Furious Fiction: August 2023 Story Showcase

Welcome to the August Furious Fiction story showcase – a monthly ‘storytelling shop window’ of our community’s creativity and the opportunity to have YOUR OWN story featured or acknowledged. And this month, we dined out on the following criteria:

  • Each story had to take place in a RESTAURANT.
  • Each story had to include a character who smashes something.
  • Each story had to include the words EUPHORIA, LABYRINTH and SILHOUETTE (or longer forms that retained the spelling).

And so we set the table for hundreds of bookings at a variety of restaurants – from fine dining to burger bars. Inside, we witnessed stressy first dates and messy break ups, while out in the kitchen all sorts of dramas unfolded behind the scenes. As expected, you sneaky loophole-finders named many of your establishments one of the required words, while minotaurs also made regular appearances in amongst the labyrinths of streets, tables or hallways. Glassware and crockery copped quite the smashing, although egos and avocados weren’t safe from the carnage either!


Confining your story to one location (i.e. a restaurant) in flash fiction can help anchor your story – it’s one less element that the reader needs to worry about, allowing you (and them) to focus on the characters and action alone. 

  • Having one main location keeps things simple in a small wordcount – flash fiction gold!
  • A familiar place like a restaurant is relatable – as every reader has been to one and can easily picture the scene.
  • Restaurants in particular offer a lot of potential for different characters – from the diners themselves to the wait staff, chefs, dishwashers, managers, maitre d’s and so on.
  • There are also a lot of REASONS to be at a restaurant, helping to quickly build your story. Perhaps a special anniversary or first date, maybe a proposal, or simply a work assignment as a food critic! We saw all of these and much more.

And if you want to learn MORE about creating compelling SCENES for your stories, you can get our self-paced Fiction Essentials: Scenes online course at a special price of $137 (30% off) for a limited time!

Congrats to all those featured this month and we hope to see you lining up for the next Furious Fiction challenge on Friday 1 September!

DINING IN THE DARK by Bethany Cody, SA

I’ve never done this before. I feel strangely powerless, sitting alone at a table in an upscale restaurant on the swanky side of town. I’m on a blind date, one I don’t feel mentally prepared for. The irony isn’t lost on me, or my flatmate if her knowing giggle last night was anything to go by. It was her hare-brained idea to get me out of the house, and over my ex.

An undefined shape approaches the table, growing in size with each step. The chair across from me shifts, ruffling the tablecloth and the shape says, ‘Are you Madeline?’

I take in her silhouette, the dark fabric of her dress clinging to her curves, and suddenly wish I’d put more effort in. I smile and say, ‘Please, call me Maddy.’

We make small talk while we study our menus. I feel her questioning gaze as I hover my phone over the wine list, trying to discern the small print, silently thankful she doesn’t ask what I’m doing. Things are going well until halfway through our meal, when my hand makes contact with something cold and hard, and I hear the glass shatter almost before it happens. The restaurant goes deathly quiet around us and the heady scent of red wine hits my nose. I cringe, hoping it wasn’t expensive.

I groan, ‘Oh, god.’

Sweet, citrusy notes of her perfume intensify as she leans in and I sense her hesitation before she starts, ‘I hate to ask, but…’

I say, ‘Shoot.’

‘How much can you see?’

I purse my lips and pretend to think about her question. My fingers search the table for my napkin, and I fold it into a floppy cylinder, holding it up to my eye. I say, ‘On a good day, in the right lighting, I have about nine degrees. It’s kind of like looking through a telescope.’

‘That must be so hard.’

I shrug and unfold my napkin, preparing for the onslaught of pity that usually follows this admission. When none comes, I clear my throat and shove a caramelised carrot in my mouth.

After a beat, she says, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘You probably get that a lot.’

‘You have no idea.’

Her hand finds mine on the table. ‘I like you. You’re a little clumsy, but you’re cute.’

A sense of euphoria like good whisky blooms warmly in my chest.

She says, ‘Let’s do this again?’

I follow her through the dimly lit labyrinth of tables and diners, their faces indistinct smudges in the half-light. Her hand is warm in mine when we step onto the street. The night air is balmy and whips my hair about.

She says, ‘You can get home on your own?’

I extend my white cane, grinning as the segments click into place. ‘Of course I can.’

She cries, ‘It has diamantes! I love that.’

I can’t wait to show her the rest of my collection.


All the clues are there right from the beginning, but at first this reads as a ‘lights out’ restaurant experience for all. Of course, we soon realise (about the time the date asks how much she can see!) that the irony of being on a blind date is far more obvious than that. A unique and literal take on the classic ‘blind date’ trope, which carefully avoids getting too cute in its meet-cuteness – the euphoric description of blooming like ‘good whisky warmly in my chest’ is great!


I stand at the threshold marvelling at the chaos around me. Creatures perch on high stools, standing only to snatch from the air one of the many laden plates as they weave and zoom through the labyrinth of diners. My eyes are out on stalks as I survey the carnival parade of different species dining here on Silo One.

There are purple headed Martians with anteater type mouths that hoover up the food. Green scaled Alpha Centurians lap daintily, catlike, bug eyed Venusians, their globulous bodies bouncing with every move they make, inhaling their food through large pores in their skin. Wherever I look there are beings from other planets, other worlds, all intent on eating as quickly as possible. The Tower of Babel would have seemed a place of tranquillity compared to this place. Diners order in a hundred different tongues, shouting into amplifiers hovering above the tables. These requests are then created from the ether by the cuisine computer, complete with plates and cutlery where needed.

I see a familiar silhouette on the far side of the room and I wend my way through the crush, ducking and weaving to avoid the hurtling plates, and treading carefully to avoid any tails, claws or oversized limbs on my way. My stomach feels full of wasps and my palms sweat profusely. A room full of aliens can be a dangerous place, especially for a clumsy clucks like me. My translator is set to all languages, so that when a stranger addresses me I can understand and reply to them, thereby avoiding problems.

Galandula, my boyfriend is almost in reach and I feel my usual euphoria as I near his presence. He is just a shimmer of rainbow lights, gently glowing and pulsing. As I get closer the lights change to the deep aqua that means he is excited to see me, and I rush forward, blind to everything but him.

It's a disastrous mistake. As my head collides with a speeding plate, it sends a shower of scalding, glutinous food upon the head of a Scutini and smashes onto the floor. The room falls silent. At the same time I tread on the furry tail of an Eridani. Now both of these aliens have tempers as hot and fiery as the stars they come from and in moments the room erupts into Intergalactic War One. I have no idea how I am going to explain what happened to the extraterrestrial peace conference I represent.


Fantastic world-building here for sci-fi fans everywhere, as we observe the out-of-this-world comings and goings at one of the galaxy’s busiest diners. Perched on classic high stools, purple Martians rub shoulders with bug-eyed Venusians and more as our love-struck protagonist is struck instead by a plate, setting off a world(s) of trouble with the Scutini and Eridani. It’s silly and loud and chaotic and we’re here for it!


Our grandson’s just turned ten but he’s always had a yen for sushi; and insisted that we go
To the local sushi bar – it isn’t very far – and they serve amazing sushi, as we know.
The restaurant is furnished with soft lighting and with burnished copper artworks you can buy from off the walls,
And paintings of pink cherry trees swaying in the gentle breeze, Mount Fuji as the red sun slowly falls.

But you won’t find any waiters to bring you your potaters, the dishes come to you upon a rail!
Like a linear Lazy Susan running past you while you’re choosin', carrying each plate they’ve got for sale.
Its labyrinth-like routing sends these dishes all commuting back and forth and back and forth around the room,
Dish colours match the price list; pick those you think are nicest; so you'll know the cost of dishes you consume.

But when we went there just last week, the weather looking very bleak, a thunderstorm outside caused great concern.
And the lighting flickered madly; Lazy Susan reacted badly and sped up to the point of no return.
Then the lights completely failed, and Lazy Susan's sushis sailed through the darkened café, smashing on the floor.
Some hit unlucky diners, some smashed a glass of wine as they created more confusion and uproar.

‘Cause every ten or fifteen feet the train performs a very neat U-turn, at which most damage would occur,
And when the lights came back, and they stopped that speeding track, in the wreckage stood a distraught rest’rateur.
His plates had all been shattered and his customers were splattered with the food that they had come there to enjoy.
Silhouetted ‘gainst the sky, with his restaurant awry; ten years to develop – but ten minutes to destroy!

But then, to his delight, those diners recognised his plight, and worked together cleaning up the place.
And imagine his euphoria when those lovers of sushi nori had finished – you could see it in his face!
He called the folks together; said “My friends, this nasty weather has resulted in a lot of broken plates,
But, exactly where to start? From the bottom of my heart, I've discovered now what Aussies mean by ‘Mates'”!

He couldn't hide his tears of joy, that trickled through the soy that stained his maitre d's pristine attire.
“I came here from Japan with a twenty-five-year plan to make enough for me to then retire.
But Australia's now my home, and I couldn't ever roam from people such as you folks here today.
Please accept some house champagne – and please do come here again – you're my family now, so I am here to stay!”


There’s trouble on them-there sushi tracks when a thunderstorm comes rolling into town, but good ol’ Aussie teamwork comes to the rescue in this cleverly constructed rhyming story. Let’s take a moment to appreciate the intricacy of this prose, not only loaded with standard AA-BB rhyming stanzas, but also adding internal rhymes to EACH line – very impressive. Some of our favourites were “Lazy Susan” + “while you’re choosin’”, “price list” + “nicest”, and of course “euphoria” with “sushi nori” to name just a few. A fun tale with a rhythm even Lin Manuel Miranda would tip his hat to!

HER HUSBAND IS THE LAST TO TURN by Julia Ruth Smith, Italy

Whatever happens next, she knows that actions have consequences. As she stands and wipes her lips on a fine linen napkin, her chair wobbles but does not fall, as she contemplates the elegance of the carefully arranged flowers and the condensation on the wine flutes, a wine she did not choose although SHE was the one who had done the first-level sommelier course on Wednesday evenings when her husband was supposedly playing squash, as she acknowledges the shocked face of the Maitre D and the quiver of euphoria on the mouth of the younger waiter who is dying for a touch of excitement because yes, the pay is better than average but goodness how dull it all is, as she stares after her husband, retracing his path through the labyrinth of identically elegant tables towards the exit, where against the streetlights and despite the rain she can see his silhouette as he smokes a casual cigarette, slips his cellphone from his jacket pocket, reads a message and smiles, she knows that there is only one way out, and fully aware that she will regret it in the morning, sweeps glasses and plates and cutlery onto the Carrera tiles.

Her husband is the last to turn. Midway through a voice message to his lover, his voice will crack and later when she asks him if he’s okay, he will tell her that his wife just lost her mind. His wife has never felt better as she leans in just a little too close to the young waiter and thanks him for his attention.


It’s one big mystery as we are dropped, classic flash-fiction-style into the middle of the action here. From the very first line, we’re playing catch up almost in slow motion as we take in the surroundings delivered to us. The breathlessness of the scene is deftly created thanks to THAT second sentence; an absolute steamroller of inner thoughts and observations – a 189-word tour-de-force that sweeps aside grammar rules onto the tiles to join the tableware! And then a moment to catch our breath, before the call back to the enigmatic story title. THIS is how you write a dramatic restaurant break-up – BRAVA!


Tonight, at Bert’s Restaurant, my life will change forever. Tonight’s euphoria is only the beginning. I’ll soon feel this way all the time. A smile cuts across my face. I catch myself before the other workers see me smiling. I’ve been complaining about this lousy busboy job for months. Now isn’t the time to get sloppy. I kill the smile and paste the familiar disgruntled look onto my face again. It’s only for one more night.

At 8 pm, it all starts. My four friends come in the front door just as planned. Joe smashes a water pitcher on the table closest to the door to get everyone’s attention. It works. He yells at them to hit the floor and not to move, and they all do as told. Kevin quickly gathers up cell phones from both patrons and staff. This is just too easy. I make sure I’m in the planned position by the cash register as Jon and Mark stroll through the restaurant, weaving through the labyrinth of way too many tables in way too small of a room. They reach the register, and then, waving their guns at me for show, they make me open it for them. I reach down as if I’m hitting the panic button, but don’t actually touch the button. The staff will think the button has been activated and will expect the cops to come. The cops aren’t coming. This is my main job in this hit, other than to tell the guys the best time to come when the register’s full of cash.

Mark orders me and the rest of the wait staff into the kitchen and tells us to drop to the floor. Everyone continues to do as told. Candy-from-a-baby easy, this is. Mark then watches over us, while Jon empties the register. It’s a good haul, just as I predicted, and I’m feeling pretty good about my part in this. Earlier, the crew seemed to be a bit unsure that I could be trusted, but it’s all working out. From the kitchen, we can see the silhouettes of Joe and Kevin, as they work their way through the restaurant, stealing valuables from the patrons.

Soon, all four of them are in the kitchen. The whole thing has not taken much time at all. These guys are good. As instructed, I don’t say anything and I try to look as scared as the others. Joe walks over to where I’m huddled on the floor. I’m afraid he’s going to blow my cover by saying something to me, but he doesn’t. What he does instead is raise his gun and shoot me. This was not part of the plan.

As I bleed out onto the floor, I watch my four friends calmly walk out the back door.

Tonight, at Bert’s Restaurant, my life changed forever.


Once more here, the title gives nothing away – a simple pin drop to our location for this evening’s action. And action is what we get, as we soon realise that our lousy busboy has been a busy busboy, armed with the inside knowledge on this restaurant heist – there’s no need to panic (button). And it all looks to be going to plan, until it doesn’t. Matter-of-factly, we witness the plan deviate as our narrator bookends the opening line for some nice repetition. Keeps you guessing throughout.


She sat in a dim corner of O’Malley’s with a shrimp cocktail and piña colada in front of her, untouched. The waiter brought her food over a quarter of an hour earlier and had left dejected, their meagre attempts at flirtation ignored.

Instead her attention stayed on the door with brief glances towards the clock on the wall. Her nails tapped on the wood table.

She knew it was him when he walked in by his silhouette alone, backlit by the bright streetlight against the gloomy restaurant interior. He paused as he looked around. His eyes widened when they reached hers. He had told her he would be working late, after all. One glance at the piña colada in front of her though and his face broke into a familiar grin.

“Aw, it’s you,” she purred.

As he slid into the booth next to her, she thought back to when she’d first realised he had been trawling the classifieds for love behind her back.

In hindsight, she’d had to laugh at her own naivety. Who reads a newspaper in bed at night, anyway? But at the time she had been overcome with a white, hot rage. She had smashed his favourite mug and several pieces of their wedding china. Once she navigated the labyrinth of her grief, she formulated a plan. This plan had replaced the white, hot rage with a cold fury bent on vengeance.

She had hidden the broken crockery and began formulating a new plan focused on a larger scale of destruction. Penning her own classifieds ad, she created a new persona. One that would feel fresh and fun to draw in her wayward spouse. She had always been good at getting into his mind.

Tonight was the culmination of her plan. While her mind had wandered, he had sidled closer to her and was talking with a euphoria she remembered from their youth about how this confirmed they were meant to be together. She continued to smile demurely, the cat who got the cream. Though not the cream he would assume.

With her arms draped lovingly over his shoulders, he never saw the switchblade drop from where it was concealed in her sleeve. He did, however, feel for just a moment its long blade spring through his ear as she got into his mind one last time.

She leaned forward to whisper tenderly before the light ebbed from his eyes, “I really hate piña coladas.”


Often simply called the Piña Colada song, Rupert Holmes’ 1979 hit is actually called “Escape” (the cocktail follows in parentheses). And if you’ve ever listened to the verses, you’ll realise that it already has quite a story to tell (we recommend having a listen). The song was told first-person from the male perspective, so here we are allowed a never-before-seen view into the motivations of the female side of the story, cleverly woven to match the famous lyrics. And it turns out, all was not as it seemed at the end of the original tune! A fun (albeit grisly) way to build something original off an existing set up.

SMALL CHANGE by Dana Stewart, WA

Here we go again, another influx of demanding people. Names ticked off lists, patrons negotiating pathways through labyrinths of dining furniture, chairs noisily dragging along floors as seats are occupied. Smiling, rushing bodies communicating menus, headlining ‘specials,’ taking orders. “Sparkling or tap?”

Oh, the indulgence! If only! I wonder if tonight I may be satiated like those here in this restaurant. If I might get my fill, if only partially?

I apologise if I come across as somewhat pessimistic, I haven’t always been this way. You see, things have modified over the years I have been here. I used to be the ‘go-to’ at the end of the night. I used to get a fair bit of attention. Of course, I was only ever here on behalf of others but I always felt important, like I was doing my bit for everyone. When I was at my best it meant I could get them all together; everything’s ‘on me!’ A time to wind down, relax and socialise. A deserved break away from work. Now, I’m lucky to even be noticed let alone considered.

Times are different, in more ways than one. The pandemic, economic decline, money is tight and I guess with that comes more conscious thought towards spending. However, I’ve also noticed a decline in the consideration of others, seems to be more taking and a lot less giving. Maybe I’m overthinking things. Trust me, I do have plenty of time to contemplate.

There was a defining moment about twelve months ago, one of the waiters at the time questioned my relevance (harsh I know), he didn’t think I was required anymore. My role was “old fashioned,” he argued. There was a bit of a heated debate over staff drinks that particular night, during which I got totally smashed, it was all his fault it happened. I thought that was the end for me. But someone helped pick up the pieces. A believer. I came back renewed and have remained at the restaurant since. From that time on business has really picked up, we’ve a full house most evenings! Alas, I still sit in the same place, waiting, hoping for some change to come my way.

Apologies, I have digressed! I still have faith. I still believe there are people out there that look at me and think about what I represent and are thankful. This night is no different from many others I’ve experienced, I shouldn’t sound so resigned. I should remain positive!

Wait a minute, hold that thought. Someone’s making a beeline toward me! I can make out a silhouette in the distance. They may just be heading this way to pay the bill. No, they have veered off toward the side of the counter. My side of the counter, right in front of me!

A hand reaches for me, hugs my glass exterior. Tipping me slightly forward, two golden coins drop into the void of my belly, echoing that once familiar sound of change! EUPHORIA!


They say that change will do you good – and never is this more true than if you’re a tips jar. That’s right, our narrator (to coin a phrase, haha) has the best seat in the house as it watches over the establishment’s comings and goings, lamenting on its loss of relevance in an uglier, digital world. There are of course plenty of clues throughout, but the ambiguity along the way is part of the fun and makes the second reading even more enjoyable. Yet another cleverly told unique perspective from such a familiar setting!

THE TRADE by Alf Dean, Switzerland

Martin stood in front of the restaurant off Marakesh’s Jemaa el-Fnaa and peered into the gloom to see if the buyer had already arrived. He hadn’t. Dammit. Martin would have to wait.

The buyer had chosen the meeting place. Martin didn’t like the chaos, but had to admit it was a good choice. The restaurant was busy. The square outside was the centrepiece of the sprawling labyrinth that was Marrakesh’s souk. There were plenty of exits. Plenty of places to dodge police. Plenty of alleys to get lost down if necessary.

It shouldn’t be necessary though. He’d been assured a safe meeting. A clean trade. Goods for cash. Briefcase for briefcase. In a few hours he would be on a plane again, wealthy.

Martin checked his watch as the night market bustled on around him. Steam rose from stalls selling stews and couscous. Orange juice peddlers shouted loudly at sweaty shoppers, seemingly threatening them with refreshments. Snake charmers played tunes to dancing cobras for handfuls of camera-wielding tourists.

Martin gripped the briefcase closer to his chest and tried to spot the buyer in the crowd. A ragged man loaded with baskets blocked his view.

“Good price! Good price!”

He waved the man off and decided to enter the restaurant. It was crowded, but calmer, and out of the dust. He spotted an empty table. As he went to sit, the evening call for prayer blasted out from across the square. Martin jumped in shock and his chair smashed down onto the ground. Men at the tables around him laughed before turning back to their tea.

Martin sat and glanced around at the silhouettes in the dark restaurant. Some glanced back, but no one seemed out of place. He ordered a tea and waited.

No buyer.

After his third tea Martin got nervous. The briefcase on his lap got heavier. The restaurant got smaller. And the clinking of glasses and shouts of the crowd around him got louder. He gripped the briefcase tightly.

Something had gone wrong. He gave up. He’d find another buyer.

Martin paid and pushed his way to the exit. As he stepped outside, a traditional marching band approached the restaurant from the right, beating drums and singing. A crowd of children danced around them in euphoria, laughing and clapping along. Beyond them the orange juice peddlers continued shouting and the pots from the food stalls hissed loudly. Martin had to get out of this bedlam. He spotted an alley to his left.

As he turned, the man selling baskets approached him again shouting, “Good price! Good price!”.

Annoyed, Martin went to wave him off but the man tripped on something. He lurched forward and a dozen baskets were hurled into the air. The largest one flew towards Martin’s face. He caught it instinctively, protecting himself. The others bounced chaotically into the crowd.

Martin looked at the empty basket in his hands.

Shit. He’d dropped the briefcase.

He looked at the ground but knew it was gone already.


On this particular Arabian night, we’re whisked away to the bustling streets of Marrakesh, Morocco as our protagonist Martin waits for a rendezvous that refuses to materialise. Full of tea and anxiety, our main man can only grip his briefcase tighter, surrounded by these ‘bazaar’ circumstances. The scene plays out with plenty of detail and it’s easy to visualise the noise, the smells, the sounds and general chaos that ultimately betrays Martin, rendering him a basket case! Note how it never wasted time on what product was being traded etc – it’s simply not important to the story. A great scene that uses the location to enhance the storytelling through energy and atmosphere.

I’LL HAVE THE FISH by Ann Barclay, WA

Claire perched on a stool at the bar, sipping her flute of champagne while she eyed the guests seated at tables in the dining portion of the restaurant. The sounds of soft chatter and clinking silverware were quickly swallowed by plush carpet and gauzy drapes, keeping the noise level pleasant.

Nice place.

She cast a glance toward the entrance, which was now situated behind her. Revolving restaurants were tacky as hell, but she couldn’t deny the view was spectacular. The skyscrapers around her were tinted shades of gold and pink, thanks to the late afternoon sun. Far below, the river twisted through the buildings like a glittering, molten silver labyrinth. Since this was where her date wanted to meet, this was where she waited.

Where is he?

“He’ll be here,” she murmured.

Three minutes later, a man joined her at the bar. He was blandly handsome, with the money to carry himself as if he were much more attractive.


She nodded and smiled as she looked him up and down, taking in his crisp white suit.

He kissed her cheek. “You are even more beautiful in person.”

What a charmer.

She gave a breathy laugh.

A waiter appeared to lead them to their table. Claire let him pick the wine, and the starter. She opted for the fish as her main. She found they tended to expect that. And staying within the confines of who they thought she was generally made it all much easier.

They settled into flirtatious small talk.

“I manage a company called Euphoria,” he said, swirling his glass. “It’s a life coaching business.” He grinned at her. “I help people recognise their own magnificence.”

Jesus Christ.

She grinned back. “That’s very altruistic.”

He laughed.

“I charge what I’m worth. But every new client gets a free consultation.” He sipped his wine. “Interested?”

This guy…

Before Claire could respond, a crash echoed through the restaurant. The bartender had smashed a bottle of liquor. A manager hurried over, clearly not happy. Most of the restaurant watched the drama. Including Claire’s date.

While he was turned away, she leaned forward and tipped a sachet of powder into his glass of wine.


It didn’t take long for him to finish his drink. Like a gentleman, he’d seated himself with his back to the floor-to-ceiling windows, so Claire could take in the view. They’d turned into the sun just as it was setting, putting the businessman – if you could call him that – in silhouette. So she couldn’t see his face the moment he realised. As he slumped forward, two waiters smoothly appeared and took his arms, guiding him to a side-exit. A well-timed allergic reaction at a different table meant no one noticed.

Claire allowed herself a small smile, lifting a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. When her wrist was near her mouth, she spoke.

“Target acquired. And next time, Agent Hart, keep your commentary to yourself.”

You love it, Agent Ellis. Nice work.


This initially plays out as a classic first date set up, filled with well observed details and peppered by a pithy inner monologue. The scene is set well atop this spinning setting although it seems that Claire is not forming the best first impression of her dinner guest, with the voices in her head continuing to confirm this. But soon enough we realise that those voices weren’t hers, as she completes her mission with a shake of a sachet, before sashaying out of there, much to the delight of her fellow agent. Tightly written, deftly observed and a nice twist befitting the revolving location!

TABLE 9 by Ayesha Bajwa, UK

I stare at the table in the corner of the room. Table 9. It’s a table of four. Every night, picturesque families of four, dashing couples on double dates, old retired mates come to table 9. Every night. I serve them food, I serve them drinks and I watch their souls rise, with every sip of alcohol, higher and higher like Peter Pan and Wendy… until I bring them down to Earth with the bill.

‘Excuse me. Excuse me, could we have another bottle of champagne please.’

Now, why would I refuse.

I deliver the champagne and they ask me to pour it. One of them elbows her friend in the ribs, whispering about how nervous I am. They don’t know that my hands are shaking because of the bottle I’ve already drunk, down in the basement. I’m 17 but I’m not nervous. I’m 17 and I’m an alcoholic. I pour the champagne and I walk away.

Closing time comes and as predicted, table 9 is the last table on the floor. I stack chairs until the restaurant is a maze. They ask for the bill and I take it to them. I weave around the pillars of furniture pretending that I am Theseus and this is my labyrinth. I am pathetic.

I deliver the bill and one of them shouts ‘Euphoria! Euphoria – that’s what you should be feeling, young man. That’s what you should be feeling at the thought of spending all that money.’ I look at the tip. It’s generous. I walk away.

Table 9 leaves and I clean it until it’s spick and span. I spray it, I wipe, I scrub at it until my hands are rough and my mind is empty, like it too has been erased of everything. Books, movies, love – they are marks on the table that must be erased. When I’m done, I shove table 9 into the corner because I can’t bear to hear the echoes of its laughter, see the silhouettes of the happy faces which linger, which always linger, even as the lights click off. I kick the table with my foot. Even then, the ghosts still laugh.

The manager gives me the key and he walks away, not knowing that I’ll pilfer a bottle like I do every night. Chardonnay tonight. I yearn for it to burn the flesh of my throat and I beg the liquid to set me on fire and then drown me. It doesn’t disappoint. I slam the bottle down on the table. Table 9.

I lock the door. The key clicks. A drunkard comes towards me. He smashes the bottle against the curb and a piece of the glass lands next to my shoe. He growls at me and grizzles something intelligible. I stare at him until he walks away; I stare at the bottle in pieces on the ground; I stare at the back of his head growing smaller with every step. It’s almost as if I know him. I walk away.


The deep first-person POV here works to a disturbing effect as we step inside the troubled, tortured soul of our teenage waiter. Through his eyes, we witness his disdain and envy for those who sit at his table night after night, glimpsing his own struggle simply to make it through to the end of his shift and sweet liquid release. It’s a difficult read for anyone who has been affected in such a way, told without sugarcoating the inner thoughts and self-hatred that can accompany so many that appear ‘normal’ on the surface. The title perfectly hides the true story, just as our protagonist does on a daily basis.

(If you’re in Australia and would like to talk to someone, call LifeLine 24 hours on 13 11 14)

RAT RACE by Nicolle Conry, USA

Cold tile chilling my toes and clicking beneath my claws, I scuttle through a labyrinth of polished shoes, cuffed trousers, and billowing dresses. My stomach clenches with pangs of hunger. It’s been two days since my last meal, and that was a smattering of crumbs at best.

Lately, the humans have been on a warpath, setting a sickening variety of traps. Just yesterday, I’d lost a friend to one. Snapped between the razor-like jaws of death, I had watched helplessly as the life drained from him, tail twitching in a final grasp at hope before falling still. I was enraged, hurt beyond words. But I’d become all too familiar with the cruelness of the world. Now, it was a matter of survival, of life or death, of thriving or starving.

I chose to thrive.

I catch a whiff of something heavenly, and saliva pools beneath my tongue. Pushing on, I surreptitiously wind through the maze of the restaurant. The patrons are, so far, none the wiser. This could be an in-and-out job. A quick climb up the tablecloth, just to the edge of a plate, just close enough to snag a scrap of buttered bread. My pinched, grumbling stomach reminds me that I would even settle for a sprig of lettuce if that is all I can procure.

From the floor and beneath the cover of white linen, I eye my target. The silhouette of a woman gracelessly sloshing her glass of wine appears comical from my position. Perhaps her inebriated state will throw her off her game.

Mustering up every ounce of courage within, I inch closer to the edge of the tablecloth. Reaching out, I feel the hook of my claws into threads. This is it. Muscles shrieking and heart thundering, I hoist myself quickly up the linen cliff face.

Up, up, up.

The alabaster gleam of a dish looms overhead. I can practically taste victory—and sustenance. With one sweeping leap, I hurl myself from cloth to plate. One last pull upwards and I am greeted by a porcelain shore lining the most delectable sea of pasta, the marinara tide topped with a gooey spray of mozzarella.

At this moment, starvation wins.

I leap into the sea, pulling, tearing, and gobbling with reckless abandon. When I finally come up for air, fur bloodied and hunger satiated, I am met with the horrified stare of the woman with the wine. Her glass is still, only momentarily, before she lets out a blood-curdling screech.

Her grasp goes limp; the glass hurtles toward its demise in a wobbly death spiral. Smash! A splintering, crystalline explosion that I take as my chance to run for cover.

Amidst the cacophony of screams, a wave of anxious euphoria pulses through me as I plummet from the tabletop to the maroon spill below. As I skitter off into the shadows, my tail paints a crimson trail, evidence of my small but mighty success. I am a lone soldier on a mission to survive.


We had a few stories this month told from a rodent’s perspective, but this one used its unique POV best, upfront from the start about who it was and making our ratty narrator aware of the high stakes of failure. From here, we are taken on a thrilling adventure into the ‘tablelands’ – like a lone soldier climbing up, up, up out of the trenches and surrendering to hunger. The result is a splashtastic, SMASHtastic conclusion that sees screeches, screams, spills and skittering – but ultimately, survival! That’s life in the rat race for you…

THE ITCH by Roger Leigh, NSW

This is going well. The conversation is rolling along and the food’s okay. Although did she have to choose the crab—that’s going to cost me. Perhaps we can skip dessert. She’ll probably want to think about her figure—which looks good silhouetted against the window.

“You look great in that dress.”

“Thank you, it’s an Alex Perry.”

I wish I hadn’t worn this dress. It needs the push up bra which is so itchy. If I don’t scratch under my left tit, I’ll go crazy.

“How’s the chicken?”

“It’s good. How’s the crab?”

He actually flinched when I ordered the crab—the tightarse. I really need to scratch that boob, but I can’t do it while he’s watching me like a stalker.

“The crab’s excellent.”

She can’t seem to look away from me. Her eyes burn—there’s a feeling of euphoria as we gaze at each other.

If he would just look away for a moment. The prickling feeling is driving me to distraction. I’m sure it’s spreading—to the other boob… under my arm… and around my back.

Look at how she’s fidgeting on the chair. It’s like she’s trying to suppress her sexual desire. We should definitely skip dessert and I can ask her back to my place for coffee.

“Well, that’s me full.”

Perhaps I need to change my detergent. This one must be one part soap to two parts itching powder. I’ve got to do something. I could smash my plate in his big staring face. No, then the whole restaurant will look at me. Perhaps if I drop my fork, I can get in some scratching while I’m under the table.

“Let me pick that up for you, miss. I’ll get you a clean one.”

Shit! Where did that waiter come from?

Now, she’s dropping things. I’ve never been with someone so excited around me. Perhaps I should ask for the bill.

“Shall I ask for the bill?”

“Oh, yes… No, why don’t you go up to the counter to pay?”

My god, she’s so keen. Getting to the counter through this labyrinth of tables is taking too long.

Oh God! That’s good. Yes, I’ll use both hands—one for the boobs and one for my back. Oh God. Yeeesssss.


Ahhh yes, the classic “he said, she said” – or in this case, “he thought, she thought” as we get to enjoy this dinner date from both perspectives. Our cocky chicken-chomping male is interpreting his dinner date’s ‘signals’ one way, oblivious to the real truth – but of course as a reader, we’re never itching to find out, thanks to our access to her actual inner bra-bristling dramatics. This simple set up spills over into comedy easily as he falls victim to the ultimate body language booby trap – the kind of scene you’d likely see played out by Ben Stiller in a rom-com. A fun s-itch-uation for the setting!

THE MEAL by E B Davis, ACT

A dry wind flowed slowly over the plane, blowing the grass back and forth. The hot sun baked down on the barren land. The dirt was cracked and dry, it hadn’t rained in months. Slowly a large mighty dinosaur, an Ankylosaurus, made its way across the unforgiving terrain. The dinosaur moved towards a huge footprint embedded in the ground. Weary of the openness of the area, he approached slowly. He had seen something and started to lick his dry lips. At the very bottom of the footprint was a small pool of muddy water. Barely more than a mouth full for a creature this size. The mighty beast lowered its head and started to drink the water. This was the first drink he had had in weeks; it was euphoria. However, it didn’t take him long to finish the water, and it wasn’t enough to quench his thirst. Savouring the last few drops in its mouth the Ankylosaurus paused. A cool refreshing shadow had fallen over the Ankylosaurus, blocking the sun. Slowly lifting his head, he looked at the shadow, hoping to see the silhouette of a rain cloud. However, this was not the case. Tracing the outline of the shadow as a child would trace numbers on joining the dots, the Ankylosaurus froze. The silhouette was of the thing he feared most, a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Even its shadow looked hungry. Taking a breath, the Ankylosaurus prepared himself. Before he had seen the footprint, he was heading to a clump of trees. Maybe, just maybe, he could lose the Tyrannosaurus Rex in the labyrinth of trees. It was a chance at least. Both dinosaurs took off at a run. The Tyrannosaurus Rex roared loudly as it gave chase. The Ankylosaurus had a bit of a lead on the Tyrannosaurus Rex and made it to the trees first. Smashing into the trunks and sending the trees flying as he raced through.

‘Tim!’ a voice rang out sharply and suddenly.

Timmy looked up from his plate. Dinosaur nuggets, chips, and veggies. His broccoli and cauliflower were now scattered across the table.

‘How many times do I have to tell you not to play with your food?’ Timmy’s mum enquired softly.

‘If they didn’t want me to play with my food, why would they shape them like dinosaurs?’ Timmy retorted.

‘So, you will eat them sweetie’ she replied looking around the restaurant. Timmy did the same. It was more crowded than usual, and a few of the other patrons were making a point of not looking in their direction. Timmy smiled.

‘Ok mum, I was almost done anyway, the Ankylosaurus didn’t stand a chance.’

Smiling at the other patrons, Timmy picked up all his broccoli and cauliflower and place it back on his plate. Shooting his mum, a cheeky smile he silently lent over his plate again.

Quietly within the recently reformed forest, the Tyrannosaurus Rex started to devour the Ankylosaurus. When suddenly the Tyrannosaurus Rex’s head was bitten off.


What begins like some large-scale drama of Jurrassic proportions happily spends more than half the word count building a world for our two dinosaurs to frolic and hunt in. But of course, wait a minute, we asked for stories set in a restaurant, right? At that point, the narrative tablecloth is whisked away and little Timmy gets busy with his dino-nuggets, chips and greens. A fantastic advertisement for playing with your food, cleverly disguised as the new David Attenborough special. 


In the car on the way home from Harry’s funeral, Vinny and I ask Mom if we can go to the Olive Garden. She pauses and glances reflexively at the empty passenger seat to heed my stepfather’s emphatic denial, but he’s dead. As I wait for her response, I cover my mouth in case I’m smiling. I’ve been doing that all morning. Every minute of the funeral reminded me that he’s truly, permanently dead.

She says “Yeah, we should probably eat something.” I can swear she flashes something like euphoria, just for an instant.

So we drive to the Olive Garden. We sit wherever we want, as instructed by the waitress, who presents us with menus of labyrinthine complexity. We form odd silhouettes, holding them in front of our faces like we’re gawking at pornography. We’re silent, half-expecting Harry’s corpse to burst into the restaurant, carrying his cheap plywood coffin under one arm, yelling about how we can make “mediocre spaghetti noodles” at home. Talking with his mouth full about “too much goddamn sauce on everything.” Slapping Mom’s hand away as she puts a dollar out for a tip. “Enough, enough, you’ve paid enough of my money for this greasy shit.”

The waitress brings us a basket of breadsticks. I try to read Mom’s face when she emerges from behind the menu. I don’t think it’s sunk in with her yet. Harry is far too dead to lecture about the cost of the “free” breadsticks being included in the price of everything else. Later, we won’t have to listen to his pinky rings clicking on the table while he asks the manager “Is anyone working in the kitchen? They seem to be taking their sweet time.”

I take a single-serve cup of butter and spread the entire thing onto the already-greasy breadstick, smashing it flat along its length with my knife. I do the same thing with a second breadstick and I make a little butter sandwich. I eat it in three bites.

I exhale, waiting for Harry to tell me I’m fat enough without the butter and nobody will ever ask me to prom. He can’t because he’s dead. I take another breadstick.

I see something pass over Mom’s face. Her mouth hangs open, looking for some words. Before she finds them, the waitress returns. Mom orders something called the “Tour of Italy.” It’s the biggest, most expensive thing on the menu.

Mom sips her water. “Harry hated hotels. We went camping on our honeymoon, you know. Maybe…we could all go somewhere. Vinny, do you want to see the ocean?”

Vinny looks at her like she’s insane. He’s never been anywhere. It hasn’t sunk in yet.

We talk about all the things we want to do now that Harry is dead. The waitress returns and puts our plates on the table. Mom orders a glass of red wine. I can’t remember the last time I saw so much delicious food.


Oh wow, that TITLE. Sometimes a title is just so descriptive and hilariously matter-of-fact that it sets the tone right there. That’s definitely the case from this one, as we view the loss of an overbearing step-parent through a child’s eyes. This particular death comes with a little extra carry-on baggage, and we soon realise that Harry wasn’t much of a fan of the Olive Garden, among other unhealthy influences. The resulting meal actually plays out in a touching way – a reawakening of sorts, an exorcism of body shaming (“He can’t because he’s dead. I take another breadstick.”) and most of all, a chance for a mother to reconnect with her kids. When you’re here, you’re family…

CHILD’S PLAY by Heidi Couvee, ACT

The gnarled apple tree swayed gently on the breeze, a stark contrast to the chaos unfurling inside. Rosie’s new restaurant was opening today and things were hectic. Her small, eager hands carefully shaped pasta to a lullaby of spring birdsong. The stove heaved with pans as she tossed a daring mix of ingredients into a salad bowl, wondering why nobody had made this before. She hummed Hot Cross Buns while she worked.

Jana cradled baby Max and glanced through the door. She saw her daughter’s silhouette, a flurry of constant motion backlit by the sun. ‘Mum, how long?’ Rosie called. Jana cringed at the jarring noise just as Max was about to doze off. He seemed unbothered so she laid him gently in his cot. He barely stirred. She felt that instant surge of euphoria known by exhausted mothers everywhere – the joy of getting a baby successfully to nap on the first try. ‘Mum!’ Rosie’s voice snapped her back to the grind. ‘Oh, is my table ready?’ Jana replied.

‘Yes madam. Follow me!’ Rosie beamed as she handed her mother the menu, written in a chaotically bouncy hand.





Jana navigated her way through the labyrinth of toys strewn across the floor and Rosie seated her on a beanbag propped near the sunny window. ‘What would you like madam?’ she asked.

‘Ah, I’d like to try some spaghetti and vegetables please.’ Jana allowed herself to relax into the moment, feeling the soft kiss of afternoon sun on her tired forehead. She closed her eyes and her mind drifted through the list of things she needed to do: washing, groceries, dinner… She felt a flash of bone-aching, soul-crushing exhaustion, the culmination of each monotonous day blurring into the next while Rob worked double shifts to keep them afloat.

‘Here you go madam!’ Rosie clutched a wobbling plate piled high with lurid play-doh spaghetti and a bowl of plastic food. ‘Looks delicious!’ Jana lied. ‘Yummy.’ She pretended to chew. Rosie beamed before presenting a cup filled with water and bubble bath. ‘Tea for madam,’ she said.

Just then, Jana’s phone rang. Rob. No doubt calling to say he’d be late again. The shrill ringtone started a chain reaction – Max leapt from slumber, screaming his little lungs out. Jana stood, still dozy from the sun. She wobbled and stepped back, smashing the lego house Rosie had been making for days. ‘Shit!’ yelled Jana as the lego brick sent a searing pain through her foot. Rosie noticed the smashed house and joined the chorus, high pitched, wailing cries.

Hours later, an exhausted Rob swept in and plonked down at the table expecting dinner. ‘Hello Sir. You have a reservation at my restaurant. This way.’ Rosie took his hand and led him upstairs to the beanbag, a plate of play-do pasta waiting expectantly. He took his turn to sit and play with his daughter as Jana stood quietly rocking Max. ‘How was your day?’

‘I wouldn’t trade it for the world.’ She yawned.


Almost every parent can identify with THIS particular type of restaurant – and we were so glad to see it added to the MENyOO of stories an authentic way this month. That’s right, it’s the child-made home-grown restaurant, complete with typos galore, makeshift ingredients and where every cup of tea is not anyone’s cup of tea! In this story, we see further layers that deal with demanding siblings and the joys of co-parenting in an imperfect lego-strewn world. Also brilliantly observed is just how quickly a perfect-family moment can devolve into a chorus of pain, swearing and crying. The arrival of dad home later provides a nice epilogue to the stressful yet ultimately rewarding life of parenting a home restaurant tycoon.


I like watching people. Yeah, I really do. I always have.

I get a certain kind of thrill from watching people in restaurants. Any restaurant will do, but my outright favourite is the airport restaurant. Okay, ‘restaurant’ might be a stretch, at least in my experience, but that’s what the sign often says, beckoning to involuntary patrons with its neon lights. ‘Come in', it entices. ‘We are the ideal (and possibly only) location for your last solemn adieus – to a city, a friend, a lover. We can’t promise much – good food or friendly service – but we can offer a momentary place to be.'

A place of a million untold stories, drenched in prolonged farewells followed by lonely burgers and beer as the minutes and hours meander emptily by.

There’s something alluring about the anonymity of a hidden corner, my back to a gritty wall, my ears and eyes peering from the safety of my double strength latte and old-school printed newspaper. It’s my happy place, my place to watch.

But it’s not just the passengers and their mysterious, unspoken lives I’m fascinated by. See that waiter over there? The one with the chiselled jaw and just as chiselled six pack providing promise beneath his tight black t-shirt? He works here most days, usually in the graveyard shift. He speaks with the voice of a lost foreigner, serving other lost foreigners. I wonder who is most lost.

And behind him over the counter, this evening’s chef smashes away decisively at someone’s avocado. His speckled beard creeps a little too close to the plate below and I’m relieved I’ve already eaten. Where is his family? Do they miss him? How did he end up here, at the end of the world, and the beginning. A place of contrasts – with as much concept of time as a clockless casino. Yet so reliant on time that it flashes relentlessly above patrons, controlling when they can leave this dimension and move to their next.

Does anyone working here find a tiny smither of euphoria in their day? Just a tinge? Or is it filled with silhouettes of interactions, fleeting and unfulfilling moments with strangers, with as much substance as the donuts they hand out for free with a coffee in the food court?

There’s a labyrinth of corridors just outside these invisible restaurant doors. They lead to almost anywhere in the world, you name it. They promise untold adventures, mystery and culture, the excitement of the unknown. And here the restaurant workers stay. Why, oh why would you choose to stay?

‘Break’s over, Smithy’. I take one last glance over my mug, stretch my legs, breathe in the dense, stale air, pop on my apron, and return to work.

‘Good evening, Sir, Madam. Table for two?’


Who said your restaurant had to be located in the centre of town? Not us, that’s for sure – and we love that this story captures the essence of its unique location to full effect. There truly is something transitory and common to all airports, so the observations here feel spot on. From the eatery itself, simply promising a ‘momentary place to be’ to the juxtaposition of timed arrivals and departures alongside the suspended ‘clockless casino’ terminal vibe in this preflight purgatory. And finally, the labyrinth of corridors leading to anywhere in the world. All beautifully observed by Smithy – our restaurant worker on a break. 


Here I stood, quarter to four. Standing outside the ole Lenore. Its lights were dim, shutters closed. Anyone within? God only knows. I crept around, slowly lurking. Through the window, no one working. Eased my way around the wall. Careful, careful, not to stall. Watch a moment, two, then three. Will they suspect? No, never me. Hike up my collar, look both ways. This is all I’ve thought for days. For a new chef, to beat me so. How did they do it, I must know!

I’d won awards, praised by the mayor. Food tales as far as everywhere. Yet now, alas, bested thrice. Twice with meat, and once with rice. Hatred looming, maybe dooming. I felt a rage, ever blooming. No customers, no clientele. This new chef, could go to hell. For in this dark hour, outside Lenore. My fate is changed, forever more.

A knock, once then twice, both firm. Uncomfortably I stood, I squirmed. No reply, I tried the knob. It jiggled, locked, my temples throbbed. An elbow swung, a window shattered. Into the room, glass fell and clattered. The door swung open, a kitchen bare. Ahead of me, a darkened stair. Down a level, from this room. I step across into the gloom. My light swings left, then swings right. Absorbing all within my sight. Basic herbs, no recipes. All seasonings, no specialties.

Down the stair, I shone my light. A basement darker than the night. With each step, the stair did creak. The air was chill, my knees were weak. Trembling, I did descend. Why did I do this, to what ends? Finally, cement below. I shone the light, where to go? Fridges, freezers, cabinets too. Something was odd, this I knew. I walked the labyrinth, to and fro. Looking for what, I did not know.

Until a door, before me rose. From the darkness, near my nose. A large lock, sign on the door; Keep out! Meat for ole Lenore. Euphoria, sang my heart. Where to begin, oh where to start? No key nearby, fire axe might do. I wedged it in, and followed through. Lock, wrenched free, clattered home. Strangely though, I heard a moan. I swung around, silhouettes nearby. Yet nothing truly, caught my eye.

Back to the door, opened wide. Sheepishly, I peered inside. A large meat grinder, amid the room. This was no locker, it was a tomb! Prisoners, chained to the walls. Limbs hanging up, in slaughter stalls. Was this the secret of Lenore? All prime cuts of wretched poor? I backed away, my horror looming. Their cries for help, all consuming. The door behind me, against my back. I turned and pushed, there was no slack. Panic rose, I pushed and kicked. My stomach churned, I felt quite sick.

Through the door, the new chef rejoiced. The chill of his tone, the cold of his voice. “This’ll give new meaning to Chef’s Special Pie. After all, it’s chefs that are hard to come by!”


Told with almost metronomic precision and a sing-song rhythm akin to a limerick, this cleverly crafted story unfolds verse by verse – as our shunned chef desperately tries to find out why Ole Lenore chose someone else for the top job. And so, with the help of some sublime inner rhymes, we follow at a distance through the gloom, room by room, (watch that broom), heartbeats a-boom, with impending doom… It all leads to the basement, that’s where this case went… Has our chef got too curious? Are the true ingredients spurious? Are these intentions injurious? Is it fiction most furious? Yes it is. Death it is. Chef’s kiss!


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 TEACUP VANISHES by Martin Tilse, QLD
  • UNTITLED by Emily Shortall, NSW
  • HOUSE OF CARDS by Bruno Lowagie, Belgium
  • UNTITLED by Karlaine Gilbert, Austria
  • UNTITLED by Aaurora Nsair, WA
  • FLAVOUR COUNTRY by Wayne Murphy, VIC
  • ROGANO REUNION by Ellie Ness, UK
  • SIMPLE PROMISES by Keona Malia, Philippines
  • REVERIE by Lyle Closs, UK
  • HOME by Christabel Marek, SA
  • MR WONG’S DAUGHTER by Kylie McCorquodale, NSW
  • PAIGE by Kane Williams, NSW
  • SHE TAKES THE CAKE by Rani Jayakumar, USA
  • THE LAST STRAW by Marina, WA
  • BLIND DATE by Kat Element, NSW
  • A FAMILY FEAST by Tim Law, SA
  • TIME’S UP by Kellie Adams, QLD
  • FOSSILISED BLOOD by Beri Willow, VIC
  • THE NEW NORMAL by Fiona Allan, QLD
  • BURGER PADDY’S by Lindsey Harrington, Canada
  • FAIRY BREAD by Cristy Ockelford, WA
  • SAAG PANEER by Ryan Klemek, USA
  • THE TRANSFORMATION by Jeremy Chotzen, NSW
  • OHIO CALLING by Jamila Head-Toussaint, NSW
  • YOKO ONO LADY by Tiina Horn, QLD
  • ONE FOR THE ROAD by Danielle Barker, NSW
  • UNTITLED by Caroline Duncan, NSW
  • THERE IS ALWAYS TEA by Pam Makin, SA
  • FINAL CUT by Romany Rzechowicz, ACT
  • UNTITLED by Matt Townsend, UK
  • TABLE FOR ONE by Michael Donohue, NSW
  • THE ONE ACROSS by Rick Waldron, QLD
  • SHIFT DUTY by Anna Bhantana, NSW
  • DINNER FOR ONE by Jane Hodgkinson, QLD
  • UNTITLED by Mona Treme, QLD
  • SECOND DATE by Cheryn Witney, SA
  • UNTITLED by Lisa Verdekal, Ireland
  • NINE CIRCLES by Byron Jordan de Borja, NSW
  • UNTITLED by Amelia Tu, QLD
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