Welcome to the April creative showcase – the monthly featherbed of fiction where we wake up and smell the sweet aroma of freshly brewed stories. So, are you ready to put this month’s challenge to bed? Here were the prompts:

• Each story’s setting had to be a BED. 
• Each story’s first sentence had to contain no more than three words.
• Each story had to include the words SHAPE, ENTER and QUESTION. (Longer variations were acceptable.)

More than 600 stories entered the judges’ bed this month (roll over, roll over), asking all sorts of questions and dealing with all shapes and sizes of subject matter. Something that came through loud and clear is that beds can hold a LOT of emotions!

BEDTIME STORIES

As expected, we saw plenty of creativity in the TYPES of beds you delivered to us this month. Some of them included:

• Childhood beds, sometimes with monsters lurking in the shadows (and sometimes those monsters were more human).
• Marital beds, sometimes full and sometimes half-empty. 
• Garden beds – containing colourful flowers and often something a little more sinister.
• River beds – dried up and acting like a road though the landscape.
• Ocean beds – a mysterious wonderland!
• Oyster beds – pearls, anyone?
• Truck beds – less mysterious, but no less eventful at times.
• Hospital beds, where visitors could include estranged loved ones or Death itself.
• Hotel and motel beds – capturing the transient nature of these locations.
• Makeshift beds on streets or park benches.

On top of these neatly made beds, we welcomed a range of characters, genres and perspectives. Many made the bed itself the character; for others it was bedbugs. Subjects dealt with included insomnia, heartbreak and depression, but there was also room for comedy and horror too. It was a fun prompt – showcasing a lot of creativity!

If you took part, well done. And special congratulations to this month’s Top Pick story from Jane Saunders. You can read it below, along with other showcased stories and our longlist at the end. Enjoy!

---

APRIL TOP PICK:

THE VISITOR by Jane Saunders, UK

“He's here.”

Anna sat amid the wreckage of her bed. The sheets were twisted, half-hanging to the floor, a crumpled shirt tangled at her feet. A wine bottle lay on its side, a dark stain spreading like a crimson map across the mattress. She hadn't meant to fall asleep. Not here. Not tonight.

The dim glow from the streetlight outside filtered through threadbare curtains, casting amber shadows that caught on the debris of her existence—ashtrays overfilled with lipstick-smudged cigarette butts, a plate streaked with something she barely remembered eating, mismatched socks strewn like abandoned flags of surrender. A museum of her own undoing, curated with meticulous neglect.

And now, he was here again.

The shape hovered near the foot of the bed, shifting in and out of the gloom. Not quite solid, not quite shadow. A presence she had come to expect, a question she had never dared to answer.

“You shouldn't be here,” she muttered, rubbing her temples where a dull ache had taken residence.

“But you let me enter,” the voice replied, low and smooth as river stones, as familiar as the stale air in the room.

Anna exhaled, fingers instinctively reaching for a cigarette, then freezing mid-air when she surveyed the chaos around her. It felt ridiculous, the idea of anything more being added to this tableau of desolation.

“Why do you keep coming back?” she asked, knowing he wouldn't give her the truth. Knowing she wouldn't recognise it if he did.

A pause hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken histories. Then, “Because you keep calling me.”

She closed her eyes. Maybe he was right. Maybe she did summon him—not with words or rituals, but with the way she let herself unravel, with the nights spent staring at the ceiling until dawn crept in, letting memories leak into the hairline fractures of her mind like poison.

The shape moved closer, barely disturbing the air, bringing with it the scent of something long forgotten—something that reminded her of rain-soaked pavement and promises made under streetlights.

“You want me to stay,” it wasn't a question.

Did she? That was the precipice she had circled for months, feet dangling over the edge, never brave enough to look down.

She ran a hand over the sheets, their texture rough with old sleep and dried tears, catching on her calloused fingertips. This bed was not just a bed. It was a statement, a confession, a battlefield where she fought herself night after night. The shape was part of it now—woven into the disorder, just another piece of evidence among the artifacts of all her hollow nights before.

Anna sighed, the sound like a final surrender. “Stay, then. Just… don't speak.”

The air stilled. The presence settled. And for the first time in weeks, she slept

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Beautifully told and presenting a scene dressed with such desperate detail, this piece invites you to imagine who this visitor is at Anna’s bedside. A real person? Surely not; it’s a figment of her imagination. Of her past? A lover? An addiction? A disease? The dark black dog of depression? However you choose to interpret it, there is no denying the word choice that sprinkles sorrow, shadows and stale surrender throughout. From rain-soaked pavement and promises made under streetlights to a museum of curated regret, this bedtime story hovers between reality and metaphor yet makes every line feel lived-in, with dozens of sublime details to discover. Haunting stuff.

---

THE FIRST TIME by Meredith Kingsley, VIC

‘Should we try?’

‘I think so.’

‘Are you sure you want to?’

‘Yes. I’m sure. Do you want to?’

‘I’ve always wanted to try it. But.’

‘But what?’

‘But what if it’s not the right size? What if it’s too big? What if it doesn’t, you know, fit?’

‘Relax. I’m sure it will fit. We might just have to squeeze it in.’

‘It’s a tight space where it’s got to go is all I’m saying.’

‘It will fit. I’m sure of it.’

‘It will be different from what we’re used to.’

‘Yes. But in a good way, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Should we lie down?’

‘I guess so. But what if someone sees us?’

‘There’s no one around.’

‘Not at the moment. But what if someone turns up and starts asking us questions? What will we say?’

‘We tell them it’s what we always wanted.’

‘I’ve never done this before.’

‘Me neither.’

‘This whole thing is new to me. I’m worried it’s cheap. Do you think it’s cheap? I don’t want it to be cheap.’

‘It’s not cheap.’

‘It’s a commitment. It’s like we’re finally about to enter adulthood.’

‘Adulting, I think they call it.’

‘It’s a big decision, is all I’m saying.’

‘I know. But I think it’s the right decision.’

‘Do you? How do you know?’

‘Give me your hand. Touch it. It feels amazing, doesn’t it?’

‘It’s too soft.’

‘No, it’s not! Put your hand there. Like that. Now give it a moment to really feel it. Stroke it.’

‘Like this?’

‘Yes! Exactly like that. See, it’s firm.’

‘Oh, wow. I see. Yes, you’re right. It feels firmer than when I first touched it.’

‘We should lie down.’

‘Okay.’

‘Oh, this is so good. Does it feel good for you too?’

‘Oh. My. God. I feel like I’m on a cloud.’

‘Good afternoon. Are you two in the market for a king size bed? The one you are lying on is a great choice. It’s on sale at twenty percent off the ticketed price and, if you buy it today, I will throw in four pillows and a set of sheets for free.’

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The back and forth dialogue here works particularly well in enticing the reader into what might normally happen for the first time on a bed. And even if you spot where it’s actually going, it’s still a fun journey all the same! A fun storytelling see-saw that lightens the mood between two heavy stories (spoilers!).

---

SOMETHING by Kinneson Lalor, UK

Do not move. Even if you are sure there’s nothing on this never-ending back road except you and the sun and the five square inches of recycled air you’ve been breathing for four hours, do not move. You are not a person. You are a rough shape under a tarp. You could be anything. You are nothing. Until you cross the border, you are cargo, shadow, trouble.

You remember a news story, in the before, about forty people suffocating in the trailer of a lorry, the heat slowly increasing until the metal burned blisters on their bare feet, the carbon dioxide thumping in their heads, their chests taking deeper breaths that were empty of the thing they lived for, their lungs wringing black and dry. Some fainted, burns along strips of flesh on just one side, their bodies buttressed by two others whose skin was also cracking in long welts coloured with dirt and rust until their skin looked like Turner’s paintings of the Thames. Some pushed against the doors, fingertips worn raw against the handle, blood splotched on the metal in one shoulder-height shallow dent. One crawled the walls, fingers shoving under a rusted spot in the welded join of the roof. He fell at some point, his wrist, rust under his nails, snapped back on a crate of velvet cushions vacuum-packed and boxed to rigidity.

You remember the police unloading the bodies, unloading the cushions, the careful way they unzipped the plastic, the red of the one with hummingbirds and lilies, a cheap imitation of the one you leaned your elbow on as you had watched the news. You were sad for those forty men in the trailer, of course you were, but you were sadder about the cushion because you spent so long looking for that exact shade of red. What was the point of spending your life working so hard to surround yourself with nice things if their beauty was cheapened by some shitty imitation? You thought: someone should do something, but you weren’t sure if you meant about the people smugglers or the knock-off cushion, its colour, you now realise, exactly like dried blood.

Now, it’s your country at war.

Did those forty men think the same thing you did as you entered the warehouse, as you climbed into the bed of the truck, as they pulled the tarp over your head, as your bones were bruised charcoal by the potholes and missing suspension; the question you’ve been recycling faster than the air: why doesn’t someone do something?

You imagine someone just like you, except not quite, someone in a place like this, only a little different, someone who watches the news every night while browsing bespoke furniture on their phone, someone who’ll see the red and blue flashing lights surrounding the truck, watch as the police peel back the tarp like popped skin on a blister, hold their breath and think: someone should do something.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Something about the ‘bed’ prompt brought out some difficult subject matter this month. Something about this story makes you feel every pothole of the road. Something about the bystander apathy and reality of it only mattering when it becomes your own refugee problem was explored in this truck ride. And finally, there is something about recycling a question faster than the air that made this a bumpy ride yet important read.

---

NOT WHAT YOU SIGNED UP FOR by Romany Jane, ACT

Slide into bed.

Pretend it’s soft.

Pretend it’s welcoming after twelve hours of sitting in front of a screen. Pretend it’s big enough to roll over without lifting your tired, heavy body to turn on the spot and tangle in the sheet. Pretend your girlfriend is there beside you and your feet aren’t hanging over the end.

Pretend the new guy isn’t shaking the top bunk with his homesick sobs. The newbies are always like that, before they settle in. You’re an old-hand now: six months. You haven’t sobbed like that for at least the last two.

Pretend you don’t cry a little under the cover of his beginner bewilderment.

Close your eyes. The functional, bare-walled room with its six bunks is bright with daylight as the other nightshifters clamber onto their own insufficient mattresses. Pretend you can’t see the striped shadows from the bars on the seventh-floor windows even when your eyes are closed.

Activate their ‘mothering’ mode. Be a widower, a silver fox, a single parent, a selfless hero on a battlefield or a soccer field where little orphans play with balls made of your old socks. Let them feel heard and needed. Be interested. Ask questions. Let them give you their money.

Remind yourself that they are not actually your mother, no matter how much their caring, their concern, lures it from you. No matter how much your fingers want to type ‘help me, Mum’ instead of ‘I’d love to teach you about crypto.’ Press enter.

Pretend you don’t need your mother.

Tell yourself it’s not really that bad because, after all, those people – those pigs – have the money to lose. It’s just about equalisation of the wealth, isn’t it? Tell this to the others around you. Celebrate the wins. Enjoy the rewards.

Pretend that you believe this.

Pretend the smothering weight on your chest is a sleeping cat, not your soul slowly hardening into a lump of black rubber that is already cracking and crumbling as the days pass.

Pretend the shape under the sheet on the bunk to your right hasn’t stayed the same for three days now. When his fattened pig escaped, the bosses took from his body what he’d lost them in currency.

Pretend he’s sleeping.

Pretend that when you get out you’re going to share the names of the others in these bunks so their families know. Write them on a piece of cigarette carton tucked under the insole of your left shoe. Write them and write them and write them until you run out of empty cigarette packets and room in your shoes.

Listen as the guard does his rounds. Lie still and pretend to sleep as if your nerves aren’t tingling with the thought of freedom. With the thought of sliding through loose bars on a fifth floor window, falling into the darkness, just before your shift tonight.

Pretend your mother will be there to catch you.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

More dark stuff (sorry!). And a classic example of showing not telling here – as we are given plenty of visceral scene setting details without ever explicitly saying what exactly is happening. The repetition of the ‘Pretend’ lines gives this a rhythmic flow, while the helpless nature of the environment is designed to be confronting. We wish we could say this is a good example of dystopian fiction, but sadly cyber camps are in fact very real (mostly in Asia) – and that appears to be what is being conveyed here. Yet another confronting way to use the ‘bed’ prompt.

---

HOW TO SCARE A CHILD by Scott Davies, UK

“I eat bed?” Higorimous Superpavlova asked the question, scratching his fluffy head.

“No,” came the gently exasperated reply of the man standing between Higorimous Superpavlova and said bed, “No. Higorimous not eat bed.”

Cedric Fiddlestick was a wizard. You could tell this quite easily. Partly by the shape of his hat, but mostly by the shape of his body, which took on the dimensions of a bin bag filled with jelly and flung into a tree.

Cedric had taken his role at the Monstrous Creatures Rehabilitation Centre For Boys several years ago, after being expelled from the University For Somewhat Gifted Wizards over a questionable incident related to, well, it’s best not to get into it here and now. But, broadly speaking, they had it coming to them and/or it was an accident, depending on who you ask and whether they are able to answer.

Nowadays, Cedric’s days are filled by training monsters such as Higorimous Superpavlova over there on how to best scare children without killing them.

For example, in this class, Cedric’s job was to educate monsters on how to jump out of a closet, yell “bleurgh!” in a deep, guttural tone, and then skulk back off into the darkness. This was a class Higorimous had needed to repeat every year since his fur grew in.

What the monsters are not meant to do in this class of course is eat the child, the bed, the parents, the dog, as was once the case, the contents of the neighbours shed, including but not limited to, three shovels, a lawnmower, one cat, and one briefly relieved mouse.

“I not eat bed.” Higorimous sighed, nodding his boulder sized head confidently.

“Correct!” Well done, Mister Superpavlova. Bravo!” Cedric beamed, clapping his hands together in front of his deep red and barely threadbare robe, “Bravo, indeed. Now, once more from the top.”

Cedric gestured for Higorimous to get into the closet.

Given the size of the monster compared to the size of the closet this took longer than you might think and some considerable encouragement by way of an oar.

Once Higorimous had been wedged into the closet Cedric closed the slatted white doors behind him and, peering through one of the gaps in the door, checked once again his understanding.

“So, once more from the top, Higorimous. Enter the room with much gusto, shout “bleurgh”, wiggle your arms around, wait for the scream, and leave. Ready?”

“Higorimous ready.” came the muffled rasp from inside the closet.

“Okay. On three. One, two…”

Right on cue the wood of the closet erupted, splinters flying through the air. Higorimous leapt from the closet, opened his mouth wide, and swallowed the bed in its entirety. He belched, drooled, and spat a small, slimy child out onto the carpet.

Turning to Cedric, grinning from ear to ear, Higorimous proudly announced, “Higorimous eat bed. Higorimous do good?”

With a sigh, Cedric rubbed his face with both hands.

“Well, at least you spat Timothy out this time.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Okay, we’re back to normal beds in normal houses! Although, beware as there are monsters about. Clearly inspired by the likes of Monsters Inc, this scarer-in-training school story offers a fun insight and playful narrative voice that keeps the scary subject matter light throughout. There were some grammatically questionable three-word-or-less opening sentences this month, but “I eat bed?” in this context was delightfully fine!

---

FIVE BEDS by Maddison Scott, VIC

The unicorn bed. Where I pulled the blanket over my eyes as protection from the monsters and vampires and goblins who stalked my bedroom shadows. Stickers covered the wooden frame like pockmark scars chronicling my childhood obsessions. I was a princess in that bed, an astronaut, a butterfly and a famous singer too. When my parents questioned if I wanted it before they sold their house, I said “no.” A little bit of my heart broke when I saw it in pieces on the nature strip, ready for the rubbish collectors to take it to its junkyard grave.

The soft bed. Where the red wine stains told stories about late night cry-fests over boys who didn’t deserve the $20 I paid to forget them. The sacred mattress–indented by the shape of restless nights–where my friends and I watched marathons of teen dramas and lamented the painful fracture between adolescence and adulthood. I booked my first overseas trip on that bed, nervously hovering over the BOOK NOW button until I gathered the courage to exist somewhere else for a while.

The blue bed. Where he told me he loved me. Our fingers curled like the roots of two plants fighting for the same soil. “My love,” he’d said, first in English, then Spanish and French and Arabic and Japanese. We didn’t change the sheets for weeks because every second between the boring parts of life was to be spent making love and whispering oaths that made my toes curl and my heart flitter. In that bed he told me about his parents' marriage and how when it broke, he broke with it. “You put me back together,” he’d said, “our love is unbreakable.”

The garden bed. My dirt-packed fingernails and callused hands always moving, pulling, packing, digging. The row of stones marked the broken bones of lost companions; the row of green sprouts entering new life. The sound of my husband’s jazz vinyls wafted through the kitchen window along with whatever spices he churned with my foraged veggies. Simple, perfect, quiet. Until the weeds twisted like lover’s fingers and the garden outgrew me and I was just too tired to move and pull and pack and dig anymore.

The death bed. More of an uncomfortable chair, really. In my earliest memories, I was a free-flying butterfly and in my last memories, I was an insect under a microscope–hovered over, observed, dissected. My granddaughter crocheted me a blanket with floral squares and brought my pillow which smelled of home. The bed where I finally broke; where I dreamed of unicorns and red wine, of passionate love and quiet love, of music and dirt and entwined fingers.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We never said anything about a story needing to use the SAME bed throughout. So, in this very simple yet effective story, we are treated to different stages of life and the different beds that make sense for them. With each ‘bed’, we learn plenty about the narrator’s life and its milestones. A strong way to use the prompts to capture a lifetime of memories.

---

PROXIMITY by Annie B. Fulton, USA

Lie beside me. Like you did when we first met, when I scooped up your trembling body, slid you under the covers and held you close until your whimpers fell away and trust entered the room.

Lie beside me. Like you did when I got sick and ugly red blotches covered my young fevered body, and I became unrecognizable to everyone but you.

Lie beside me. Like you did all those times we hid under the quilt that muffled the sound of rancor coming from the kitchen.

Lie beside me. Like you did when I sobbed into my pillow every afternoon for a month after Jason left me for Katie and I began to question my self-worth.

Lie beside me. Like you did when a brighter future seemed to take shape and we fell asleep every night in eager anticipation of a new day.

Lie beside me. Like you have for fifteen years. Like you will until it becomes too difficult for you to lift your white, chiseled muzzle from my chest. Like you will until I find the courage to summon the vet. Like you will while I whisper final love notes in your velvety ear. Like you will until the wag leaves your tail.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Similar in some ways to the previous story in capturing milestones, this short and sweet story does so in one continual reflection – using repetition to sum up a life and a death for a best friend – through the eyes of its owner (a young girl’s relationship with the family dog).  After all, it’s not always humans that have shared the bed with us and seen us at our best and worst. The continual gentle order of “Lie beside me” in each stanza, followed by the examples is effective at passing the time. Those who have been through something similar with a pet will relate to this one.

---

GLADYS MAKES A PORNO by Athena Law, QLD

‘GILF or GGILF?’

‘Sorry love?’

‘I’m a great grandma now, so I’ll need two gees in the title when it goes on the Pornhob. How’s this?’ Gladys adjusted her hand-crocheted bikini as she reclined on the spotlit bed.

‘Nice, but can we take off the hat?’ the director’s moustache twitched with a frown.

Gladys had planned to save the big reveal until later in the action, but hey—in for a penny, in for a pound. Unpinning her hat, she winked towards the camera and then flung it off.

‘What the fu—’

‘Don’t you like it?’ Gladys questioned, shaking out her pink and purple curls.

‘Love, you’re supposed to be a nympho granny, not an escapee from the unicorn circus.’

‘My friend Susan’s a retired hairdresser, she did it specially. Then again, she thinks I’m auditioning to be an aquarium mermaid. Another thing on my bucket list,’ she said, reaching for the small esky at the side of the bed.

‘I’ve brought some ice cubes, you know, for the fluffing. Once the crochet comes off of course. Where’s my co-star? I hope he’s not allergic to nuts, I’ve brought some pantry items to do a Nine and a Half Weeks scene.’

The director turned towards the rear door. ‘Rocky! You’re needed on set, and bloody hell I hope you’re ready for this.’

Gladys goggled as a muscular young man entered. She’d liked to have kneeled on the mattress like Brigitte Bardot, but her knees just weren’t up to it. Her eyes locked onto the bulging shape inside his tight white underpants.

‘Oooh, impressive tackle!’ she shrieked, beckoning him closer. ‘I hope you know how to use it. In the seventies I had a very memorable weekend with AC/DC and I can tell—’

‘Oi love, stick to the script yeah? Try and look sad, tell him you haven’t touched a man in forty years. Have a cry maybe.’

‘I had some different ideas—did you get the rubber sheet I asked for? I wanted to try some of that European stuff.’

‘God no, we’re just keeping it classic today. Rocky, pants off. And Gran, bikini off please.’

She hummed nah nah naaaaaa while she undid the bows, disrobing as sensuously as possible.

‘CHRIST ON A BIKE! What is that?!’ the director shouted.

’The carpet matches the drapes! You’re welcome!’ Gladys was proud of her attention to detail, even though Susan said it wasn’t safe to have hair dye on her nethers.

Rocky spoke for the first time. ‘Hey, we need to get moving, I’m losing wood here.’

‘I can help! Teeth in or out? And once you’re ready to go, could we try the new positions I keep reading about? The White Lotus Monkey? Chocolate Pretzel? Flying Eel Super Slide?’

Rocky was frantically ferreting about in his undies, and the director appeared to be weeping. But Gladys was ready to go. Time to get this done and then book in for her Nepal trek.

‘Action!’ she shouted.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Tone change time! And look out everyone – great grandma Gladys is going off script and she isn’t scared to be in front of the camera whatsoever. Absurd and silly, but told with a cheeky tone of voice that has you smiling throughout – something this showcase desperately needs! Old people behaving naughtily will never not be funny.

---

BEDRIDDEN by Jane Connolly, QLD

She died quietly. As the new dawn’s luminescence brought shapes into focus, a nurse discovered her lifeless body. Robbed of speech and much movement, she had been with me for a number of months. The rehabilitation wing, unlike the hospital’s imposing main building, was an afterthought, a hastily fabricated single level building with louvre windows floor to ceiling on two sides. It stood in a space between the towering smokestack of the hospital laundry and the nurses’ quarters. A place for the forgotten and a place where I had been relegated many years before.

Her name was Hannah, and I had been placed adjacent to the window so that from there she could hear the whisper of trees, the blackness of which had confused her in the early days following her admission. I had felt her uncertainty. But in time she didn’t question their shadows in the interminable night, and I think she found solace in the sounds of their inhabitants. Everything in her surrounds, including me, was utilitarian, but the tree reminded her of a world away from the confinement in which I was a player.

I liked Hannah. She lay still and accepting. Just before midnight a nurse had appeared at her side smiling. “Let’s make you more comfortable,” she said adjusting pillows and positioning Hannah so that she could see anyone entering the ward. She smoothed wrinkled sheets on my mattress and changed the sheepskin beneath Hannah’s withered bottom, cursorily checking for areas of pressure. With a quick pat she continued, “Sleep well sweetheart.”

Hannah’s lopsided smile in response seemed to be all that was required, and she settled back into my newly straightened comfort. She had long since learned the vagaries of my manufacture and her limitations, but she could now manage to adjust my top half for a better view of her surroundings. She was snug and safe between my raised sides and was often surprised that all her material needs could fit neatly on the tray which stretched across my width.

I felt no discernible discomfort as Hannah slept deeply but just before dawn I knew a lightness I had known before. It was the lightness signalling that the soul of the patient I had cosseted had decided to depart.

For a few moments after her tiny form was discovered lifeless, my space became the busiest in the ward. Curtains were drawn, checks were performed, charts were consulted, and Hannah was laid prone for examination by the doctor on call. The night staff was keen to depart, but in looking at this tiny being who had demanded so little, she was handled with the intimacy and dignity she deserved.

She was at peace.

She would soon leave my embrace, and I would be scrubbed from head to foot, disinfected, every trace of her expunged. Another patient would be assigned to me, but for now I would hold her safe and stand sentinel to the life that was. I could do no more.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

As we mentioned at the beginning, we did have a number of stories this month that made the bed itself the character – sometimes in a comical way, others more serious or thoughtful. The delicate touch this one took in telling its story elevated it – from mere prop to gentle witness to a woman’s final days. Once more, if you have had any experience in seeing a loved one in palliative care, this story may resonate a little more. Choosing to use the bed in this way to deliver small observations about the environment and its own unique embrace made this piece somewhat comforting.

---

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we include an extra LONGLIST (approx top 10%) of stories that stood out from the submitted hundreds, were considered for the showcase (some were very close) and deserve an ‘honourable mention’. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, take a moment to celebrate! 

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

• BEDTIME THOUGHTS by Demelza Pringle, NSW
• TAKE-A-NUMBER by Deidra Lovegren, USA
• STILL LIFE PAIN-TING by Delphine Gauthier Georgakopoulos, Greece
• THE MONSTER IN MY BED by A K Scotland, NSW
• HOME COMFORTS by Peter Joseph Jordan, WA
• AMONG AZALEAS by Jess Lawrence, USA
• A GRANDDAUGHTER’S INHERITANCE by R M Levi, ACT
• THE HITCHHIKER by Wendy Stackhouse, WA
• CHOMP! By AJ, USA
• CONFESSION by Trudy Jas, USA
• ONE PERSON FOUND THIS HELPFUL by Kenneth Mann, UK
• THE CADAVER DOG by Lincoln Hayes, WA
• UNDER THE BED by M D Smith, USA
• ENVELOPES by Aoife Ni Chearbhaill, Ireland
• RUMINATIONS by Ellen Auriac, NSW
• OUR BED-IN FOR MARITAL PEACE by Helen Beer, USA
• WHICH ONE AM I AGAIN? By Averil Robertson, VIC
• BED FOR SALE by Lucy Schofield, NSW
• BEAUTY IN QUARTZ by Alita Parke, USA
• THE HOURS FROM TEN by P.K. Henniker, VIC
• BELIEVING by Monica Wenzel, USA
• THE UNINVITED by Lydia Terry, QLD
• SWEET DREAMS ARE MADE OF THIS by Angela Huskisson, UK
• THE KEYS ARE IN THE METER BOX by Luka Bly, WA
• THE WINDOW by Fulva Took, USA
• THE ALCOVE IN THE WALL by Simon Bruce, VIC
• EARTH AND SKY by Heidi Couvee, ACT
• BEDSIDE MANNERS by Paul Dunn, NZ
• JUST ANOTHER DAY by Thomas Moloney, VIC
• ROOM 341 by Kate Twelvetrees, UK
• BEGINNER’S GUIDE TO BREAKING by Megan Hippler, QLD
• BEDTIME STORIES by Robert Fairhead, NSW
• BED BUG ISLAND by Philly Kash, USA
• BLUE by Karen Young, VIC
• A BRUTAL SUMMER by Melanie Hawkes, WA
• THE WINDOW by Fulva Took, USA
• PASSIONATE POSSESSIONS by Michael Wale, QLD
• GOLDEN HOUR by Ellie Ness, UK
• STRANGER IN THE NIGHT by Byron Churchill, Canada
• MEMORY FOAM by Michael Barbato-Dunn, USA
• SOMETIMES, I WONDER IF I SHOULD LET THE BEDBUGS BITE by Grandma Smillew, Poland
• UNTOLD STORIES by Jameya Porter, USA
• VIGIL by Jim Carvel, ACT
• DREAMS TASTE BITTER by Strickenlad, VIC