, it was as good as done. We started building it on a Saturday, two days after my eleventh birthday. A space of my own. A place to retreat to when the world knocked me about. Grandad knew a thing or two about being knocked about by life, and I reckon he looked at me and saw that in my future too.

We built it a good ten-minute walk up the big hill behind where I lived, up high amongst the tall trees. Remote. We whistled while we worked. Grandad always whistled when he was setting out with purpose, and I whistled along with the sheer joy of being with him.

As we hammered and sawed, it took shape, and my imagining of it grew, taking on mythical proportions; a ship sailing atop foamy green leaves, a dragon swooping home to protect its hoard, a stately pleasure dome in Xanadu, a flighted dinosaur seeking its prey, a castle from which I could survey my forest kingdom…a hot air balloon racing around the world, or a heffalump crashing through the 100 Acre Wood…fantastical, wondrous flights of fancy.

And, in time it became a place to retreat to when I was told that girls can’t play footy. A place to hide when my clothes were laughed at for being too boyish, my hair too short. A place of protection for when I couldn’t work out what being a girl actually meant. I could see what it meant when I saw other girls, just not when I tried to apply that idea to me. A place for confused thoughts and lonely times. To be truly myself and not have to pretend to be something I couldn’t imagine and didn’t understand. No labels or demands or expectations. Where I didn’t have to explain myself with words I didn’t even have. Not having to monitor my gestures, my behaviour…or always being on guard. A place I could be me.

Grandad didn’t know the turmoil that would swirl in my head and infuse me with dread. He didn’t know that I would question everything that I had been told about who I was, and what I was meant to be. He couldn’t have foreseen my terror of knowing that the place I had been allocated in the world was not really for me.

What he did know was that he had a job in life to protect me, to provide a haven, and to create a space for me that would be whatever I wanted it to be.

When it was built, we stood back to admire our work. “Good to be among trees”, Gramps said. “Trees just are, they don’t have to do anything or be anything…just themselves. It’s good to be reminded sometimes.”

My safe space. My own place.

My grandad’s gift.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

In a sea of remote log cabins or houses, this story was refreshing in providing a different take on the theme – a tree house. Yes, it was still geographically remote, but we also loved the way that it provided a place to truly get away from everything by tapping into the imagination (castles, dragons and hot air balloons). Of course, as the narrator gets older, it also becomes a different kind of shelter – a safe space when the world would become confusing and scary. A clever way to interpret the theme and told in a touching way, through a grandchild’s love for their grandad.

A SONG OF FIRE AND SNOW by Kenneth Mann, UK

When the first light snows hit, we didn’t take it as a warning, but as proof of our good fortune. We were tucked up in a log cabin about five miles from the nearest active road in front of a roaring fire, sipping brandy and swapping stories, while outside the first storm of winter was just starting.

The snow settled so heavily that we struggled to open the front door, which was a reason to put our boots on and go for a walk. We should have been collecting firewood.

When the next morning came, the snowfall was so mythic that we couldn’t see out of the window and we couldn’t step out the door. Repeated efforts to leave were stymied, so we agreed to wait it out. As the winds whistled outside, we swapped fire-building techniques, demonstrating one method after another with no thought to how it affected our reserves of firewood. It was profligate. Foolish. Fun.

We were already running low on firewood. After the initial gloom, we were rallied by the thought that the storm couldn’t possibly last. Besides, we were in a forest. Fuel was all around.

Contrary to what you might think, there was no debate about burning books. They were first. Next, pinewood shelves. Then, the table. Everyone agreed that heat was more important than comfort, so we smashed chairs and fed the flames. Even beds and blankets.

It all burned so fast, and in the heat of the moment, we were desperate to find something, anything, everything, to keep the fire burning just a little longer. We sacrificed everything to the flames until we stood sweating, shivering and naked in front of the fire, looking around in the dimming light for anything else to burn.

Nothing was left. Everything in the cabin had been burned.

Apart from the cabin.

The group split into two—those who wanted to use the cabin logs for fuel and those who were firmly against it. Neither side could understand how the other could be so short-sighted. The argument went round and round, over and over, until someone eventually proposed a compromise.

Two walls and a section of the roof.

Some said the compromise was ridiculous, but they were soon shouted down. Everyone else was just so relieved that we had come to a decision and were finally doing something. Log by log, the first wall was knocked down and turned into fuel. We told ourselves that the new fissures were not so bad, that the blizzard coming in was perfectly tolerable. Some even said they found it a refreshing change from all that heat. As each log was removed, the hole got bigger, the cold got worse and more people demanded fuel for the fire.

Here we stand, our fronts too close to the flames and our backs to the chill of the wind.

The problem isn’t heat, fuel or space.

The problem is people.

Too many people around this fire.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Part fable, part winter retreat, this intriguing tale presents a frantic yet compelling picture of humanity, hubris, and the decisions we make. What starts out as a cosy tale fuelled with brandy and stories is very soon turning on itself as the very fuel becomes the issue. As a reader, you simply watch agape at the way the events unfold, with each decision surely more questionable than the last. And speaking of last, those final few lines were killer (literally). Read it as a bad holiday or read it perhaps as a metaphor (cabin equals planet?) – whatever the case, it’s flaming good.

TWITCH by Wes Hawkins, WA

Jenny’s legs are going numb, hunched over as she is behind a tumble of a fallen tree. Bird calls abound, the familiar screeches and cries of the Australian bush. She intently scans three shrubs fifty metres away, constantly adjusting the focus on her binoculars. Waiting.

She jerks, her eyebrows raise, and she whistles quietly to herself. Opening a book, she notes her observation. A good day, so far. Already she’s bagged a Western Corella, a Common Bronzewing, and now a Red-capped Parrot. She stretches her legs, flicks blonde hair out of her eyes, and continues her vigil.

One hundred metres away, in a discreet hide, Gary downs his binoculars and similarly opens his own, expansive, notebook. He gently turns to the section marked ‘Birds’, adds Rainbow Bee-eater, and carries on. A moment later, his breath catches in his throat as he spies Jenny. He observes her carefully for a full minute and again reaches for the book. Skipping past ‘Birds’, he carefully opens the section entitled ‘Twitchers’. He records Yellow Crested Whistler, annotated with date, time, and location.

Before closing the book, he looks over previous entries. Spectacled Knock-kneed Flat-capper. Miniature Red-legged Pony-tail. Juvenile Spotted Vegan. He murmurs to himself, the sound of deep satisfaction, as he tenderly turns each page, every title his own creation. They have to be, Gary thinks, no-one else in the world would be compiling such a list. A life’s work. Eventually, it’ll be the star exhibit in a museum. The last page is blank; he has left a space for the ultimate entry. Overly optimistic perhaps, but one day, one day, he may catch sight of the Mythical Attenborough.

He scratches his beard and resumes his work. A cloud of raucous Red-tailed Black Cockatoos. The darting Splendid Fairy Wren. He sights a Grey-haired Anorak, but doesn’t log it; too common. Camouflaged Pensioner. Again, common. What’s that? A slight movement to the left. He swings around to check, but too late. Did he catch a sight of something, a rarity? No, it’s his imagination playing tricks. He’s been at it too long. Time to go home.

Two hundred metres away, in an even more discreet hide, the Mythical Attenborough leans back and sighs with relief. Nearly blew it, he thinks. He opens his elaborate, decorated notebook. He flicks past ‘Birds’, past ‘Twitchers’ to a small section at the back, entitled ‘Twitcher Twitchers’. His hand, trembling with excitement, makes the seventh entry in forty years; Unique Long-necked Bearded Observer. He sits back and sighs, rubbing his eyes, overcome with emotion. What a day!

He now has the full set.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

How delightful! This forest-dwelling story starts out innocently enough – we’re out in the bush, ticking bird species off our list. How lovely. Oh, but who’s this? Gary with his own notebook – watching from his ‘hide’ (qualifying as the remote shelter). And it’s here, among the ‘Spectacled Knock-kneed Flat Cappers’ and ‘Juvenile Spotted Vegans’ that we meet the humour in this piece. Brilliant! Of course, we’re not done yet, with a Russian-doll final layer of observation still to come. ‘Grey-haired Anorak’ may be a common species in this world, but it was one of our favourites! Clever, tongue-in-cheek observation at its finest.

SILENCE by Mike Rymarz, UK

I am waiting. Waiting for you. In this house. And you have no idea…

My knees are killing me, and you’re to blame. And the worst thing is that I can’t even complain about it. To whom would I protest? You sure as hell won’t give a damn, and if I ever dared to speak out, I know full well I’ll be hushed up, forced to shrink back into the shadows.

I won’t ever forget this, I hope you know that, and I don’t care how embarrassed you feel, or your empty, insipid platitudes. You are the only one to blame.

Why it had to be out here, God only knows. Middle. Of. Nowhere. You couldn’t make this easy for me, could you? Well, tonight’s the night it all comes home to roost, and I hope you never forget it.

My bloody knees. I’m cramped for space, hidden away in the musty, dirty corner of this living room, itself hidden away in a musty, dirty corner of the house, a house at the end of a musty, dirty country lane. It was a hell of a trek to walk down here earlier, I hope you know that, just to ensure my car wasn’t seen. But hey, you won’t be bothered about that, will you? Not your fault, eh?

I’ve found my spot, though. And I know you’ll come. They always come. Eventually. I’ve been doing this for years, but don’t worry, I’ve learned the art of patience. And silence, of course. That’s the key.

I’ve seen better men than me crumble. Fold under the pressure and cock it right up. Well, that’s not going to be me, let me tell you. I’m dispelling that myth of the old, doddery fool that can’t be relied upon. No, sirree. A job has to be done, and I’m the man to do it. And you just happen to be the target.

What’s that noise? A whistle? A screech of a barn owl, readying itself for its own personal quest to surprise some unsuspecting quarry. The baying of a fox, on the hunt for 8pm prey? Or a faint jolt of a car door.

I hear voices. You’re not alone. Not a surprise. I shift my body, my ageing knees screaming at me in the silence, and I grit my teeth. There is no way I’m going to make a sound. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

There’s a knock at the door. You, or your husband? Doesn’t really make much difference, I suppose. The door creaks open, and a sliver of light invades the room. The silence is overwhelming, and I almost can’t control myself. Despite my grumbles, I do quite enjoy this bit.

The door to the living room opens, slowly at first, and then inching wider.

I steel myself for the effort I am about to make with you, my best friend’s wife.

SURPRISE! The room erupts, your friends and family delighting in the look on your 70-year-old face.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Sometimes stories have sudden last-minute twists that catch you off guard and leave you gasping. Others, like this one, are more of a slow boil. The intention is not to shock you, but rather to have you simmer in this story’s uncomfortableness – to frown at the descriptions and gently wonder where it’s all headed. It has traces of thriller (“I know you’ll come. They always come.”) and yet despite its strangely sinister vibes it somehow feels familiar… The clues are all there, and while the title cleverly gives nothing away, the narrative finally makes instant sense, like switching on a light. Like old friends emerging from the gloom. Surprise!

ALONE by Hashinee Weraduwage, VIC

She had lied.
She came here to be alone by choice. ‘Solitude' she told them. She needed some space, a bit of quiet, she explained.
The truth was that she was alone wherever she was, but at least here she had the illusion of choice.
And there was no ‘them'. In her head there was a ‘them', but no one had actually asked her what her plans were.
She had practised the conversation nonetheless. In case there was some unexpected interest.
She did this often. She would imagine a knock on her door, an acquaintance stopping by to say hello, and her opening up to them.
They would listen. They would care. They would stay.
She found these daydreams made her feel better about humanity, and herself.

So here she was. Alone again.
Three hours away from her own house she lived alone in. Paying long weekend rates for a 3 bedroom house near the mountains, surrounded by a forest.
Because even if no one knew what she did or what she was doing, she was brought up in a society that told her she was a loser if she didn't have close friends, a group, a pack. If she didn't have somewhere to belong. No one else knew, but she did.
It was a myth that she was an independent woman. That she loved the ‘solitude'. It was a defence mechanism.

So here she was. Alone by choice this time.
No people around because that's what she paid for. Not because no one cared for her.
She tried to whistle to fill some of the silence but the echo made her feel worse.
She felt heavy again and slipped under the covers.
The cocoon and blanket weighing her down. Keeping her in this world for a brief moment.
Then she left it again. In her head someone else knocked on her door.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The title kind of says it all on this one. Our singular character is looking to get away from it all, but in truth, she knows that there is nothing to escape. Yet this is what people do. So she is doing it. In a month when so many stories had people stranded in isolation with their loved ones unable to help (or hear them scream!), this stood out for the opposite reason. Our protagonist wishes she had someone to tell of her plans. She had rehearsed the words. It’s not that no one knows she’s here. It’s that no one cares. And so, when many stories presented a knock at the door as something sinister, here it is what she wishes for. “They would listen. They would care. They would stay.” A tragic, compelling tale of loneliness. So, if you read this, reach out to a friend, workmate or relative today who lives alone – just see how they’re going.

ALL OF THE CORRECT ANSWERS ARE ‘C’ by Mairead Robinson, UK

If, following your parent’s acrimonious divorce, your father suggests a dad-daughter weekend at a remote cabin, where he’ll teach you how to fish, how likely are you to agree?

1. Not likely. You believe your mother’s assertion that your father is nothing but a ‘deadbeat jerk pretending to be Grizzly Adams’.
2. Somewhat likely. You want to please them both, but finding a balance is exhausting.
3. Very likely. You love your father, and though your mother disapproves, you don’t want to hurt his already bruised heart.

If, following your mother’s hair-raising tale that the cabin is haunted by a ghost-child, who knocks at the door seeking shelter before murdering her victims and feasting off their still warm blood, how likely are you to still go on the trip?

1. Not likely. You know that your mother is manipulating you into rejecting your father because she’s still furious about his illicit affair.
2. Somewhat likely. You’re torn between your mother’s compelling narrative, and your father’s insistence that the story is, ‘Utter crazy hokum. A stupid myth. Damn your mother.’
3. Very likely. The cabin’s booked and non-refundable, and despite it being off season and cheap, you’ll feel guilty if he loses money, what with the alimony he never stops mentioning.

If, after a long drive through mist glowing eerily yellow in the headlight beam, you arrive at the squat cabin to hear the cold wind whistle over its brick chimney, how likely are you to wake from feverish dreams in which the pale-faced ghost-child laps blood from a severed throat?

1. Not likely. The cabin is comfortingly cosy once your father has lit a fire and heated a pan of tomato soup over the flames.
2. Somewhat likely. Although rain ominously drums the roof, you’re charmed by your lamp-lit room with just enough space for a feather bed.
3. Very likely. This being precisely what happens.

If, after a night’s heavy rain, the river is a swollen torrent, how likely is it that your father will be swept away in his determination to catch the promised fish?

1. Not likely. He wouldn’t risk both your lives by insisting that you wade with him into the tumultuous waters, would he?
2. Somewhat likely. You could head back to the cabin, but no way does he want to hear your mother say, ‘I told you so.’
3. Very likely. He’s stubborn, and if you hadn’t managed to grapple up the muddy bank to safety, you’d have been pulled under too.

If, on stumbling through the forest for what feels like years, you find the cabin and rap the door to be greeted by a concerned middle-aged couple, who invite you in, poor child, how likely are you to cut their throats with your father’s fish-gutting knife and suck blood warm as tomato soup from their gushing arteries?

1. Not likely. You didn’t drown.
2. Somewhat likely. Did you? You’re pale-faced, hungry.
3. Very likely. They look like your parents. Damn them.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
Perhaps it’s all those teen magazine quizzes we did with the multichoice answers, but there is something so readable about this story’s unique format. And while it could have been used simply as a framing gimmick, it becomes a very slick storytelling device. With the title already hinting at the way this ‘choose your own adventure’ will proceed, each of the five stanzas paints a broad picture of this getaway and its players. Through the three choices, we are able to glean so much information about their personalities and motivations. And while the first four are hilariously detailed and layered, the final set hit hard with their brutal simplicity. What a brilliant idea – expertly executed!

UNTITLED by Kay Lea, WA

Oxygen critically low.

Tori leant back in her chair. Seven minutes left. Alone in space and seven minutes left. Not exactly the grand adventure she had expected, but it could always be worse.

Fire, for instance. She could have been on fire. That would have been much worse. Without much oxygen, a fire wasn’t particularly likely now. Suffocation, sure, but no fire. Solid positive thinking, Tori.

She tapped her fingernails on the arm rest. Funny how there was so little to do. She had always thought there would be more screaming. Some crying perhaps. Famous last words? You’ll forget me. But nothing. It was really boring.

Oxygen critically low: five minutes remain.

Tori pulled herself up abruptly, might as well do something with her last five minutes. Whistling to herself she pulled a cloth out from the drawer. Enough time to wipe down the cabin’s control panel and check in for any messages. Unlikely to be anything, Daniel left three weeks ago. If there was any news, it would have come by now.

Though, knowing Daniel, he might not have said anything, opting instead to scare her by knocking on the window as he floated past in his stupid green space suit. The man, the myth, the absolute moron.

Tori caught herself glancing out the window just in case.

Oxygen critically low: three minutes remain.

Tori sat back down and opened the communication log. Last comms from earth was months ago. More scouting teams had been sent out in a similar direction. It was always unlikely they’d meet, but it was nice to know she wasn’t completely alone.

The last comms from Daniel was just moments after he left.

~Don’t forget me loser, you still owe me a chess rematch after you totally cheated last game.~

Tori smiled. A sad smile. A lonely smile. She took a long, slow breath.

Maybe her mum was right. After years of preparation for this mission, months of dedicated training leading up to launch. “You’d at least have had a chance for companionship down here, Tori. But out there? Not a chance.”

Yeah, thanks mum. Delightful.

Oxygen critically low: 60 seconds remain.

Tori frowned. There wasn’t really a point to swapping from measuring in minutes to measuring in seconds just for the last minute. Anyone still around at this point already knows there’s only seconds left. She’d have to put that in her daily log notes. Maybe send a last-ditch communication?

~Hi Earth, it’s Tori. Just wanted you to know the internal warning system could do with an update. Feels a bit stunted.~

Mission control would love that.

Oxygen critically low: 30 seconds remain.

Well, that’s just ridiculous. No one needs a 30 second warning.

Tori rolled her eyes and slumped back in her chair, snatching her stuffed penguin from off the console and folding her arms across her chest. Maybe she should’ve been a zoo keeper.

Too big a risk of fire though. Not a great way to go.

Three.

Two.

One.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Okay, remember how we said that there were some stories that took the ‘remote cabin’ idea to a new place. Well, this was one of the few that thought to set it on the cabin of a ship! A space ship no less, in the remotest corner of space. That alone got our attention (hey, sometimes you get tired of gravel driveways and forest huts). But it still needed to give us an engaging story, and we get this in the form of Tori and her fast-depleting oxygen levels. As she reflects on her own story to date, we are regularly reminded of the time left for the story and for Tori – peppered with some delightfully banal and funny observations in the middle. (“No one needs a 30 second warning…”) Perhaps she should have been a zoo keeper after all.

THE LETTER by Simon Shergold, USA

The last chink of light fidgeted on the horizon and the old man turned away from the window. He knew what was coming. The house had been especially soothing this year, the quiet landscape a welcome refuge from work. ‘No visitors’ was the rule, for his own good. A safe space. At first the solitude was welcome, time to reflect on past successes and the never-ending nature of the challenges to come.

But as summer turned to autumn, something changed in the old man. An internal clock awakened as the days lengthened and the time neared again. His tiredness lifted, a subtle shift in his head and his stomach; unseen, but felt in the air by those tuned in to him. Mary always noticed first, no matter how small the signs. The morning walk now accompanied with a whistle; the belt loosened one notch after Sunday lunch; the five o’clock shadow turning to serious stubble. All these little moments as sure a sign as the first changing leaf and the stretching of the shadows that the time was nearing.

The old man sat in his chair and remembered simpler times. Sometimes the memories were lost in the mists and myths of time, at others they shone with a clarity he could scarcely believe. He closed his eyes and immediately felt the leather strap in his hand, resisting the tug from the other end. He saw his breath frosty in the midnight air, a white swirl on an indigo curtain drawn across the sky. His map laid out in front of him, the parchment corners turned up like a child’s smile – meticulously marked, the route snaking out to the edge of the world.

A knock at the front door broke the spell. The old man pushed himself up, more slowly each time now he noticed, and went back to the window. He saw the young man close the garden gate and swing his leg over the bicycle, the only evening postman in the whole world. He rode into the gloom, his shadow merging with the trees that lined the lane.

Mary pushed the study door open. The old man looked at the face he knew so well – loved so well – and smiled. She held the silver tray in front of her, reserved specially for the first letter to arrive. He glanced down and saw the spidery writing. Upper- and lower-case letters randomly mingled, filled with hope and magic and love. Most of all love.

‘I’m tired, Mary’ the old man said.

‘I know’ she replied kindly.

‘I’m not sure …’ he began.

‘For the children, Nick.’

For the children. The unending call. Always reason enough.

Santa smiled, nodded and held out his hand.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

A remote ho-ho-house. It makes sense really. And here, the idea of exactly whose home this might belong to is kept intentionally vague from the start. If you pick it early, that’s okay. If it comes to you later, it’s a delightful discovery. But at its heart, this is a tale of an old man reflecting on his achievements and realising just how tired he is. Of course, his job is a unique one, and when his beloved Mary provides him with the first letter of the season, well, all is revealed and all is well once more. Right from the fidgeting light in the first line, we were hooked into this world – loaded with clever detail and well worth a second read. 

FIGHTING FOR CONTROL by Trina High, USA

“Sony! Get out here!” Sharp called. “We want to watch a movie, and the VHS-player won’t work without you!”

“I’m busy playing lost!” Sony called from under the couch. “Can’t Pan do it?!”

“No, I cannot!” Panasonic responded. “We don’t have a DVD of *Back to the Future*!”

“Fine!” Sony retorted. He crawled out and faced the VHS-player. He touched his forehead. The machine came on. He pressed his right hip. The film started. The three residents took up their favorite positions in the small cabin space to enjoy the flick.

***

Marty McFly had just caused Biff to run into a truck of manure when RCA came to the door. She whistled.

Sony paused the film.

“Everybody, we have a new retiree who’ll be living here,” RCA announced. “This is Logitech. Log for short. He’s a universal. He can control everything!”

“Nice to meet you.” The remotes nodded and introduced themselves.

“Back to the movie, Sony,” Sharp said.

“I got it,” Log jumped in, unpausing the film. After an uncomfortable moment, the remotes went back to watching the movie.

Later that night, the group decided to listen to some music.

“Sharp!” Pan called into the kitchen. “The stereo!”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll do it,” Log said and turned on the music-player.

A few minutes later, Sharp entered the room. He saw everyone dancing already. “I thought you needed me.”

“I took care of it,” Log said and kept shaking his plastic hips.

Sharp glared at him and went upstairs.

One week later, the remotes were so tired of Log jumping in to do their jobs that they hatched a plan.

That night, Sharp snuck into Log’s room and loosened one of his batteries. *That ought to do the trick!* the stereo remote thought.

That morning, when Log attempted to start the DVD-player, nothing happened. He tapped his forehead until he had a headache. When the player still failed to turn on, he stomped off.

In his room, Log sat on his bed. He just couldn’t understand what happened downstairs. He was supposed to be the cream of the crop of remotes; how could he have failed?

A knock on his door took him out of his reverie. “Come in!” he responded.

The three remotes entered.

“We’re sorry, Log, but we had to teach you a lesson,” Sony said. “It’s a myth that a Jack-of-all-trades is better than singularly-talented beings.”

“We do not mind you helping out sometimes, but we feel unneeded when you take over our jobs,” Pan chimed in.

“But that’s exactly why I was trying to help. I wanted to fit in. Bad enough I’ve been retired; to not even be able to help in a retirement cabin sucks.”

“How about you just help each of us on different days, then?” Sharp suggested. “You do Sony’s job on Monday and Thursday, Pan’s on Tuesday and Friday, mine on Wednesday and Saturday. That way, everyone gets a break but is still useful.”

Log nodded. “I like that idea.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

True story – when the criteria were chosen for this month, one of the team commented that it would be hilarious if someone actually created a house for remote controls (seriously, we love that stuff). After all, we encourage you to push the boundaries of the criteria. And here’s a story that did exactly that. Naming the characters after the logos that no doubt adorn their plastic form was a great way to usher the reader into this alternate reality. A retirement home for remote controls is quite the elevator pitch and it’s delivered with plenty of fun and silliness. That folks, is sometimes (although not always) how you get noticed!

COBBLER’S SPRING by Caroline Finlayson, Norway

Here she comes. Open it. Read the note.

All is going to plan.

A hiker comes through my door. A girl. Woman.

Rain turned to sleet over the ridge. I’m the only refuge.

Only, no-one knows Cobbler’s Spring anymore. The track is overgrown. The hut is no longer on the map.

My loft is rotten but warm with a fire going. Up here in the high country summer turns to winter in a whistle of ‘Kookaburra Up The Old Gum Tree’.

So, stay.

Please.

Clouds dump their load on my tin roof by way of an answer.

She unzips her parka. Pulls at mud caked boots.

Why’s she alone? Did the hike group split? Gone to Taylor’s Gap enjoying hot showers and company. I have neither but I’m safe.

She pulls out a device. Holds it up. Face falls.

No love, you’re outta range at Cobbler’s.

She knocks it hard on the stone mantle. It shatters. Glass tinkles into my blackened grate.

Then I see the red needle spinning uncontrollably in the cracked face of a compass. North, East, South, West. North. ..

She rips off her clothes revealing welts up her spine. The skin on her arms is blackened and ashy. Is she burnt by something more than a fire? Chemical?

There’s a noise outside like nothing I’ve ever heard.

Dust.

She hits the ground. Spies something orange in the dark.

‘Open in Emergency’

The lid is stiff but eventually gives.

Inside a 2010 logbook reads : ‘Veronica, If you make it this far, nothing can stop you!!’

There’s a bottle of water from my spring as it used to be ; clear and fresh from the rock. There’s Beans, antibiotics, a gun and a small bar in a purple wrapper. She sniffs it then remembers she hasn’t smelt anything since the first wave. No-one has.

Turns it over.

‘Sweet as you are Petal, you deserve this. Gran’

Wraps her mouth around the bottle, wedging her body against the fireplace. She drinks.

Then the strangest thing. Her pack crackles alive.

‘…Alert… stay vigilant…it’s coming…not one survivor, I repeat not one…oh god -’

Static.

Her eyes stare blank into space.

She breathes. Does she die here? This wasn’t my plan.

She pockets the gun and pills then peels back the wrapper of the bar as though it might explode. Whatever it was has gone white after fifteen years. She bites. She can still taste its warmth. Her mum was here, her sister and her gran. They laughed. They wiggled frozen toes while their billy spat carbonara into the flames.

‘Keep up ‘Ronie. You’ll be left behind!’

She hated bushwalking. Hated Gran for making them come to this impenetrable mountain range instead of the beach with bonfires, beer and boys.

They’re gone now.

Boys and men were first taken.

Veronica wraps the bar. It was mere myth such things as chocolate still existed.

‘Thanks Gran,’ she whispers.

Had she known?

She saves half. For later. For the steepest part of the unknowable road ahead.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We had a few dystopian tales this month – but none were told from the unique perspective of the cabin itself. Except this one. It watches its latest visitor, updating us throughout and slowly revealing details that this is no random stranger. There is intention behind the visit. The story is told in short stabbing paragraphs. Stilted. Broken up, like the world outside appears to be. Ragged and short on flowing prose. Perfectly matching the chaos that lies behind and the unknown that lies ahead. The narrative itself reads like the pause in between the action scenes, and yet in these quiet catch-your-breath moments, we learn so much.

PALEO COOKING WITH RED by Romany Rzechowicz, ACT

Dawn filtered cautiously through the trees; lifting the fog and illuminating the clearing in golds and silvers. A remnant patch of smoke sat low over the dark red cottage, eddying as the two influencers approached, ragged, dirt-smudged and exhausted (#lostinthewoods #probablygonnadie).

And hungry. Oh, #sohungry.

Red watched from the window as the muscled one raised his hand to knock. Then paused, commented to the tight, strong one. Faces scrunched, they both tilted their heads as if it would change what they were seeing. Same every time. It wouldn’t change. It was real.

After they’d finished taking photos and scheduling them to their insta for when they had wifi again (#saved #bigforesttinyhouse), Red opened the door to welcome them. The girl looked her up and down disparagingly. Red’s cape was definitely from the uncool part of the last fifty years.

“Welcome to Red’s House of Paleo. I’m Red!”

“I’m Gretel. That’s Hansel. We’re lost.” She stepped inside and waved her phone around. Whistled. “Whoa. This space is sooo retro! Love what you’ve done with the outside too. It looks like meat. What’s your wifi password? Wicked stepmum took our SIM cards so we haven’t had reception in days. Do you have a charger I can use?”

Hansel took advantage of Gretel’s distraction and cautiously licked the doorframe. Red could see he was fighting the urge to tear through it with his teeth.

“Not just yet, young man. Let’s get you some proper food.”

“Meat?”

“Indeed. This isn’t called Red’s Paleo Shack for nothing. I was just about to take a batch out of the smoker.”

“Sweet. This starvation thing has really been messing with my macros.” (#eatclean #instafit)

His macros were clearly already well out of whack – nowhere near enough marbling to be had in that 2% bodyfat body. It’d be all sinews and stewing chunks.

“Yeah,” added Gretel. “I was soooo worried wherever we ended up would be all, like, traditional and they’d try to feed us bread or potatoes or things like that.” (#lowcarb #paleo4life)

“Well, if you’d been here a few years ago, there’s a myth that the house was made of gingerbread. Imagine that!”

“OMG I would rather starve!”

“So I opened Red’s Paleo Palace.” She gestured out the back door, where the smoker happily belched. “One has to keep with the times, you know!”

“Totes.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.” Long enough to tenderise, anyway. Red squeezed their shoulders experimentally as she steered them to a pair of massage chairs, perfect for softening their muscles. A couple of weeks was all they needed, she reckoned. “Now, what can I get you? Wolf stew? Bone broth? Some delicious young pork? There were three of them, so there should even be some crackling still floating around somewhere.”

“All of it!”

She passed them each a bowl of stew (#tender #meatlovers).

“Any chance of that charger?”

“You don’t move, my dears. I’ll just go find it.”

#tender.

#meatlovers.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Fairytales did feature in a bunch of stories – and a few were longlisted also. After all, there are indeed a lot of remote houses in the woods littered throughout children’s tales. But rather than simply retell a classic, this story goes ALL IN on a once-hero turned villain and a melting pot (literally!) of familiar characters. The innocence and naivety of our fairytale influencers Hansel and Gretel is delightful, as are the hashtags that provide a modern aside. (We laffed out loud at #bigforesttinyhouse.) It’s an insta-tale for the ages and a good reminder that children should never lose their charger or WiFi signal in the forest. Hilarious and unique storytelling.

UNTITLED by Sukanya Singh, India

McAdams turned to his laptop, cup of coffee in hand. On his phone were five missed calls from his agent.

A new message lit up the screen.

The editor gave us a deadline, next week Friday.

McAdams sighed. Writing, he was discovering, could be a real pain. Especially when you were an established horror writer with a reputation for churning out bestseller after bestseller. The stakes were just too high after each book.

He typed a few sentences and then got up again. The November chill was getting to him. He looked around the room for a blanket, arms spiked with goosebumps.

The cursor blinked on the laptop screen next to the words: KNOCKS IN THE NIGHT

At the time he had thought it was a good title for a chapter, but now he wasn’t so sure. Coming to his cabin for a weekend writing retreat had been his wife’s idea. She had insisted that the time alone would do wonders for his writing progress. McAdams knew the truth though.

She’ll probably have a guy over every night I’m gone. He knew she’d been cheating for a while now.

At that exact moment, there was a knock on the door. His eyebrows furrowed. The caretaker had already dropped off the dinner for that night. Who was it now?

He opened the door and peered out into the fast-darkening dusk.

No one.

I’m hallucinating them at this point, McAdams laughed to himself.

He came back to his laptop and began the chapter.

The Native Americans have a myth about the Stick People. It is said that the forest goes quiet–

A sudden creak interrupted his typing. He turned around to see the door to the cabin open ever so slowly.

He froze. Then he got up and quietly closed it.

Had he previously closed the door?

He definitely had.

Wait, had he?

Yes, he had.

It was at this moment he realized that the woods had turned silent, save for a lone whistle that seemed to slice through the air.

McAdams decided he had no time for noticing the oddities of the woods. He was here to finish his book, and finish it he would.

Coming back to the laptop for the hundredth time, he flipped back to the last chapter to see where he had left off.

THE DARKNESS UNDER THE LIGHT

Sometimes, the light will flicker and go out. When you are alone in the darkness, and a whistle calls to you, do not pay heed to it. It is the call of the–

McAdams sneezed. When he opened his eyes, there was a fine red spray across the keyboard, all the way down to the spacebar. He barely had time to finish his thought: Blood?

The light above his head flickered. And then it went out.

The door opened with a creak.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We did have a lot of scary cabin stories, but the meta elements of this one caught our attention. The set up seems familiar enough – tropey almost – with our horror writer taking to the lonely cabin to meet that publishing deadline. What follows is a procession of uh-oh moments and look, he was doomed from the moment we saw those first words on the screen. The only thing we’d love is a title for the story to really bring this one home – perhaps “DEADLINE”! (Although “UNTITLED” also makes perfect sense for a book that will never be published…oooh.)

UNTITLED by Matt Neal, VIC

He comes early. Knocks three times. Whistles a tune.

Through the dirt-caked window I see him waiting, hands in pockets.

I open the door and he looks up at me, head tilted back. ‘I remember you being bigger.' He pushes past my hairy elbow and starts taking a look around the dingy, stale interior. ‘You live in a cabin?'

‘No. It's abandoned.' I poke my head out, scan the woods and close the door. ‘I wasn't about to meet you where you could find me again. Have you got the footage?'

He taps the satchel slung at his hip and turns to me. ‘You got the money?'

I grit my teeth at the injustice. Just one news story, one social media post away from a carefully preserved myth becoming irrefutable reality. Peace and solitude becoming unbearable fame. Not to mention the inevitable poachers. First the Abominable Snowman, the Nessie. We keep in touch, so they'd warned me about him, for all the good it did. They'd managed to avoid exposure, but at a price. Now I had to pay mine.

Bent-necked under the roof I lumber over to the corner and pick up the duffle bag, grip it tight, feel its weight. The cost of complacency.

‘Open the bag,' he says.

I face my extortionist and unzip the duffle, rummage pointedly through the stacks of cash. ‘Satisfied?' I take my anger out on the zip as I close it. ‘Hand it over.'

‘At the same time,' he says. Sidles over, holding out the satchel by the strap, raises it to my height with a smug smile. We lock eyes as we make the exchange.

I can't guarantee there aren't copies, but what can I do? He smirks as I take out the SD card, stick it into my laptop on the moss-mottled table, pull up a chair. I open the video file.

There I am. Broad daylight. Fly fishing in ultra high definition. I'm so angry at myself. I know better than to venture into open spaces. But I'd overheard the fish would be biting there that day like never before. Turns out I was the one taking the bait.

‘You proud of yourself?'

‘I mean, yeah,' he says, counting the bundles. ‘I got more money to keep quiet about Nessie, but you were my favourite as a kid.' He looks me up and down. ‘A little disappointing though, if I'm honest. You wear waders and have a MacBook. Guess I just thought you'd be different.'

‘Well it's not like I came from another dimension. I was born in Portland.' I snap the laptop closed with a heavy, furry hand. ‘Now take the money and go.'

‘Pleasure doing business with you.' He stops on his way out, hand on the door, studies my simian features. I see his eyes dart downward. ‘Surely there's a Mrs. Sasquatch?'

‘No. Why?'

‘Well, you know what they say about guys with big feet.'

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There’s an effortlessness about this final story in our showcase – thanks largely to our whistling, nonchalant visitor with the SD card. It’s a rendezvous of some kind and immediately distinctive as the cabin is purely a meeting place and not a dwelling. Nice. What unfolds in this well-described exchange is a very clever idea of why we simply never see these mythical beasts that supposedly roam the planet – extortion! In less confident hands, this concept might have fumbled, but the execution is sharp and the dialogue flows throughout. In fact, it’s the matter-of-fact vibes that make this so good and even the ‘big feet’ joke feels fresh in this ‘big foot’ universe. Nicely told – definitely one for the conspiracy theorists!

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we like to include an extra LONGLIST of stories that stood out from the hundreds and were highly considered for the showcase. (If you’re wondering, this month it’s around the top 5%.) Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, well done (if it’s not, don’t despair – you may have simply been in the top 6%). We hope to see you ALL next month!

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

1. 1. • HUNTING by Sherryl Clark, New Zealand
      • NO PLACE LIKE HOME by Nina Peck, WA
      • FROM ALL THE WAY UP HERE by Madelyn Grace, NSW
      • UNTITLED by Annabelle McKenzie, VIC
      • THE THREE WISHES by Bruno Lowagie, Belgium
      • STRANGER ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DOOR by Kyle Callam, Jamaica
      • THE WHISTLE OF HOPE by Christie Mack, NSW
      • THE HUNGRY FOREST by Sarah Oakes, UK
      • NO TOMORROW by Sarndra Vaughan, QLD
      • KNOCK, KNOCK – WHO’S THERE? by John Walker, NSW
      • UNTITLED by Anne Wilkins, New Zealand
      • A KNOCK AT THE DOOR by Robert Fairhead, NSW
      • MY FAVOURITE GUEST by Freya N, ACT
      • GRAND by Helen Renwick, WA
      • THE FARM by Cathryn Girdwood, QLD
      • NEMESIS by Greg Wickham, NSW
      • THE LAST 24 HOURS by Rosanna Elves, Canada
      • THE THIEF by Joni Braham, NSW
      • UNTITLED by Celine Ho, NSW
      • ON THE RUN by Tom Penrose, NSW
      • THE BEACH HOUSE by Denver Grenell, New Zealand
      • SURVIVOR by Pam Makin, SA
      • NO SEQUEL, NO TRILOGY by Andrew Whalan, VIC
      • HUMPY TOM by David Christensen, VIC
      • THE VIEW by Marie Nauppas, Canada
      • FOR HE IS ONLY HUMAN by Andi Wu, VIC
      • WHAT SURVIVES by Karen Cutler, QLD
      • UNTITLED by Sarah Stretton, UK
      • GOLDILOCKS AND THE THREE BEARS by Kylie Maguire, QLD
      • OFFLINE by Anita Link, QLD
      • LIARBIRD by Jake Watts, NSW
      • UNTITLED by Matt Goddard, UK

• Each story had to feature someone looking through either a TELESCOPE or BINOCULARS.
• Each story had to include a five-digit number. (E.g. 90210 or 10,000 etc)
• Each story had to include the words BLIND, WIND, FIND and MIND.
  (Longer words were okay if original spelling was retained.)

As expected, out came the bird watchers and peeping toms. Out came the astronomers and spies. The nosey neighbours and the timber-shivering pirates! There were blind people trying to see; five-digit zip codes and pass codes. Interstellar planetary missions and neighbourhood watches. Quite the mix!

EYE SPY WITH MY LITTLE EYE

This month, we wanted stories to include LOOKING at something through either a telescope or binoculars. Of course, sight is one of the most common of the five senses to bring to life in a story – as a reader, we typically ‘see’ what a character sees. However, by introducing this extra prop, it enabled a story to be told of the WHAT (what was being observed) and the WHY (the motivations for doing so).

• Looking through a telescope or binoculars literally helps focus a story on a subject or object being viewed.
• By providing this relatively unusual prop, it required a reason for it to be in use and a character that is immediately more interesting for this basic motivation.
• Successful stories subverted expectations by combining a location with an unusual thing being viewed, or vice versa.
• Ultimately, it’s about creating some kind of conflict, surprise or humour through this act of viewing from afar. All in the name of engaging your reader!

Please enjoy the selection of stories below, as well as a longlist of highly commended pieces from the many hundreds received. Congrats to all those featured this month and we hope to see YOU lining up for the next Furious Fiction challenge on Friday 3 November!

UNTITLED by Cosette de Lorenzo, QLD

‘Course it has to be a Saturday morning when the world implodes. ‘Course I’m a bit peeved about it, cause that’s when the good cartoons are on the telly y’know. Ma tells me shuttup, tells me God doesn’t care about the good cartoons. Well, I think, God doesn’t care about you either if he’s sending a rock from the sky to turn us all to mush. I don’t dare say that to ma, she’s going kinda outta her mind about it all, got the rosaries laid out on the kitchen countertop and everything.

Steve’s in the front yard, keeps looking at the sky through a telescope he found in some junkyard. Steve’s not my real dad, I think you should know. He’s a bit of a sod sometimes but mostly he’s alright. When he brought that lump of junk home I even slapped him on the back like a real man, told him great find, Steve! It wasn’t really, but you gotta feel a little sorry for the guy. Even now he’s bent over, squinting into it like a blind man with a hunchback, trynna figure out how long till we’re all pulverised. He lets me have a look and I can’t see a whole lot, but I say wow Steve, that’s stupendous! I learnt that word in school this week and I know Steve is impressed even though he doesn’t say it.

Anyways, the news is hogging the cartoon timeslot. The news man is a bit round and kinda splotchy, what ma would call a little unfortunate looking. Sorry to say but it’s true. They normally put the good looking ones on the weekdays. The news man says the rock is coming soon and then the Earth will be shattering into 10000 pieces more or less, and Helen, I never told you but I love you. Christ almighty, he’s heaving now, sobbing like a big old baby. I haven’t cried since I was six and even then that doesn’t really count ‘cause I fell off the trampoline and broke my arm and the nurse said even a grown adult would cry about that.

I ask ma if I still need to do my chores and she smacks me upside the head. Asks if I’m trynna wind her up on purpose or if I’m just dim. Don’t know what her problem is.

So I go back out and stomp up the pavement, squish as many teeny tiny ants as I can. I don’t even feel bad about it because they’re all going up to heaven anyway. Wonder if they know it yet? Maybe they have little ant telescopes too. Probably even work better than Steve’s.

The sky’s glowing amber now which is pretty neat. Ma comes out to the front yard, pulls me in tight, makes a big old fuss and tells me how much she loves me. Even Steve’s huddled in with us; left the telescope alone for now. Hope they have cartoons in heaven. That’d be stupendous.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

It seemed only fitting to begin this month’s showcase with the END. And it looks like the end is going to arrive on a Saturday morning, much to the chagrin of our young protagonist. We loved the unique voice and the occasional acknowledgement they are narrating to us the reader. It’s all so delightfully matter of fact – the question of whether ants have telescopes being very meta as these human ants await their fate. A stupendous story that while perhaps not described as depicting a ‘happy’ ending, it’s certainly one that defines ‘acceptance’!

BY ALL APPEARANCES by Cheryl Lockwood, QLD

“Name?”
“Arr, me name be Pete.”
“Well, Pete, thanks for coming in. My name is Roger and I’ll be conducting the job interview today. Great hat by the way, nice feather.”
Roger extended his hand in greeting.

“Arr, I be pleased to meet ya, Roger. Watch the hook, it be a little sharp at the point.”
Roger carefully took Pete’s hook between his fingers and gave it a slight shake.
“Do you mind if I ask what happened?”
“Oh this?” Pete gestured to his eye patch. “I be blind in one eye.”

“Um, I meant the hook actually, but now that you mention it…”
“Conjunctivitis.”
“I didn’t realise it could be that serious.”
“Arr, it aint matey, but I forgot about the hook and the damn eye be itchin’ something fierce. Woke up with an eyeball stuck to me hook, I did.”

Roger sucked in his breath and made a that-sounds-nasty kind of face.

“Um, and the hook?”
“Forgot to strap on me wooden leg and took me a tumble. Fell right on me sword, I did.”
“Wooden leg? Forgive me, I didn’t notice. Do you find it difficult to get about?”
“Only when I walk, but it aint so bad.”

“I like your attitude, Pete. Tell me, what’s behind that tattoo of yours?”
“Just me arm, Roger.”
“Oh, I meant… never mind. By all appearances, you seem like you’d be right for the job. I assume you know how to handle one of these.” Roger placed a wooden box on the desk and opened the lid. He carefully removed a shiny, cylindrical object.
Pete whistled.

“Arr, that be a fancy piece.”
“It’s the 22453…the latest on the market.”

Pete held the telescope to his eye, winding the end to adjust the focus.

“Can’t see a thing,” he grumbled.
“Perhaps, try your good eye.”

Pete let out a gruff laugh.

“Arr, I be forgettin’ again. Now, don’t you be frettin’ matey, I can still put in a decent day’s work.”
“Well, we are equal opportunity employers and happy to hire workers with a disability. How do you feel about parrots?”
“Arr, can’t stand ‘em. I be allergic ya see.”

“Oh dear, this is awkward. It is generally expected that anyone hired as a pirate will carry a parrot on their shoulder.”
“Arr, a pirate? What do ya mean…a pirate?”
“You’re here for the pirate’s job, aren’t you?”
“Nay, matey, I be here for the secretarial position.”
“Really? I guess you can’t judge a book by its cover. The secretary interviews are next door. Could you ask the next in line to come in on your way out?”

Pete limped out and spoke to a petite woman in the next room.

“I think they be ready for ya, Mam.”

The woman stood, straightened her skirt, adjusted her glasses and walked in to Roger’s office.

“Hello,” she said politely, “I’m here to apply for the pirate job.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Don’t judge a hook by its cover! And here we see Pete struggling through an interview, with some clever comic relief in the form of handshakes, wooden legs and parrots. Of course, Pete isn’t actually there for the assumed position at all – no, he’s after the secretarrrrrrrrial position, and the switcheroo at the end is both hilarious and also a gentle nudge to never assume anything based purely on appearances. 

THE BIRDER by Michael Yates, WA

Every time I walk through Central Park, I find something new. This time it's a simple park bench, one of 10,000 benches that occupy the park. Most are in plain sight, where you would expect them to be. But this one is hidden amongst the trees, out of sight from passersby walking on the trail winding through the park.

The bench is a standard two-seater, and one of those seats is occupied by an old man looking at the birds in the trees through binoculars, a birdwatcher or a birder, as I like to call them. They are everywhere in Central Park. I hear several types of rare birds migrate through the Park, making it a popular place for birders visiting from around the world at certain times of the year.

I wonder what he is watching, I think to myself.

I meander over and sit down next to the man who never deviates from using his binoculars to view whatever bird he is watching in the trees. He must have found something riveting to look at.

“Good day, sir,” I say as I offer a welcoming smile.

The old man lowers his binoculars and reaches his hand out to shake, “Good day to you, young man.”

I oblige, grasping his frail hand and gently steering it up and down.

“So, are you watching anything special today?” I curiously ask.

“The Cerulean Songbird, which is very rare indeed,” the old man excitedly replies.

“Your binoculars are incredible,” I say in awe, “Quite beautiful,” I add.

“They are almost two hundred years old. These binoculars make people see differently,” the old man claims.

“How so?” I curiously ask.

‘Here, take a look through them yourself,” the old man offers as he hands me the binoculars.

I place them to my eyes and look through them only to see complete darkness, “There must be something wrong,” as I move them away from my face, turn them around, and identify the problem.

“They still have their caps on,” I exclaim.

“Did I leave the caps on?” The old man laughs.

“Well, yes,” I reply, frankly.

“You see, blindness has come with age, but I have done a lot of bird-watching in my time. I have a catalogue of birds in my mind. I come here and look through my binoculars and visualise the birds I have seen before. Occasionally, someone will sit next to me and treat me like someone who can see. It feels good to have a discussion with someone who doesn’t pity my blindness.”

“But how do they make people see differently?” I inquisitively ask.

“Well, you saw me differently, didn’t you? You were interested enough to come over and have a chat.”

“Would you like me to describe the birds I can see in the park today?” I ask the old man.

“That would be wonderful,” he replies with a smile.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

What starts out as a sun dappled walk through scenic Central Park by our polite protagonist soon becomes a more meaningful encounter. We had many bird watching stories this month – for obvious reasons – and again, with one of the mandatory words being BLIND, we also saw many blind characters. But this story successfully combined both elements and left the main character and the reader with a nice lesson about seeing ‘things’ differently. A pleasant park bench exchange to enjoy under the leafy canopy away from the chaos of the world.

2555 by Kate Gordon, TAS

Of course, she knew what was happening. It had happened to her father. A slow sort of fogging, darker at the edges and in the middle, milky.

That was on the good days. On the bad days, she saw a galaxy, wind blowing dandelion clock stars across her vision. And her mind was never quiet, because who can find quiet with a galaxy in their eyes, stars bursting into life, bursting into death?

Her father went blind when he was sixty.

She was fifty-three.

How long had he had symptoms, before mentioning anything? He was the sort of man who never admitted a cold, never went to the doctor until he couldn’t stand.

At best, she calculated, she had seven years left.

But what if hers was worse than his?

2,555 days.

61,320 minutes.

That didn’t sound enough. Not enough minutes to see the faces of her daughters. Not enough days to see the sunrise.

All the things she hadn’t seen.

She asked Henry to drive her to the shop. She wasn’t sure she should be driving now, but she didn’t tell him the reason. She’d tell him soon enough. She only said she wanted to spend time with him, and he seemed surprised but happy at that.

“What is your best pair?” she asked the lady behind the counter.

They were heavier than she expected.

But they fit her hands like they were meant to.

“I never knew you were into bird-watching,” Henry said, when they reached the top of the hill.

“I was,” she said. “When I was a kid. I went with my dad. Blue wrens were his favourite. I want to see blue wrens. As many as I can.”

He peered at her. And then, slowly, his eyes widened, ever-so-slightly. And she knew that he knew.

He sat beside her, without saying a word.

They sat together, for two hours.

120 minutes of sight.

They didn’t see a blue wren that day.

“I’ll bring you back tomorrow,” he promised her.

He went back to the car.

She stayed a little longer.

She watched the sky turn from blue to yellow and then to pink.

And finally to black.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Another ‘blindness-meets-birding’ gem. Beautifully told with a gentle touch, this story straddles both the here-and-now and the what’s-to-come – a big picture view that is fitting considering the subject of deteriorating eyesight. Some strong turns of phrase define the illness (‘stars bursting into life, bursting into death’) as our protagonist prepares to follow in her father’s foggy footsteps. The title, originally cryptic, reveals its meaning and we were also impressed that not once is the word ‘binoculars’ used, yet we instinctively know they have been purchased. The final three lines again illustrate the duality of the themes – expertly written!

THE AUCTION by Natalie Clair, UK

“And now Lot 56212. A rare find – a nineteenth-century telescope and box, used onboard a whaling ship. Predominantly brass, remnants of the leather covering. Opening bid, five hundred pounds.” The auctioneer rubbed his nose, pulled down his shirt cuffs, and surveyed the crowd.

John’s hands started to sweat; he started to lift his number.

“Five hundred.” Wrapped in a fox stole, a woman languorously lowered her opera glasses behind him.

“Five fifty.” John shuffled forward in his seat.

“Five fifty in the room. Six online.”

“Six fifty,” he called out in a voice his colleagues wouldn’t have recognized.

“Seven hundred.” The fox drooped down the woman’s shoulders.

“Seven fifty online.” The auctioneer smiled, his cheeks flush. “Eight hundred from the woman down there. I have eight hundred in the room?” He glanced at his colleague at the computer screen. She shook her head.

John mentally added up his bank and savings accounts. Not nearly enough. He glanced across at the woman. The fox was back on her shoulders, a glint of satisfaction in her cheeks.

He stood up and raised his placard.

“One thousand.”

The drive home had been monotonous. John sipped on a steaming mug of chamomile and tied his dressing gown around him. The wind whipped up outside, stray branches banging against the window. He rolled down the blinds and turned to the box on the table. Faded and crumpled, emblazoned with a forgotten address in London. He tore it open and lifted out the telescope.

Tarnished brass, copperplate writing on the nameplate. John Malone.

The photos were spread out in front of him, those few daguerreotypes the whalers left behind in Halifax. Dazed men, hoods of their seal-skin jackets pulled up. John Malone, his grandfather. The edges were curled, stained by his father: boot polish, oil, and droplets of Guinness. An absent father who escaped in the Merchant Navy, never stopped searching.

He lifted it, peering through the telescope’s eyepiece. A stray hair clung to the lens. Black, like his. He lowered it and walked over to the Polaroid in the jewelled frame, Mother on her birthday. He remembered the uncertain smile and clenched hand, her mind ravaged by dementia. The sudden grab for his arm, and the desperate question ‘Where’s your father?’

Thunder grumbled, the lights flickering.

Decision time. Down to the basement, the terrifying heat of the furnace.

The telescope clanked as it landed in the flames, amber and black fingertips closing around the name of John Malone.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Told in two parts, this story doesn’t promise clear answers, but it does provide a compelling brace of scenes. The first, a brisk and believable blur of bidding – the fellow bidder’s fox aptly stealing the show and providing a nice counterpoint to John's bidding attempts. And then, a beat, and we are now home. It’s here that we realise that John is no ordinary collector of brass antiques – this particular object is far more personal. The scene is laid out deftly here, easy to picture and the final description of the amber and black ‘fingertips’ provide a fabulous, albeit mysterious ending to this Antiques Roadshow meets Who Do You Think You Are!

VIEWING TIME by Sarah Fisher, QLD

Atop the mountain lookout, sunlight glints off the metal cover of the coin-operated telescope. Three sisters, clutching coins in fists slick with the sweat of anticipation, drift towards the lone viewing tower, which has stood as sentinel over this valley for more than forty-five years. To be precise, the telescope has witnessed 16,519 sunrises; and, less precisely, has digested in excess of a million coins.

Priscilla steps up first, deposits her coin, squints into the eyepiece, then gasps. What does she see?

Ancient creatures she’s seen only in textbooks roam the grassland and soar above it, but from the horizon, an army of storm clouds advances. The seething mass approaches, puffy white tops towering above the bulging, black base, grumbling ever louder. Lightning streaks from its belly – blinding flashes setting the grass alight. Reptilian birds screech their warning and lumbering diprotodon take heed, galloping to safety as fire – nature’s housekeeper – licks the land like a child does an ice-cream, delicately savouring its bounty. The rain, when it comes, drenches the landscape, salving the wounds from fire, filling waterholes, flushing rivers and streams, and seeping into the ground to replenish aquifers.

Triti steps up next, deposits her coin, peers through the telescope, then groans. What does she spy?

A valley no more. In its place is a festering sea of putrid garbage. Bulldozers in their thousands crawl over the mounds of human waste; scooping, dumping … but barely scraping the surface. Triti adjusts the focus, zooming in. Reduced to scavenging, people pick through the detritus, delving for the precious resources buried in the filth. Fires rage, fuelled by toxic waste. When the storm clouds come, they dump acid rain which does nothing to dispel the noxious miasma that blankets the contaminated, ruined landscape. There are no rivers and streams winding their way through the countryside; they were long ago clogged with plastic, along with the entire food chain. What animals remain to battle the rising temperatures, are filled with plastic too.

Finally, Hope steps up, deposits her coin, allows the lens to guide her gaze, then smiles. What does she find?

Now that the Earth has emerged from successive ages of fire and of ice, creatures Hope does not recognise roam the grassland and soar above it. She watches as a volcano belches smoke and fiery rocks from its gut. Lava dribbles down its sides delivering molten minerals from deep underground to the surface. The wildlife close to the volcano scurries to safety – shrieking, roaring, or trumpeting their displeasure at the interruption to their business of grazing or hunting. What Hope doesn’t hear is yelling or sirens or engines. Humans are a memory. Hope wonders … is the only record of them buried as fossils or oil? She scans the landscape but finds no trace of a new species digging for the past.

The sisters retreat, comparing notes, while the coin-operated telescope salutes another sunset and enjoys a short respite from those visitors who see only what’s in their mind’s eye.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This thoroughly original take on the coin-operated viewfinders you often see at lookouts may involve a fantastical element – but these scenes it portrays are rather familiar, each beautifully and horrifically described. (We in particular love the description of the fire as nature’s housekeeper – licking the land like a child does an ice-cream.) Each of our three viewers sees a different world – a kind of past, present and future of sorts. An impressive visual narrative that is frighteningly illustrated with skill.

BINOCULARS by Kim Graham, VIC

Binoculars in hand, I wait for my next foray into the world of others; a cup of weak tea and a digestive biscuit beside me. When I was younger, my tea was strong and milky and sweet; with age my purse strings have tightened, and my tea has suffered. I nibble mouse-sized crumbs from my biscuit.

Oh! Here are the twins, leaving for school. I lift the binoculars and watch. Her hair is in plaits with bright blue ribbons streaming off them – I love how this looks! Her brother is in his Carlton jumper; maybe his team won? Their mother walks them to the gate then watches them walk away. She’s waving even though their backs are to her. I call her Beth. The twins turn, ribbons dancing in the wind, smile, and wave; Beth’s face becomes suffused with joy…mine does too.

Further down the street a door slams; I swivel my binoculars. A sullen faced teenager slopes out of the house, hands in pockets, dressed all in black with a t-shirt that says ‘Three Blind Mice’ – I’m assuming they are a band, but this could just as easily be a statement about politics or culture. I tuck away these thoughts to mull over later. Once the exodus to work and school is over, there’s many hours to fill before everyone returns home. I sigh, it seems only yesterday that she’d skip out of her house in pink flashing sneakers. I remind myself that it’s just a phase teenagers go through to find themselves. Her Dad roars out of the garage in a sleek black car and is gone.

And here comes little Isabelle. I know her name because I heard her Mum call out to her once. Hers is the only name I know of all those who walk past. I love how Isabelle walks; for every third step there is a little hop or leap, sometimes a twirl or pirouette. Bubbles of exuberance that can’t be contained. She spots a chalk hopscotch on the footpath, and leaps from 12346 in a twinkle, bypassing 5. My heart feels light as I watch her skip past. And then, something catches her eye – a reflection of light off my binoculars, movement? She turns in my direction, I lower the binoculars, her face is solemn, feeling caught, my mind is panicked. And then, she smiles and raises her hand, I tentatively wave back…then she skips on.

I sip my tea again, almost no taste. This is the tea bag from last night; on its third use and spent. Plus, there’s no milk left and another two days before I’ll be able to afford more. I rummage in my mind for memories of tea past to let imagination fill the gap. Will I nibble on my biscuit again? Too soon, as it’s a long way then to dinner. Isabelle’s smile and wave feel like nourishment, and despite my hollow stomach I nod off in the morning light feeling contented.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This stream of consciousness begins rather voyeuristically but ultimately becomes more sad as we see a nosey neighbour guessing at the streetside storylines taking place behind the letterbox. A nice inclusion of the five-digit number and in the end, a glimpse into the ultimate reality show for someone whose own life has become a collection of crumbs and used tea bags. 

UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL by Rachel Crane, NSW

Coogee Beach was infested every summer. Primary schoolers crowded the whitewash, pudgy stomachs bouncing on body boards. Snotty toddlers waddled in rock pools and pre-teens commandeered the sand with phones. The parents seemed oblivious to the urine-soaked pools, the snack wrappers left on the beach, the desecration.

If it was busy, I could initiate two rescues a day. It was easy to find them from the lifeguard tower with my council-issued binoculars. Their fish mouths gasping upwards as they bobbed around. I’d radio call the beach rescue team, and the victim would be pulled to safety, spitting foul phlegm onto the sand and crying into their careless parents’ arms.

Today was perfect. It was a grey sky, and the glare wouldn’t be too blinding. The swell was relentless with clear green rips sucking greedily out to sea. Control tower had broadcast we had 11,000 visitors at the beach today. No-one could be blamed with that many people, no-one.

It was hot in the sun, but my gaze didn’t waver. A boy I had been watching closely left the toilet block and sprinted on tiptoe across the burning sand to the water. I grimaced as he washed his filthy hands and moved the binoculars to his mother. My stomach grew warm in anticipation as I saw she was still dozing, tanned stomach skyward and a hat over her face.

I dropped the radio and quickly wiped the binoculars clean of salt spray. I zoomed in so closely on the boy it was as if I could spit on his windblown hair. He did not look back at his mother as he waded more deeply, but I quickly swivelled to confirm she lay unmoving. The boy looked hopefully at some nearby children who were laughing and splashing, but they paid him no mind.

He continued forward until a large incoming whitewash made him stumble and fall, laughing. Before he could regain his footing, he was sucked backwards, and the next wave pounded down upon him. I refocused the binoculars to get a closer view of his face and managed to see the moment his smile turned to fear. His head disappeared repeatedly as the rip commenced its merciless journey out through the breakers. I found myself repeating the words Rinse and Repeat in my head, then giggled. No-one else noticed the boy. The beach crew were busy with a bluebottle sting and my radio remained on the ground.

I played my favourite game and held my breath with him every time he went under, trying to work out which would be the last. He was well beyond the flags now, and only surfacing occasionally. I knew it was over when I couldn’t hold my breath any longer and he still hadn’t resurfaced. I quickly turned my binoculars to his mother, ready to watch her panic, the second act. She was still asleep, so I laid down the binoculars to rest my eyes for just a minute.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This is dark. So often we are presented with a story of a killer in a sinister dark-alley setting, ‘mwahaha’-ing with almost comic evilness. And yet what is made clear here is that it’s much more disturbing when it is someone in a position of trust. Choosing a lifeguard is a clever way to bring the binoculars front and centre into this story – in fact, the device plays a large part in revealing the action, piece by piece. What begins fairly normally soon departs the typical ‘Bondi Rescue’ script as our narrator ultimately reveals their true self. The early ‘no-one could be blamed’ line thus becomes foreshadowing and the quiet horror of this sits with you long after the final line.

INFINITY, QUANTIFIED by Anthea Vernet, USA

There are 23,600 astronomers and physicists in the U.S., so the government says. Worldwide, the total number remains unknown. There are too many and too few to count, and for the most part, no one bothers to.

How ironic.

—

The astronomer thinks in years. Light years; the distance traveled in 365 days by the fastest thing known to man. Pitifully small, and already greater than most minds can imagine.

The Hubble Space Telescope can see stars 15 billion light years away. The universe stretches–is stretching–more than five times that distance.

It's unfathomable. Not that they care.

They peer through their telescopes, and try to see the beyond. They send drones and probes into the void, hoping to touch the borders of the stars. And maybe, if they're lucky, they'll get pictures of the world outside the world.

They can never find infinity.

They will reach for it nonetheless.

—

The physicist thinks in seconds. Atomic seconds; the time it takes for the caesium-133 atom's frequency to oscillate 9,192,631,770 times. Such a small moment, but anything can happen in a moment.

Matter is windless space with a few particles sprinkled in. Every moment those particles fall into greater chaos, and most everyone is blind to it.

The world runs by the second; they cannot. Not that they care.

They peer through their microscopes and look for the forces that bind the particles. They measure and quantify, trying to rationalize the stuff of the universe.

They cannot count the uncountable.

They will number it nonetheless.

—

There are 23,600 astronomers and physicists in the U.S., so the government says. Worldwide, the total number remains unknown. There are too many and too few to count, and for the most part, no one bothers to.

How fitting.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There is a beautiful symmetry to this story and we loved how it described two areas of science that are ultimately obsessed with different ends of the spectrum – the large and the small; the infinite and the tiny. An original take on the brief and one that does indeed make some fitting and ironic parallels.

WATCH AND ACT by Caitlin Mahony, VIC

My legs shake as I reach the top of the ladder.

“I’ve got you,” shouts Rob from the ground. His wide legged stance and white knuckles are the only reason I haven’t plummeted to my death. Yet.

At the top of the ladder I shimmy, trying to get off the rungs and onto the roof tiles. I tell my arms and legs to stop shaking. My nostrils fill with the sweet smell of burnt eucalyptus, reminding me of teenage bonfire birthday parties on paddocks. I stretch my leg out and place one foot on the roof tiles.

“That’s it, nearly there,” shouts Rob.

“Shut up for a second!” I need to concentrate.

I take a deep breath, swing my other leg over, and let go of the ladder. The binoculars flap around my neck. Firm ground again, but the incline stops me from relaxing. I scramble higher on the roof. Reaching the very top I straddle the house, trying not to think about getting back down again.

“What can you see?” shouts Rob.

“It’s a good view up here.”

“Can you see the fires?”

Scanning the horizon, I see familiar landmarks; that old gum on the hill where the cockatoos congregate, the steeple of the church where we attended Mira’s wedding, the floodlights the tennis club had installed last year. Beyond them all is a looming cloud of smoke. Demonic with its brown red colouring, it is moving towards town, pushed by the wind.

I raise the binoculars to my eyes and point them at the horizon towards the centre of the cloud. Sweat soaks the back of my singlet. The sweet fiery smell grows stronger, more acrid, a scent of the sinister. Through the binoculars at first I see smoke gushing upwards from the bush. Sweeping the landscape I find licks of flame poking up from some of the trees. My heart pounds. I watch for a little longer hoping I had just imagined it, knowing that I hadn’t.

“I see flames,” I shout.

“But the emergency app just says Watch and Act.”

“It’s coming, we don’t have much time.”

“Well you better get off the bloody roof, and we better hit the road.”

I grab our tub full of essentials and run to the car while Rob collects the dog's things. When I get back to take the last few bits and pieces the dog is wagging her tail in excitement at the lead in Rob’s hands, blind to our panic.

We slam our doors and pull out of the driveway. I turn on the radio.

The fire chief’s voice is calm through the crackly reception, “Around 25,000 hectares burnt. People in the following towns should leave immediately: Daylesford, Hepburn Springs, Coomera, Wheatsheaf…”

I take one last look at our house over my shoulder. Hoping it’s there when we get back. I wipe a tear from my eye.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

As bushfire season begins in what is predicted to be a hot summer in Australia, this story paints a very real picture for anyone who has either directly experienced this force of nature – or who has simply witnessed the swiftness of their destruction. While the title gives some clues, this story begins in ambiguous fashion, climbing a ladder to get onto the roof. It’s not until the vantage point is gained that the smoke-singed curtain is pulled back to reveal a community in confusion as nature’s nightmare scenario approaches. Fingers crossed that fictional stories like this don’t also play out in real life this season.

MITE by Tracey-Ann Palmer, NSW

Mitch’s life was perilous. As an eyelash mite, he was ever mindful of lid-quakes, floods and the winds that threatened to pull his eight legs from their tenuous purchase on Jenny’s lashes.

The lashes of Jenny’s left eye were Mitch’s world – he was born there, would hopefully find a mate and in two weeks (human time) he would be a father and then he’d live long enough to see his children have their own offspring. He would decompose inside Jenny’s hair follicles and, along with the bounteous supply of skin cells and oils provided by her eye, he would feed the new generation. He had heard of other mites who had ventured to the eyebrow, but he’d seen seven full dark-light cycles and felt he was too old for that type of nonsense.

Jenny was an ornithologist. Her passion was lyre birds and she lived to see them. She would spend hours peering through her binoculars in search of these magical birds. When she found one, she would settle into the undergrowth and watch them dance, listen to their calls, and above all, be captivated.

Jenny heard a familiar noise and raised the binoculars to her eyes. The lyre bird was in full display, courting a female and Jenny was entranced. At that moment Mitch turned his eyes towards the light, peered through the lenses that were pressed against Jenny’s eyes and gasped. Until that moment, Mitch’s world was but a few millimetres wide. No more. He gaped, clutched his lash tightly and absorbed every detail of the most beautiful thing imaginable. He was blinded by longing as the creature waved its feathery ‘lashes’ provocatively.

“Beautiful,” whispered Jenny. She pulled out her notebook and recorded: 91023, 10.07am, Lyrebird Dell walking track, Superb Lyrebird, full display. She put her binoculars down and took out her camera.

Clinging to Jenny’s lashes, Mitch stared into the gloom. His glimpse of another world imprinted on his mind. He crept further up the eyelash that he ever had before and longed for another vision.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The ‘mite/might’ of storytelling is that you can present a viewpoint no else quite expected. And here, the reason we singled this one out is that even though Jenny is doing all the work viewing a lyre bird through her binoculars, the surprising main character actually gets to see it too because they live on Jenny’s eyelashes! Quirky and a great example of the ‘story behind the story’ that you sometimes overlook!

I SEE YOU by Sally Eberhardt, QLD

I can’t unsee you.

You in your over-sized sunglasses, wearing the most expensive brands, swanning around with your handsome husband in your recently renovated house with its immaculate landscaping.

It’s all so sickeningly perfect.

You never stop to chat – you always dart back inside to ‘something on the stove’, or rush out to have your fake hair extensions put in or your fake nails done. No time for the likes of me – just a wave and a smile as fake as your tan.

That’s a bit bitchy of me. Your tan could be real.

It’s not fair. What did you do to deserve this?

When you disappear for weeks I find myself picturing you sipping margaritas beside an azure pool in Acapulco, unwinding in a hot tub in St Moritz after a hard day on the slopes or watching tropical fish from an underwater hotel in the Maldives. You are living My best life, ticking off things on MY Bucket List.

I bought a telescope today. Second hand from eBay but it does the trick. All the better to see you with, my dear.

I should stop torturing myself. My best friend said I should be more mindful and practise gratitude every day. She should just be grateful SHE doesn’t live across the street from you and your perfect life.

I can’t unsee you.

I can’t help wanting to know all the intricate details of your fabulous life. I investigate the labels on the clothes on the washing line. I salivate over the brands of your kitchen appliances. I covet your expensive accessories. Your Chanel handbag cost more than my second-hand car. I know – I Googled it.

I observe you coming and going in your sleek black Mercedes. I watch you punch in the code to the security gate. 13875. I wonder if the numbers mean something special – a birthday or anniversary perhaps? I can’t even guess your age… if only I could see your face without perfectly applied makeup…

If I place the tripod stand just so, and adjust the focal length, and contort myself into a position worthy of a Russian gymnast … I can catch your reflection in your ensuite mirror.

I know it’s petty but I do hope you are an old hag underneath all that foundation and powder. That might explain why I never see your husband show you any affection. In fact he looked downright cross with you the other day. I saw him snarl while you cowed in a corner. I wonder what you did to deserve it.

At last I see your naked face.

I see you are beautiful.

You are a beautiful woman with bruises and scars.

You are a beautiful woman hiding the truth behind dark glasses and darker lies.

You are a beautiful woman isolated and controlled by fear and shame.

You don’t deserve this.

I was blind.

Now I see you.

And I can’t unsee you.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Earlier, we presented another story of not judging someone simply based on appearances – told in a more comic way. Here, while the same principle applies, it takes on a more dramatic guise – initially an inner monologue of envy and conjecture… the stories of the lives we imagine others are living. This obsessed neighbour has judged this book – “You are living My best life, ticking off things on MY Bucket List” – yet once the layers and pretence are finally removed, the tune changes as they realise that there may be more than meets the eye. A good way to highlight a different kind of blindness – with a nice piece of repetition (last month’s focus) providing a new meaning at the end.

TWO LITTLE WORDS by Nikki Reid, VIC

He holds the binoculars shakily to his eyes. Squinting through dark tubes at the lush green lawn of the backyard across the street. A backyard he knows all too well. A young girl in canary yellow bathers runs giggling through the spray of a sprinkler. She stops momentarily and looks up at his window and he retreats into the gloom of his dark bedroom. He does not want to be seen but there is nothing sinister in his peeping. Only longing. He used to watch Judy from this window. Barefoot and running across the same backyard. Golden hair and laughter trailing behind her.

A surprised yelp from the girl floats across the evening air as the wind carries an unexpected attack from the sprinkler. He laughs out loud and startles himself with the sound of his own voice. It sounds foreign to him. Hoarse and raspy from underuse. He doesn’t speak a lot these days. There’s no one here to listen. But he knows the power of words. Even the smallest of words can create the most impact.

More than 65 years ago Judy spoke one word to him that changed the trajectory of his life forever. That tiny little word that led to years of laughter and tears, dancing and adventures and worry and fear. To countless smiles and celebrations, anticipation and frustration. To 10,000 little moments of joy. That one little word was a powerhouse of possibility, devotion and promise.

Of hope.

Yes.

It has now been 5 years since Judy spoke another word to him which again changed his life forever. This little word was whispered so quietly yet held just as much power. It signified a shared understanding of care and duty. It held all of the memories. And oh, so much love. A whole lifetime of trust given and chances taken. That little word was a seal on the most glorious envelope of time. Which now finished could only be revisited in his short dreams in a too empty bed, or in his mind as he peers out his window in the day.

Bye.

Now he doesn’t need words. He lives quietly behind the blinds in this empty house. In this dark room. And he finds Judy through the dark tube of those binoculars. In the lush green lawn of the backyard across the street.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

A mix of memories and nostalgia, we again have a lonely neighbour looking out on the world and feeling both connected and disconnected to it. The use of each of the two single words is a nice way to tie together the memories and illustrate another story of loss and longing.

BEA’S STORY: A WIDOW’S STEPS by Laura Speed, NSW

1

I slowly take a step out of the house, hesitating on the doorstep, unsure if I can take another.

“Come on – it’s just lunch down the road,” Katie gently coaxes from the step below.

I make no effort to move towards her.

“Would you really leave a friend alone and starving in the gutter?”

My only response is to roll my eyes.

“Bea – you need to leave the house. It’s been months.”

Katie reaches out a hand. It hangs in the air, waiting patiently, for mine in return. Her gaze is disconcertingly sombre, and I find myself reaching forwards, unable to refuse it.

647

The café is only at the end of the street, but my heart is beating like I’ve run a marathon when we arrive.

“Where do you want to sit?” Katie gives me the choice.

Daniel’s favourite booth is free. It’s in the corner, nestled between the back green wall and the window. I feel a rising tide of tears approaching the surface as I look at it.

I rush to take a seat somewhere else. Anywhere else. I sit down, elbows on the table, and bring my hands up to hide my eyes.

“I’m sorry Bea,” Katie whispers, kneeling beside me. “Do you want to go home?”

I peak out of my cocoon, glimpsing at the corner table through my fingers. The table he will never sit at again. The table we will never sit at again.

“No, no I’m good.” I swallow against the lump in my throat. “Wouldn’t want to leave my best friend starving in the gutter.”

5834

It’s the first time I’ve opened the blinds before 10am in a long time. After a few more lunches with Katie and a realisation that the sun is actually good for me, I feel ready to run again.

I need to feel the movement in my body. The muscles in my legs thrusting me forward and blood pumping into the dormant parts of me. I need to feel alive without feeling guilty about it.

Stepping out of the house is easier now. I cross the road to the park and take a deep breath at the starting point. No timer yet. My only goal is to complete the run.

12858

I sit at our spot, feet dangling from where I am purchased on the rock, looking out at the ocean. Still slightly puffed from the hike, I take out Daniel’s binoculars. I run my fingers over the black rubber, ghosting lines his fingers once made.

The wind is chopping up the sea a bit today, making the whales harder to spot, but I don’t mind. It’s the first time I’ve managed to do something we used to do together, without breaking down, since he died. As I squint through the tiny holes, searching along the horizon, it feels like he is next to me. And instead of the thought sending a flood of tears down my cheeks, I can finally smile at the memory.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Like stages of grief, this story cleverly uses the structure of step counts (giving us ultimately our five-digit number!) to illustrate the taking of that first step, followed by a slow reawakening of memories and places for Bea as she gets over losing Daniel. It takes her first to a cafe they used to frequent and eventually to a favourite spot where she can finally start to see the way forward. An original way to tell a sadly all-too familiar story of love and loss.

STAR DUST by Rebecca Lawrence, NSW

Jemima adjusted the Observatory telescope and ushered the next small school child towards her with a beckoning hand. “Mind your step”, she said, in her kind teacher voice, as his little legs launched himself up onto the thigh-high platform, and his eyes settled on the small glass holes that would reveal to him a million stars and galaxies thousands of light years away.

“The stars you can see through here, some of them may not actually be alive anymore. What you are looking at is the light from stars that may already be dead, because it takes so many light years for their light to reach us. Isn’t that cool!” She loved the idea of it, that she could show others a window into the past and make the past as beautiful as a shining star that still lives on, even past its own death. The little boy pulled back from the telescope and looked up at her quizzically, “But how do you know which ones are dead, and which ones are still alive?”

“Well” she replied, and felt a shiver as she thought about it herself, “I’m not sure, to be honest, but does it matter? Does it matter if they’re alive or dead, if we can still see their light?” He seemed content with the answer and nuzzled his warm body against hers as he peered back through the looking glass. She imagined him looking back on his own life, as an old man, remembering back to the night as a child when he peered back into the past of the universe. What would he find?

As a child, Jemima had shared a crappy plastic telescope with her younger brother Andrew. They always had trouble when they tried to wind the focus knob, it would get stuck and most of the stars would dance like blurry dots, but they didn’t care. They loved thinking about the stars, how far away they were, pretending to count them not by ones but by 10,000’s, and how, when they got to 100,001 pretending that Andrew would get another life, because the life he had in this life was too short. His hair had fallen out, he barely had any veins left for the chemo, and he was slowly going blind as the tumour in his brain grew the size of Saturn. They used to joke about that. That one day the tumour might just pop out both his ears, and form a ring around his head, like one of Saturn’s. A spectacular silver halo of gas and star dust. Perfect from a distance, a chaotic war of ice and rock close up.

She gently touched her own head as she thought of it, and the little boy shuffled away, head down, disappointed his turn was over. Jemima lifted the next child onto the platform and began the story again.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There is something beautifully circular about jemima remembering the telescope stargazing she enjoyed with her late brother and being able to now share this love – of the stars AND of Andrew – with a new generation of wide-eyed children. The look of wonder on the boy’s face and then the new child stepping up for her to tell the story again… it’s a great way to illustrate a legacy and a memory being kept alive – and a fitting way to end of this month’s showcase!

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we like to include an extra LONGLIST of stories that stood out from the hundreds and were highly considered for the showcase. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, well done – and we hope to see you ALL next month!

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

• THE PURSUIT by Athena Law, QLD
• TONOPAH by Lois Winsky, USA
• THE SECRET AMONG THE STARS by Madelyn Grace, NSW
• BANGS FOR YOUR BUCK by Jaclyn Riley-Smith, TAS
• NORTH STAR by Cay Macres, USA
• STUCK IN THE 80s by Richard Gibney, Ireland
• UNTITLED by Jessica Marshall, NSW
• TIME FLIES WHEN YOU’RE ON THE RUN by Ann James, USA
• FANCY by Adrian Lane-Mullins, QLD
• UNTITLED by Archana Datt, NSW
• PURSUED by Elizabeth Hilton, QLD
• AND YET IT MOVES by Pam Makin, SA
• FUTURE (UN)SEEN by G.T. Weedon, VIC
• THE ARRIVAL by Alastair Millar, Czech Republic
• THE FROG CATALOGUE by Sarah, VIC
• FAR AWAY EYES by Terence Gallagher, USA
• NEIGHBOURHOOD WATCH by Lydia Terry, QLD
• FLORIA’S REVENGE by R.M. Levi, ACT
• ROTTNEST MONSTER by Alison Davis, WA
• APPLIED ORNITHOLOGY by Kristof Mikes-Liu, NSW
• RACE DAY by Jenny Groves, VIC
• UNTITLED by Ray Webb, Canada
• THE ASPIRATIONS OF 64107 by Rhonda Valentine Dixon, QLD
• A VERY ORDINARY DAY by Dan Watts, WA
• MY FRIEND SAL by Julie Souter, NSW
• SOUNDS OF SILENCE by Nina Peck, WA
• THE CLOCK IS TICKING by Eoghan McAuliffe, NSW
• AS THE CROW FLIES by Jacob Crane, NSW
• A LITTLE BIRDIE by Frida Pankiewitz, Germany
• CAPTAIN’S CHOICE by Danielle Barker, NSW
• YELLOW WATTLE by Natasha Collis, QLD
• LESSONS FROM OUTER SPACE by Sharmila Shankarkumar, USA
• STAR CROSSED by Carl Newby, QLD
• THE NIGHT OF FALLING STARS by Julia Ruth Smith, Italy
• UNTITLED by Harriet Hay, WA
• ARE WE THERE YET? by Jessica Southern-Reid, NSW
• I WISH I COULD SEE THE STARS by Sarah Oakes, UK

• Your story must start and end with the same sentence.
• Your story must feature something being inflated.
• Your story must include the words FLAG, FLAME, FLASH and FLATTER.
  (Longer words are okay if original spelling is retained.)

We saw plenty of balloons (party and hot air) being inflated, along with tyres, bouncy castles, egos and an assortment of camp mattresses. We also enjoyed seeing how the flexible words were used in their various meanings. Did people fly a flag, flag something down or perhaps flag with exhaustion? Was the flame the fiery kind or a lover? Did the flash blind with light or nakedness? And finally, did flattery get us everywhere or was it that camp mattress getting flatter during the night? So many combinations!

REPEAT AFTER ME

This month, we wanted stories to start and end with the same sentence. This is all about repetition – a super effective narrative technique in flash fiction. It might seem counterintuitive when you have a limited wordcount to work with, but intentionally repeating a sentence can add weight and meaning, or even a new perspective.

• Ending on the same thing as what you started can provide a clever bookend or callback to give your finish more weight.
• Often the same sentence can start off meaning one thing, but by the time it is repeated, it means something different.
• Short impactful sentences can work very well for repetition – adding a strong open and finish.
• Check out the showcased stories below, which all use the repeated lines in a variety of powerful ways.

Congrats to all those featured this month and we hope to see you lining up for the next Furious Fiction challenge on Friday 6 October!

FOUR WORDS by Kylie Kajewski, QLD

Four words I never thought I’d say.

Where the flame once was has now been replaced with a dull glow. I want to believe that glow is the light at the end of the tunnel, except I would only be holding out in hope that things were going to change.

Change. Believing in change would only get my hopes up, inflating my ego, making me think I wasn’t about to take this journey. Mustering up the courage that it takes to go down this rocky road and waving the white flag to surrender is a thought so terrifying.

Terrifying is saying those words I’ve thought about out loud. They’ve flashed through my mind briefly during heated moments but they’re words that when uttered, you cannot take back. What is it worth?

Worth. What is my worth? Do I accept that this is my life, or do I want more out of it? Who am I anyway? Someone's mother, sister, aunty, daughter, wife. But who am I, and what am I worth to me? There’s got to be more to life than being something to someone. Maybe I just need faith.

Faith. Do I have enough faith in myself that I will be okay? Do I have faith in the powers that be to guide me to choose the right path? Do I take the flatter path and keep walking the road I am on now? Where will it lead me, and is it the right thing to do? I am at a crossroad and I am lost.

Lost. I am lost in my thoughts, lost in my direction, lost in my life. I want to be free, free from obligation, free from pain, free from choices. It’s my life, it’s my choice. Choose to be happy but know there will be a long road to get there, or choose to stay on this path and believe things will get better. Have faith, or have self worth?

“I want a divorce”.

Four words I never thought I’d say.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
Who doesn’t love a good mystery? And with this story, we are teased from the first line about what these four words (aptly titled) would be. What follows are a series of paragraphs that link the final word with the first word in a daisy chain of exposition – slowly revealing our narrator’s motivation and internal justification before all is revealed. The repetition hammers it home.

THE GREEN MAN by Melody York, USA

She will always wake up to see him in the morning.

They set him up 10 minutes before opening. She arrives at 7:50. She watches the show, connecting his green lifeless body to his fan, and in a minute, he is inflated and moving like a flag waving through the strong winds that the nearby beaches blow in. He bends in all directions, no warning given to those who come here to be swindled by a posse of smaller men, acting like a pack of wolves waiting for their prey. These men laugh and point at the green man, making fun of his awkwardness.

She is sitting on a bench that is close to the green man, entranced by his dance. A wolf sees her, and she can see his brain wrapping around what tactic will be best for his prey.

“Hey! Are you looking for a new car today? You know, we have a beauty right over here. It will match your pretty green eyes.”

Flattery. Typical. She ignores him. The wolf persists.

“Hey, are you looking for something? Or do you already know what you are looking for?”

Annoyed, she stays looking at the green man dancing, but answers.

“Yes, but let me think it over, it is a big decision, you know?”

“Understood m’am, you can holler at one of us when you are ready.” He finds his way back to the pack, huddled together and oblivious to what is around them.

She waits until the wolves have forgotten about her, then it is her turn to strike. They have something she wants, and while they are distracted, she walks. She starts slowly towards the fan that is plugged up and knows once it is unplugged, she only has a minute until someone notices the green man’s dance is done.

She unplugs the fan, like blowing out a candle’s flame, and the green man starts to fall. It is time to act fast; she wraps up the cord, picks up the fan, and starts to run. With the fan and cord in one hand, she tries to subdue the deflated green man with the other.

Her passenger seat window is rolled down ready for the green man to occupy the seat. She looks back to see the wolves too far behind to make any difference. She throws the green man and the fan into the passenger seat and in a flash, she is in the car, driving away from the wolves.

While driving the hour back to her house, she gathers up the deflated green man and rolls the window up. Once home, she introduces the green man to a beautiful pink woman and tall blue man, all dancing the same dance the green man was earlier.

She places the green man next to the pink woman, plugs his fan up, and watch as all three of them dance in her yard.

She will always wake up to see him in the morning.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
There is something satisfying about this heist – the way our protagonist covets not the shiny automobiles being peddled by the ‘wolves’ of used-car street, but instead the folly that promotes them to passersby. Describing the ‘green man’ and his ‘dance’ is delightfully observed and the whole thing is delightfully absurd.

UNTITLED by Carol Phillips, NSW

I lied.
But truth is not always powerful, and somewhere deep within me a primeval instinct prevailed.
Yes, I chose acceptance, stopping just short of raising a white flag.
Yes, I inflated the truth, flattering the would-be antagonist rather than fan the flames of hatred that threatened to burn; a flash fire that when activated could have destroyed my inner world.
Whatever my reasoning, whatever my excuses, looking back is never an easy task, honesty is often blurred by time. But in the end, only one truth prevails.
I lied.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
In just 90 words, this miniature story reads as half confession, half manifesto – and proof that you can still pack a punch with a truly tiny word count. Generic in details, this is also its strength – as many will relate to the emotions being expressed here.

THE WAVE by Michael Yates, WA

With a sense of ambivalence, I watched the wave in admiration and fear.

An unrelenting body of water crashed into the sand over and over again. The wave cleanses the beach but also smashes the shore with strength. Pounding from all directions, with water mixing, causing a white foam cover. If you listen you can hear each tiny bubble popping like small cries for help. Most people don’t notice, but when you have been one of those bubbles, you become in tune with the noise. Empathy for what they are going through.

I remember being a kid, inflating a blow-up ring to help me float. Without it, I’d sink to the bottom, unable to swim, wondering whether I’d survive. Once older, you no longer have floatation devices to keep you safe. The memories of how they kept you safe when you were young are all you have to feel secure as an adult. That reassuring feeling that everything will be alright. But what if you can’t remember ever feeling safe when you were young? Can you ever feel safe as an adult?

Boys generally don’t care for flattery. We don’t worry about what you think of our hair. We don’t tuck in our shirts. We are not fussed if you think we are a good boy. We search for the next silly thing to do. Even when we know that another wave will come crashing down on top of us.

We are always told to swim within the flags and that a lifeguard will protect us.

Instead of remembering moments of joy when picturing the house I grew up in, I can only see the house in flames. The support services got there too late, with no knowledge of how the fire started, with no follow-up on whether it was lit intentionally and the chances of it going up in flames again. They just kept coming and either asked the wrong questions, or no questions at all.

Visiting my father in the old aged home only a half hour ago brings on a flash recall of growing up in a household where I was frightened of him. The man I was supposed to admire. The man who was meant to make me feel safe. His unrelenting anger kept me in constant fear, uncertain of when I would receive my next beating and whether I’d keep my head above water.

I am still visualising the old man, in his eighties, oblivious to the damage he has caused, waving goodbye as I drove away from the care home. I decided to go to the beach. I have no bathers, but I’m considering jumping into the water, and letting the current take me to the bottom of the ocean. Maybe then I won’t feel afraid. Still picturing my frail father waving farewell in the rear view mirror.

With a sense of ambivalence, I watched the wave in admiration and fear.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
Sometimes, a repeated line can take on a completely different meaning to the original. That’s the case here, cleverly exploiting the double meaning of WAVE to take us from recollections of a bulletproof boyhood by the sea through to a more sober recollection of an unsafe upbringing, a mix of drowning and burning. When we arrive at the final line, we are back at the beach, but the wave hits differently with its new meaning. Powerful language wielding!

UNTITLED by Caitlin Francis, ACT

“Don’t flatter yourself.”
Georgie glared at Nick as she struggled to unfold the inflatable mattress. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped.
“I just mean that not every guy who speaks to you is desperately in love with you. Statistically speaking of course. Because clearly most men are, because you’re hilarious and beautiful and interesting.” He poked his tongue out as Georgie playfully hit him in the arm. Nick had been her best friend since High School and she could always count on him to talk her up and bring back down to reality.
“Thanks, Nick. I’m not so naive that I think every man is in love with me, despite being incredibly hilarious, beautiful and interesting.”
“Hey, I never said ‘incredibly’.”
She hit him again. “Seriously though, I was definitely getting vibes off him the other night.” Nick didn’t immediately respond, instead fiddling with the ancient air pump. “He’s dating our friend, Georgie. Do you really think he was hitting on you? Did you want him to be hitting on you? I get it, you and him are old flames, but that was years ago.”

Georgie didn’t say anything, instead focussing her attention on the now unfolded mattress. “Pump please.” She said, holding her hand out to Nick. He passed the pump, searching her face carefully for any signs of how she was feeling. Georgie was one of the most confident people he knew, yet when it came to men she was a mess. She was a ‘red flag magnet’ they liked to joke, except the closer they got to 30 the less funny it was.
As Georgie pumped air into the air mattress she thought about what Nick had said. She knew he was right, she couldn’t just assume that because her and Tom had a thing five years ago that he was still into her. They’d had a brief, but passionate relationship which ended, not in any big flash of sparks or a heated argument, but in a Woolies carpark on a Sunday afternoon when Tom told her he was moving back to Tasmania. She had been devastated. Like stay in bed all day listening to The Cure on repeat kind of devastated. Then last week at Friday drinks, Millie announced her new boyfriend would be joining them and who should walk in but Tom bloody Jacobs.

“Look, maybe you’re right,” she said carefully. “It’s been ages and we haven’t spoken in five years. He never reached out to me and I never reached out to him. But, I did feel something between us and before you say anything, I get how bad this is and I’m not about to go and ruin his and Millie’s relationship or anything, but just, I don’t know.” She shrugged at Nick and he reached out and took her hand. “If you say you felt something then I believe you. I get it, the guy’s a babe. Hell, maybe I felt something.”
She smirked.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
Filled with authentic dialogue and interplay between the two characters, this slice of sleepover life caught our eye for the relatable ‘romance radar’ vibes that we often get and discuss with friends. Using the mandatory words with ease, this piece revels in the ordinary – including the brief relationship ending ‘not in any big flash of sparks or heated argument, but in a Woolies carpark on a Sunday afternoon’… These realistic touches endear us to this very believable exchange – “hashtag friendship goals”.

UNTITLED by Angela Schumann, VIC

Flatter her all you want: you’ll never get the real Margot Tremain.

I’ve been at her elbow for eight months now, shadow to the icon. I play hat holder, secretary, confidante. Her granddaddy’s pockets inflated after the Great War, and with it her family’s fame. She was raised to be one of New York’s fashion icons, and even starred in a couple of films (with middling talent, granted, but a pretty face pardons most sins, and a full purse the rest).

Last year she had a whirlwind marriage—as all celebrities must—to the dashing billionaire, Evan Klein. The flame didn’t last as long as the caviar, or so people are fond of saying.

I’ve followed her through countless corridors of flashing cameras, and seen our miniature heads, movie-star blonde and bottle-brunette, captured in infinite regress in the facets of a chandelier. Our driver, in his mirror, once said we looked alike. My nose did look like hers before it was broken. “Same dress size – that’s all men notice”, she purred.

About a week ago we pulled up beneath the Plaza’s dancing flags. We’d met Marylin Monroe here, once. And Norma Jean. I infinitely preferred the latter.

We waded through hordes of adoring men thrusting pencils and proffering photographs. “Miss Tremain! Miss Tremain! Miss Tremain!”. Something about them reminded me of the men I’d once seen outside a bank when I was a very little girl.

Those inside were more canny: less like seagulls, more like sharks. They circled at a distance, sending flowers and champagne. But they had met their match. Beneath her lashes and in the corners of her ruby mouth she made all kinds of promises. She mesmerised them with her golden jewels and silver laugh. One by one they fell at her feet, and one by one she sent them away hungry.

At half past eleven I was given a note addressed to Margot Tremain. We both recognized the stationery. She tried to snatch it away, but I had seen: “I will hunt you down. Evan Klein”. The room turned to ice. Hand in trembling hand we marched to the door. I watched in awe as she strutted through the room with even breaths of cold command, her blazing eyes saying, “I was born to greatness, and I dare all”. Truly, she is the finest actress in New York.

Safe in our rooms, I fingered the great, hard diamond I had so briefly worn. I flinched and felt the tug of scars I had yet to grow accustomed to.

“We need to dye your roots again,” she said gently. “Do you think they–”

“No, no,” I waved a hand reassuringly. “People only see what they expect.”

At that moment there was a knock on the door: a gentleman had come to check on Miss Tremain. He pushed right past me, assaulting her with elegant praise.

For the first time in weeks, I smiled.

Flatter her all you want: you’ll never get the real Margot Tremain.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
This story deftly transports us back to the golden age of cinema – turning phrases with sharp precision as we are introduced to a movie-star and her narrating ‘hat holder, secretary, confidante’. But all is not as it may seem – as if distorted in those myriad chandelier facets. Our famous actress is indeed an impressive actress and the gravity of the repeated line slams hard once the true Queen-Padme-style switcheroo is revealed. Beautifully written, with sparkling observations throughout.

AFTER THE WAKE by Rowan MacDonald, TAS

They were his. Cardboard boxes stacked high like past games of Jenga. Chopped wood lay outside, witness to therapy. Rain pummelled the tin roof, echoed throughout. Small leak in the corner. The shed was nothing flash, and just like the house, had seen better days.

“So much junk,” she sighed.

Cobwebs wrapped themselves around everything. He opened a musty box, disturbed layers of grit.

“Careful,” she said. “Something could be living in those.”

He placed the boots on the concrete floor, retrieved a dusty Premiership flag, misshapen football, trophy without its head. Moved onto yellowed, dog-eared magazines, balanced in piles.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

He watched her deliver CPR to something, whooshing sound mixed with water running from the spouting. She turned around, held up the shrunken football and pump.

“Wonder if there’s life in the old girl,” she grinned.

He nodded, bent down, attacked another box, wondered what it contained. Suddenly gasped, lifted a small item into the air. Wooden hot rod, flames painted along the sides.

“Check it out,” he said. “Can’t believe he kept it!”

“Ah, the first car you worked on,” she laughed. “Start of it all.”

“Worked on this together,” he smiled. “Thought it was lost.”

Passing shower stopped; crack of light appeared. He knelt, opened a green suitcase, airline tags still attached, and then he saw them. They were orange corduroy; rusted type, corroding like the old water tank in coastal air, relics of a past life. He slipped his legs inside.

“God,” she moaned. “Not exactly flattering!”

Hands immersed themselves in loose pockets; time travelling, forever basking in memories.

“Please,” she begged. “Tell me you’re throwing those out!”

“I can’t,” he explained, voice-wavering.

“They were his.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
The title does the job of setting the scene here, without ever needing to mention death – and at first it takes a while for the reader to get accustomed to the murky light and cobwebs of this shed of memories. As our unnamed couple pick through the remnants of a life, we see glimpses of its highlights – short stabbing sentences matching the choppy chronology. And finally, items that also hold a special place for the living. Gentle, authentic storytelling.

UNTITLED by Chelsea Allen, India

She squinted at the stranger beside her.
He’d asked her how she'd met the love of her life. Strange as it was for someone who'd known her for mere minutes, sitting on that park bench, to ask, she thought it over for a while. Remembered vaguely being flattered by a spontaneous man like that, and chuckled. Blast it, why not? Her grey hair flagged in the cool afternoon breeze.
“Oh, it was years ago.” She regarded the green patches of grass flashing from underneath the dead leaves. “His name was Ted. Met him on a plane to Florence. A perfect stranger, just like you.” She tipped her head towards him jokingly. His jaws stiffened the slightest, but his gaze stayed on her.
“And wouldn’t you know it,” she continued, “it was his first time flying.”
“No.”
“Heh. Yeah, never flown before. Was dead scared of it.”
She paused, trying to dislodge a stone lodged in the damp soil with her shoes.
“Why was he flying now?”
“Oh, his sister was getting married. There, in Florence … I remember the flight. Every second towards takeoff inflated his anxiety like a balloon—he described it like that later. Heh. And I was so terrible at comforting people. But then, out of nowhere, I found myself talking to him about all the bad dates I’d had. I bet I was annoying, but it worked. He was surprised he'd missed the takeoff.”
“I bet you weren’t annoying.”
She regarded his features—the afternoon sun, like the flames from a fireplace might, softened his wrinkles so he appeared somewhat younger. “He asked me to be his date to the wedding, and—Where have I seen you before?”
His chest heaved when he inhaled abruptly and slid his gaze from her to the ground.
“You met him again after the wedding?”
“We—we roamed across the city for the weekend.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice was small, almost disappearing into the rustling leaves overhead.
His gaze shot up to meet hers. A shiver ran down her spine as she searched his eyes and it came, like water that trickles through gaps between stones and then you remove the stones and it comes gushing out. She gasped.
“Oh, Ted!”
Her hands flew to her mouth as she shook her head. Tears pooled in her eyes. Ted took his wife’s hands into his.
“Oh, Ted!”
“It’s okay, Sara. It’s alright.”
He draped his arm across her shoulders and caressed her hair when she collapsed on his shoulders and silently wept. It was obvious he’d recited those lines over a thousand times now.
“Know,” she snif​fled, and his hand stilled on her head, “that I'll always love you.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yes, Ma’am.”
She chuckled, sniffling. Wiped at her eyes and sat back up. Before them, the sun quietly dipped behind the trees.
Under a pink sky, a voice broke into her thoughts. “Let’s head home.”
She squinted at the stranger beside her.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
What starts off as a park bench conversation soon takes us back in time, told in a back-and-forth of dialogue and meet-cute nostalgia. As the reader, we catch on before Sara does, such as it is, as her husband comes into view once more, always beside her – reminiscent of The Notebook. For a brief moment, the sun shines fondly on their reunion, but the final line brings the realisation that Ted is once more a stranger and the fog has descended yet again. Poignant storytelling.

If you’re caring for someone living with dementia and need support, call 1800 699 799 in Australia, 24 hours a day.

FIRSTS by Katie Ess, USA

And then we were three.

You came in a burst of sweat and fluids, and when they laid you on my chest, I’d never loved something that was covered in my own blood before. You cried for the first time and I cherished you with my whole heart – my beautiful, perfect first child.

There were so many firsts to commemorate. It was easy to remember the big ones – first word, first birthday, first steps. I wanted to keep track of them all, but there were too many.

Like the first time you found someone’s chewing gum on the sidewalk and ate it before I could stop you. Followed by our first trip to urgent care. Your dad paced while a doctor suppressed a chuckle, reassuring us there was nothing that could harm you in a piece of used chewing gum.

Your first fireworks show, you waved a tiny flag as you stared, entranced, at the flashes of color in the night sky. I’d worried you’d be scared by the noise, but you didn’t even flinch when the rockets boomed.

The first time you blew up a balloon, after all those failed attempts. Your success startled you so much, it popped out of your mouth and flew around the room in little sputtering circles. But then you giggled and jumped and cheered for yourself, and I cheered too. You re-inflated it again and let it fly, with the confidence of a child who knows he can do anything he sets his mind to.

The day we told you that you’d be a big brother, you replied it would be fine, as long as we didn’t have the gall to bring home a sister.

And then we were four.

Now there were double the firsts to remember. The day your brother learned to crawl was the day you made 100% on your first spelling test. Our first power outage, where we played board games by the flame of a candle, was the day your brother learned about dice. He wanted to roll them, again and again, knocking down our plastic pieces so the game was unplayable. Finally you just rolled the dice for your brother while he laughed and said “again.”

As you got older, the firsts came faster.

The first time you were too old for me to walk with you into school. The first day you asked for clothes instead of toys for your birthday. Your first crush, when your friend taught you how to flatter a girl to get her attention.

Our first tour of a university campus.

The first box I helped you pack, to move to the dorms.

The first hoodie I unpacked, hanging it carefully in your new closet. Remembering when we bought that hoodie on a chilly day during our first trip to New York.

The first time we hugged you goodbye. You smiled and told me you’d be okay, and we drove away, leaving you behind.

And then we were three.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
Using the repeated line to great effect, this story is a snapshot of childhood – told in 2nd-person POV from parent to child. From the excitement and anticipation of two becoming three, we see a life of milestones and memories, all tied together by firsts. The addition of a younger sibling also cleverly allows us to end with the repeated line – this time with tones of subtraction, not addition. For anyone that has seen a child grow up and leave home, this ‘it-goes-by-so-fast’ tribute to ‘firsts’ is bittersweet – as once they’re all-grown-up, they can also feel like ‘lasts’. Powerful stuff!

LIGHTING UP THE SKY by Ally Tutkaluk, QLD

It's just temporary.

That's what she kept telling herself, lining up with the rest of her neighbours, the mood growing flatter the further you went down the street. The line snaked around the block, different to those early days after the first invasion; then, it was just an elderly man or woman who might line up, or maybe a family who were always trying to make ends meet even in the time Before. When there was no minority and majority. There was only the desperate.

Anna clutched her token card, remembering that day there had been that young guy – crazed look in his eyes, she could almost see a flame in them, burning – who had randomly jumped her cousin. Grabbed her card. Ran off before anyone could stop him. The card was worthless to him in the end, of course; he thought he’d try and hack the system, try and re-assign the card to his own food bank. It didn’t work. And in the meantime, her cousin’s kids ate only one meal that day. Her cousin ate none.

The token cards were the only thing of value many of them had now. Inflation was soaring; everyday food items were now quadruple what they cost before. Anna’s bank account was meaningless. The currency now cast aside and quickly replaced with the tangible, tracked, and easy-to-lose tokens.

Suddenly – a siren. Anna’s head whipped around, almost simultaneously with that of the man next to her. They saw the flash in the sky just seconds after. Too far away for them to really worry.

Anna turned back around to face the front, holding her tokens even firmly now. She shut her eyes tight for a moment. If she scrunched them hard enough, she started to see lights explode and then dim again. Another explosion, another flash. Like the one in the sky, although Anna saw those ones much more often.

She was nearly at the front now. The guards flanked the door, standing underneath the striped flag, flapping in the breeze. Anna looked up at the flag now. Once something she was so proud of. Her country. Her home.

Now?

Now, just a series of explosions. Bright lights. Sometimes far away in the sky, sometimes closer.

Anna reached the front of the line. She held out her wrist for the guard’s scanner, heard the beep as it registered her implantation.

She told herself, one day there’d be no more lines. No more token cards. No more violence lighting up the sky.

It’s just temporary.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
A dystopian future (hopefully not too soon) plays out here for Anna, as she waits in line and looks back at how it all got this way. The personal details and hardships are specific, but the conflict remains intentionally vague – a series of lights and explosions on the horizon; a multitude of possibilities for the reader to insert. The repeated line here works powerfully as something to keep telling yourself to stop from succumbing to the realities of this new normal.

TRY AGAIN by Grandma Smillew, Poland

I enter the chamber, close my eyes, and pray it will work this time.
I'm back at the Nobel Prize award ceremony. It was supposed to be an evening of flattering compliments under the flashes of the international press, the best day of my life for me and my inflated ego.
But it turned into a nightmare when I killed my wife.
People keep telling me it was an accident, one of these statistically improbable quantum effects. There was nothing I could do.
But I know it's my fault.
I KNOW IT.
I couldn't save her that time, but I should try again. It's what a loving husband does. If I could invent a time-traveling machine, I should be able to find a way to save my wife.
I take out my notebook. I'm always following the scientific approach. I don't know any other way. Life is a chaotic system. A small change in initial conditions can quickly ripple into a tsunami. Or the death of a loved one.
Instruction for iteration #233: Touch the flag pin on your suit before lighting up your wife's cigarette.
“Here you go, honey.”
My wife draws closer to the flame, takes a drag, and before she can exhale the smoke, a giant cockroach materializes and bites her head off. It has a yellow rose painted on its abdomen. I've never seen that color before. A small change in initial conditions can also ripple into an inconsequential change in the result.
I press the emergency reset button before the cockroach turns into the usual giant tiramisu.
I'm back at the lab, ready for iteration #234.
I enter the chamber, close my eyes, and pray it will work this time.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
This one’s for the methodical scientists out there – a mix of time travel and elimination experiments as our guilt-ridden narrator attempts to change history Groundhog Day style to stop a tragedy occurring. After 233 attempts however, things aren’t looking promising for this precise method (we assume the Nobel Prize was for quantum physics or something similarly world-bending!) and we’d suggest giving up on this tsunami of tiramisu and perhaps just killing baby Hitler instead and hoping for the best!

LIST OF LIFE by Jennifer Adams, QLD

‘I really like our life,’ Billy told Susie as he held her hand softly.

The end of the first anniversary dinner with Susie resulted in a list of everything they would never do as a couple. Drawing on conversations of how they would never ‘be that couple‘, or ‘do those things’, they had a collective flash of brilliance and started a list of the behaviours and habits they determinedly believed would never be part of their life. The top 5.

1. Staying in on both Friday and Saturday nights
2. Weekend Bunnings trips
3. Talking about gardening to friends
4. Owning a Thermomix
5. Giving up their lifestyle for children

The list grew for three years, with each of them flagging a relevant event or observation that made them roll their eyes. Then Susie fell pregnant and three months into the pregnancy, number one was crossed off. There were still over 30 items listed – they felt okay.

Susie’s sisters insisted they have a gender reveal party – farewell #19. Susie and Billy had to pop random balloons from the enormous bunch that’d been installed as the centrepiece in their garden, until one of them released a plume of pink dust. Then one of Billie’s brother in laws engaged him in a conversation about his lawn maintenance. Farewell #3.

#5 went up in flames by the beginning of the third trimester. The baby shower swept #4 out the door when Susie’s friends pooled their money to buy a Thermomix so she could make her own baby food.

Sitting at a restaurant for anniversary number four, they pulled out the list. The Moleskine notebook into which they had plotted and predicted their future was worn around the edges. The pages from the first night were splashed with red wine and the writing was scrappy, capturing the early enthusiasm of their commitment to each other to remain young and vibrant – so sure of how their life would be.

They crossed #12 off the list: going to a restaurant before 7.00 pm, and #48: playing games on their phones while out at dinner – although Billy tried to argue that Wordle didn’t count.

Baby Kim arrived the next week. #32 was no ‘olde worlde’ made up, or ‘rich people’ names; must be single syllable. Billy put an emphatic tick next to that one and smiled.

‘Don’t flatter yourself’ said Susie as she crossed off #53: always have private health cover, from the shared room at the local public hospital. One income sucked.

When the cleaning was finished after Kim’s 3rd birthday party, with Fred growing strong in Susie’s belly, Billy pulled out the notebook as it was their anniversary and this is what they did.

The number of items added over the last year were fewer, and the items being crossed off increased.

‘Do we need to keep doing this Billy?’

‘We’re growing up and life’s just happening. Is it that bad that we don’t get to control everything? Are you happy if we skip the list this year?’

‘I really like our life,’ Billy told Susie as her held her hand softly.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
Ahhh yes, we all love a good list, and this story plays out beautifully – starting with the overly-smug couple as they wallow in their ‘thou shalt nots’ of coupledom, passing judgement on all they see around them. Of course, as the years pass, the forbidden items start dropping like flies in hilarious fashion and by the time the final line arrives, it has taken on a new meaning that so many will identify with. A light-hearted look at life’s many twists and turns and the ever-changing definition of happiness.

MINE by Sarah Lazaris, WA

This is my body.

Mine. I occupy it, I own it, I possess it entirely. It is mine to use, control, and dominate. I get to choose.

And I do.

I choose the grams and the macros, the calories in versus calories out, the minutes spent exercising, and the appropriate heart rate and intensity level. I choose the kitchen scales, which so confidently tell me just how much is acceptable. I choose perfection. Control. Denial.

And then, the scales. Oh, the scales. My alarm went off (at the controlled wake time of my choosing). I used the bathroom, stripped, and stepped – the morning ritual that grounds all other decisions for the day.
62.4kg.
No.
I got off the scale. I got on the scale.
62.4.
The previous day flashed through my mind.
I dived for my phone and opened the app, scrolling frantically to pinpoint the culprit.
Lasagna.
Shame ignited into flames of fury at my lapse.
“Not today,” I told myself.
No carefully measured half cup of iron-fortified cereal. No 8-9 almonds (depending on how many equalled 10 grams). No coffee.
Well, maybe coffee. Black.
No lunch out with the girls – I had a big breakfast. No lunch at all, if I could get away with it.
On the scales. Off the scales.
61.7.
Yes.
Log every bite.
60.5.
Yes. Yes..
60.2.
58.9.
57.6.
My stomach was flatter already.
56.4.

Staring blankly at my desk, I registered the ‘ping’ of an email. HR. An appointment.
“Your workmates have flagged some concerns.”
This is my choice.
“We’d like you to take some leave”.
This is my body.
“These services are free and confidential”.
It’s mine. It’s mine. It’s mine.

Another day, another appointment.
On the scales. Off the scales.
Appointment.
An increased calorie limit.
On the scales. Off the scales.
Appointment.
An inflating waistline.
On the scales. Off the scales. Out with the scales.
A meal out with friends. Lasagna.
Appointment.
Delete the app.
Some days salad, some days ice cream.
It’s my choice.
Watch the sunrise. Sleep in. Eat the birthday cake. Drink the wine. Dance with abandon. Giggle through yoga. Cry in movies. Read the novel. Love. Love. Love.

This is my body.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
Told mostly line-by-line as a series of actions, observations and realisations, this can be a difficult read – all-too-familiar for so many who have an unforgiving inner monologue or have known someone in a similar situation. The short sentence format feels appropriate for what starts as a laundry-list of loathing, each jaunty journal entry craving control in pursuit of perfection. Mercifully however, it turns  a corner as our narrator learns to mine the good things in life – acceptance over denial and the joys of imperfection. Once more, it ends as it starts – and just like our parents in the previous story, the sentence now takes on a different, healthier meaning.

HOW MANY TIMES by Harrison Dale, NSW

How many times must you inflate one’s heart before it bursts?
In the dark and infinite chamber of the man’s chest, a balloon lies flaccid on the dusty floor. The man sits staring at an empty page and he calculates a plot line as though it were an equation.
‘What will entertain them? What will shock them? What will please them?’
He writes a word. Then a sentence. And as if a single breath were blown into the balloon, it begins to grow.
He lumbers through the work. Writing, rewriting, rewriting, always with the audience’s pleasure at the front of mind. With every sentence, the balloon swells and rises until he ties it off with a triumphant full stop. The balloon bobs around the roof of the cavern, amongst a hundred other balloons he has blown before. He drapes colourful flags around the ceiling and he turns to his audience and says, ‘Aren’t my balloons pretty? Aren’t they fun? Shouldn’t we celebrate them?’
Yet no one notices. No one praises his balloons. They simply stare through the dark cavity in his chest and out the other side into the bright lights of life.
Over days and weeks and months the balloons wither and fall and lie like a hundred leeches upon the floor.
The man looks at the mess he has made and gasps and chokes and finds himself puffed. So he takes his leave and goes about life. He takes deep breaths and inhales the world around him, the bitter tastes of suffering and the sweet zests of fortune. Then he sleeps and in dream his thoughts and feelings and desires are brought to life and moulded into vivid forms with faces and voices and stories of their own.
He wakes and thanks his muse. Then he sits and he writes and without thinking the words flash forth from his chest to the page. He writes out of gratitude and pain and all the emotions between. He writes what is true to him.
Inside his chest, the balloon has grown so large that he questions deflating it. ‘What will people think?’ he says.
But spurned by the mess on the floor of the cavern, he ties the balloon off and hoists it with little thoroughfare. But as the balloon kisses the ceiling it pops and from it bursts light and warmth. His audience turns to him and they are drawn to the aura like moths to a flame, comforted in its glow. And as they hover around the small star, they see themselves in its reflection.
The audience thanks the man and they flatter him and say, ‘I understand now.’ But the light wains and the warmth fades and the audience turns away once more toward the bright lights of life beyond.
Alone again in the dark, the man sits in his suffering and gives thanks for his fortunes. He takes a deep breath and begins to write.
How many times must you inflate one’s heart before it bursts?

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
Okay, so this might take the cake for the most ‘meta’ showcased story ever – but even without the rather on-the-nose writerly comparisons (possibly even to entering into flash fiction challenges, ahem), we were impressed by the use of language and metaphor to set the scene here. Rejection is arguably a bigger part of writing than success, and this deals with it in a visually inventive way. We just hope the repeated question at the start and end is truly rhetorical – because it’s different for everyone. Or it’s 42.

ABBY IN THE GARDEN POND by Jane Claire Jackson, France

Abby drowsed in the balmy afternoon, resting against green wrought iron flag irises. Lulled by distant birdsong, her mind drifted as her breathing slowed.
“Hey, Sleepyhead! Why’re you wasting time sitting there?”
Abby peeped through heavy eyelids, searching for the caller.
An enormous goldfish leant against the flagstones surrounding the pond, staring at her with beady eyes, round mouth blowing bubbles.
“Come for a swim! The water’s lovely and warm.”
Abby felt herself slipping into the pond, her body melting into the liquid environment. She hated swimming at school, but now found herself submerging to explore the depths with ease. Aquatic plants formed a sort of labyrinth and round every corner were fish in various shades of orange, white and black. The goldfish who’d spoken to her was back in the water when she resurfaced, his body flatter and more streamlined.
“I knew you'd enjoy it!” he gloated.
Abby's spotted tabby, Poppy, peered over the pond’s edge and all the fish instantly disappeared. Poppy tentatively reached out a paw towards Abby, who shouted as loudly as possible, “No, Poppy! Bad cat! Shoo! Shoo!”
Turning away, Poppy spotted a fat collared dove strutting about the lawn. Abby had retreated to the centre of the pond and could just see it pecking at seeds fallen from the birdfeeder. She watched Poppy crouch, inch nearer and finally pounce, but the dove vanished, and Poppy walked away pretending nothing had happened.
Abby muffled laughter. She didn't want Poppy hearing and returning to the pond.
An iridescent blue dragonfly flew overhead and Abby noticed another pond inhabitant, wearing a green and black striped waistcoat, sitting on a waterlily pad, watching it with mild interest.
“You've as much chance of catching that dragonfly as Poppy had of catching the collared dove!” Abby said aloud.
“Yeah, well, I'm not really hungry,” the frog retorted, its throat inflating and deflating as it spoke.
Abby felt a little wary of the frog, who was twice her size, but she was weary from treading water and decided to risk climbing onto the lilypad near him. Struggling with the leaf, which kept dipping into the water under her weight, she felt something wet grasp her around the waist, then hoist her into the air before depositing her unceremoniously onto the floating pad. Turning to where the frog sat, she witnessed the long end of its tongue flash back into its mouth like a retreating flame and squirmed at the thought of what had just happened.
Remembering her manners, Abby thanked the frog for his help.
“Don't mention it,” he replied as Abby wrung water from her hair and clothes.
She lay back, exhausted, her eyes closing.
Abby drowsed in the balmy afternoon, resting against green wrought iron flag irises.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
With dreamy fairytale vibes reminiscent of Alice and her looking glass or the Secret Garden, we are introduced to a forest-clearing of friendly characters splashing in the pond or playfully frollicking nearby. It’s the kind of scene that feels familiar – from Hundred Acre Wood and the wind blowing through the willows to the best of Disney and the forest of the Gruffalo, complete with talking animals. The repeated line suggests it was all a dream (by the way, how good is the verb ‘drowsed’!) – but our money is on Abby’s hair being still damp when she wakes.

THE MAN AND THE BOY by Dan Watts, WA

The world is a barren wasteland, and the man and the boy wander through it.

The sky is grey, the sun a mere memory, buried beneath layers of heavy clouds. Their faces are cloaked in dirt and despair. Their footsteps are slow and measured, as if every movement is an effort.

As they trudge along the desolate road, the boy spots something on the horizon—a flash of colour in the sea of grey. It is a flag, tattered and torn, but still defiantly waving in the wind. The boy tugs at his father's sleeve, his eyes wide with wonder.
“Daddy, look!” he says, pointing to the flag.

It is a rare sight, a beacon of hope in this unforgiving world. They quicken their pace, drawn towards the flag, but the man remains alert.

As they approach, they see that the flag marks the entrance to a makeshift camp – tents and shanties surrounded by a leaning wall of salvaged metal and wood. A group of survivors huddle around a flame, their faces gaunt and weary. They regard the man and the boy with wary eyes.

“What do you want?” one of them grumbles.

“We saw your flag,” the man replies. “We're just looking for a safe place to rest.”

The survivors exchange glances, then reluctantly allow them inside. They are given a meagre meal and a corner of a tent to sleep in.

The man and the boy settle into their new life at the camp. The survivors share stories of the world before, tales of a time when the land was fertile and the sky was blue. It was a world the boy had only heard of in whispered legend.

The leader of the camp, a charismatic man named David, seems too eager to have them stay. He showers them with praise, his words a constant stream of flattery.

“You're a valuable addition to our camp,” David says. “We're lucky to have you.”

There is something in David's eyes—a flicker of greed, a hunger.

One night, as the man and the boy huddle in their tent, they overhear a whispered conversation outside.

“We’ll end them”, David says. “They're inflating our numbers, taking our resources.”

The man knows they must leave, to escape the twisted web that had ensnared them. They pack their meagre belongings and slip out in the dead of night, leaving behind the flag that had once symbolised hope.

As they disappear into the darkness, the boy looks up at his father, his eyes filled with fear.

“Where are we going, father?” he asks.

The man pauses, his heart heavy with uncertainty. He knows one thing for certain – they are better off alone, than with people where the promise of safety is a mirage.

“We're going home,” the man whispers, his voice a truth, in a world filled with lies. They walk on, their footsteps echoing in the darkness.

The world is a barren wasteland, and the man and the boy wander through it.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
Another dystopian styled entry – perhaps The Road meets The Last of Us – this tale caught our attention for its commitment to the world it creates, without ever specifically wasting words on backstory. While it doesn’t hide the fact that this is a father and his son, the harshness of the landscape means that they walk together, alone – always referred to as the man and the boy. The repeated line works well to first introduce them and then, following an encounter (good use of ‘inflating’), returns to send them on their way again and reaffirm the environment they occupy.

MY SPEECH by Robert Fairhead, NSW

I'm getting too old for this.
My speechwriter's pulse quickens as the PM mounts the flag-decked stage, flanked by senior ministers and mining industry executives, to announce her government's green coal plan. Panned by environmentalists and scientists, polling suggests it could be a vote winner … if the PM nails my speech.

“The flames of climate change are raging,” she begins, with a hint of Churchill in her tone.

I'm momentarily distracted, musing whether I should have written, “We will fight global warming on the beaches” instead of the line the PM delivers next, “Now is the time for climate action, from the ground up.”

I've always loved words. My earliest memories of writing are of devouring Enid Blyton's Famous Fives and filling a school exercise book with my Blytonesque short stories, The Sand Island Adventures.

“Our future, our children's future, and our children's children's future is green coal.”

The PM's words, my words, wrench me back to the present. The younger journos and TV commentators are angling their phones to record the speech, which they'll upload to AI apps to parse my prose, cross-reference the quotes and churn out stories, hopefully for human proofreading and final edits, but typically nowadays, published directly online and straight to print.

As a former journalist, I prefer the old-school hack's approach of scribbling shorthand notes for well-crafted articles composed at the office or, as likely, in a hotel room or on a beer-stained table in a bar.

“This will be a partnership between government and industry.”

The mining industry executives are smiling. The PM's speech, my speech, is a state-sponsored blank cheque to dig more mines and inflate company profits and executive bonuses. No wonder environmentalists and climate scientists are furious, given the murmurings of backroom deals. However, I'm not an investigative journalist.

I wanted to be a writer, but my father said I should get a real job. So I studied journalism, paying my dues at regional rags and climbing the pressroom ladder to become the senior political reporter for a leading national daily. The next rung in my career was to be an editor. But I loved words and writing. And in a flash of inspiration, I became a speechwriter.

“We are at a pivotal moment in history.”

I've worked for countless high-level bureaucrats and ministers and several PMs. And if I felt inclined, I could publish a tell-all memoir. But I'd rather write the bestselling novel that's been building inside me since I was a kid, making up stories about Sand Island.

“With green coal, we will tackle climate change and secure the future.”

I suppress a groan as the PM and entourage leave the stage. Her Churchillian oratory descended into meaningless tripe, my tripe. But no one seems to have noticed. Ministers and mining company executives congratulate and flatter the PM. And she's pleased, looking over and thanking me with a silent nod for my speech.

Writing that bestseller is growing more tempting.
I'm getting too old for this.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
Wonderfully observed with a clever framework built around a PM’s speech, the real action happens backstage with our speechwriter (the real heroes of any politician’s profile – yes even Obama had people writing his words). As jaded as the green coal being proffered onstage, this writer reminisces on how they got here and the kind of writing that actually inspires them. The intermittent snippets of the campaign speech interplay beautifully with the narrator’s growing dissatisfaction – each building to a climax of sorts. The ‘too old for this’ line was made most famous by Danny Glover in the 1980s Lethal Weapon movies, but here it feels equally memorable – instantly relatable for anyone who has ever written words for others!

SMALL BOATS by Mel Francis, Netherlands

“It's deflating.”
I'd been given the job of pumping up the long tube that would take me and 40 others across the sea. “We need a new one, this one’s leaking.”
“It’s this or nothing.” The smuggler’s voice was disinterested. We were just business to him.

We'd been waiting many days in the dunes for the call with the coordinates of the rendezvous. I have to reach my uncle in England. My last promise to my mother. We've paid dearly for our berth. It cost me more than money.

My journey started with my mother after my father and oldest brother were taken by the Taliban. I don't blame the foot soldiers. They've had the flames of zealotry fanned by old men who unite the young behind a flag that means less to them than the power it brings.

Bobo never reached Europe. We were attacked in Libya. The women and younger children were separated from the men. I was 14 then. We were sold and bartered in another lawless country. The womenfolk were kept there. They had a different value to their captors.

The smuggler threw me a puncture kit. “Here! Hurry up. The cops are probably on the way.”
Others joined me from the shadows. Together we tried to patch things up as best we could.
“Maybe Allah is looking out for us tonight.” I muttered into the darkness.
“Don't flatter yourself. God abandoned us at home, or we wouldn't have had to make these terrible journeys.” The words crushed the last of my hope.

“It's deflating. Yalla, please yalla.” A desperate voice in broken English, on the phone to the British coastguards. We'd been at sea for about 8 hours. The sun had expanded the air in the rubber tube, and the boat had a slow puncture. A child wailed fearfully.

The boat wasn’t seaworthy. Paper-thin plywood that flexed with every single wave was the only thing that kept us from the water. It was starting to swell with moisture, and I was terrified it would break. Many of us tried to scoop water out with our hands so we could keep afloat. The small engine wasn’t big enough for this many people.

Night came again. All we could do was watch in anguish for the flashing lights on the ships. No help came. We’d called the coastguards until all our phones were dead. The child had stopped wailing. The desperation was still and palpable.

A loud splash. Had someone fallen in? More splashes followed. A cry went up. We'd hit land.

I allowed myself to dream of a place I belonged. Where I didn't have to fear. It was amazing to dwell there, to believe I was safe.

I soon learned that Britain was not this place. We’re prisoners. We'd fled danger and wanted to come to family in Britain, where we could belong. Instead, told we’re a flood; dirty water where it shouldn't be. Here, we're treated like criminals and told we're illegal.
It's deflating.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
We end with once more the power of double meanings – a simple two word sentence taking on a completely different role from start to finish. Along the way, it’s a very topical scene of displacement as refugees make their way from unrest in their homeland towards the perceived safety of a country and a concept that becomes a conceit. The senses are brought fully into play as the boat makes its perilous journey, but ultimately it’s something else that knocks the air out of our travellers. Powerful, heartbreaking, and sadly, based on too many true stories to count.

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we like to include an extra LONGLIST of stories that stood out from the hundreds and were highly considered for the showcase. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, well done – and we hope to see you ALL next month!

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

• UNTITLED by Raphie Jay, QLD
• JULES by Jacqui Constable, QLD
• JACK O’LANTERN by Ella T. Holmes, QLD
• VERY FIRST, VERY LAST by Ylva Ve, Sweden
• A GAMER’S GUIDE TO GIRLS by Byron Jordan de Borja, NSW
• TAKING TURNS by Kylie McCorquodale, NSW
• DON’T FLATTER THE DEVIL by Peter Jordan, WA
• THE CAPTAIN by Jackson Judd, WA
• UNTITLED by Victor Dilks, VIC
• MY WORLD by Phoebe Rogers, VIC
• UNTITLED by Amy OReilly, WA
• THE BUTTON by Phil Margetts, UK
• INCENTIVE by Zarah Virtanen Windh, Sweden
• PERUVIAN CAKE BATTER ICE CREAM by Doreen Shea, USA
• FLASHES, FLAMES AND FURIOUS FRAGMENTED MEMORIES by Dianne Honey, VIC
• NOBODY HOME by Doug Jacquier, SA
• FREEFALL by Tamra Palmer, NSW
• THE SUIT by Angela Huskisson, UK
• WHEN YOU ARE THE OTHER WOMAN by Masha Petrovic, Serbia
• FLYING TOO HIGH by Jessica Southern-Reid, NSW
• LADYBIRD by Megan Howden, VIC
• LIFEGUARD – A DAY AT THE BEACH by Karen Uttien, WA
• TODAY WILL BE A GOOD DAY by K Tu, VIC
• HURTS LIKE HELL by Anna McEvoy, QLD
• OBSTACLE by A.J. Lourey, QLD
• THE BURNING CANDLE by Meg Taylor, VIC
• THE AISLE by Isabelle Comber, NSW
• THE CARER by Janet Mell, WA
• UNTITLED by Connie Boland, Canada
• SCHEDULED FOR LOVE by Marc Howard, VIC
• EGO by Dennis Callegari, VIC
• UNTITLED by M^h, Zimbabwe
• US AND THEM by Wes Hawkins, WA
• THE MIRROR by Vicki Neele, VIC
• FINDING DORIS by Kelli Johnson, USA
• RETURN TO PARADISE by Sharon S. Summervale, UK