Welcome to the June creative showcase –  a chance to celebrate some of the stories we received this month and to inspire you in your own writing. (Speaking of inspiring, check out our SALE happening right now!)

June’s prompts were a little different:

ALPHA, BRAVO, CHARLIE, DELTA, ECHO, FOXTROT, GOLF, HOTEL, INDIA, JULIET, KILO, LIMA, MIKE, NOVEMBER, OSCAR, PAPA, QUEBEC, ROMEO, SIERRA, TANGO, UNIFORM, VICTOR, WHISK(E)Y, X-RAY, YANKEE, ZULU.

• Each story had to choose ANY THREE above words from the NATO phonetic alphabet as its STORY TITLE. (E.g. “YANKEE INDIA NOVEMBER”)
• Then, participants were required to tell a story in the most creative way using this 3-word title as inspiration! (For the above example, it might be about an American who visits the Taj Mahal at Thanksgiving. More details below!)

Whisky Tango Foxtrot! This was QUITE the departure from our usual monthly prompts, but that didn’t stop hundreds of stories created based on this array of words. Many of you loved the open brief – it really gave you a lot of scope to work with!

One of the big differences is that none of the words were required to appear in the story itself (besides the title). However, most did find comfort in either naming characters Oscar, Juliet and so on or using locations from the list in their story. And yes, there were even MANY who managed to tell stories using ALL 26 words, despite this not being the actual assignment!

• Some fun stats include ECHO being by far the most common word used in titles, followed by JULIET, HOTEL, BRAVO, ROMEO and WHISKY.
• To elaborate, ECHO (perhaps popular for its link to memories) appeared in 24% of all titles, while next-best JULIET was in 15% of titles.
• The least used word was KILO (just 16 stories total), closely followed by ZULU, then GOLF, QUEBEC, YANKEE and INDIA.
• Common groupings in the three words included ROMEO and JULIET (for obvious reasons), GOLF and/or HOTEL UNIFORMS, ALPHA ROMEO (a variation on the car brand), and dancing the TANGO or FOXTROT with PAPA.
• And while we’re talking about dance-offs, TANGO was more popular than FOXTROT!

As for which story danced and twirled its way to the Top Pick this week, it’s congratulations to Lorraine Chapman. You can read her story below, along with other showcased stories and our longlist at the end. Enjoy!

JUNE TOP PICK:

TANGO FOXTROT ECHO by Lorraine Chapman, WA

I remember her sparkles. Mrs Goldberg loved sparkly things, sparkly necklaces, sparkly brooches, sparkly earrings. I remember the sparkly beads she sewed on her full skirts. She would hitch up the sides of her skirt with her crooked fingers, then she would sing the songs, an echo from the old country, that’s what she called them. She would sing loudly, sometimes sadly, then her hips would sway and her feet would move.

“Come on Babushka, dance with me, dance your body to life.”

There in the afternoon sunlight, in the little clearing of her wild, rambling backyard, we would sometimes tango, sometimes foxtrot, but mostly we twirled until Mrs Goldberg laughed so hard she couldn’t dance any more or she would sob, either way the dancing would finish. She would be bent over laughing or crying and I would pat her back with my eight-year-old hand, no words necessary.

Eventually she would straighten up, blow her nose on the hanky she always kept in those bottomless skirt pockets. Pockets that always had a surprise for me: a special glistening rock, a seashell shaped like a fan, a handful of sunflower seeds to plant, water and wait for them to grow taller than me.

After the crying and laughing stopped, Mrs Goldberg would look me in the eye, smile lovingly and say “You are a good girl, Babushka. Come now, we must drink tea and eat cake, “ and then we would. Strong, black tea for Mrs Goldberg, milky, weak, sweet tea for me. The cake was always tall, soft, full of cinnamon and cooked fruit picked from the overgrown trees in her garden, sometimes pear, sometimes apple, fig, mulberry or a combination of whatever was currently in season. Mrs Goldberg was the best next door neighbour ever.

I remember the last day we danced. We twirled and twirled until I was dizzy, then Mrs Goldberg cried, but she didn’t stop crying. I was scared, patting her back didn’t help. So I got Mum and then the ambulance took Mrs Goldberg away. I never saw Mrs Goldberg again.

Sixty years later, I still think of Mrs Goldberg and miss her. On warm afternoons, I sing and dance with my granddaughter, my own little Babushka, in my wild rambling garden filled with tall sunflowers, sometimes we foxtrot, sometimes we tango, but mostly we twirl.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

It feels rather fitting that the Top Pick belongs to a beautiful memory-based story – seeing as how the most popular title word for this month’s challenge was “ECHO”. And in this golden echo, we’re back in the narrator’s memories as she dances with her childhood neighbour. There’s something special about adding specific details – sights, smells, ingredients and more – to observations or memories in a story. And when interlaced with a sense of nostalgia, these things can truly act like time machines. The first person POV helps us to be right back there in the sunlight, seeing the sparkles, tasting the cake and wondering what Mrs Goldberg will pull from her bottomless pockets. This view also allows us as adults to view the weight behind the neighbour’s tears. Yes, this is a simple story – on the surface, a childhood memory of an elderly neighbour who died. However, it’s in those final lines where we get lovely circularity and a reminder that carrying on a legacy isn’t always about family lines – it can be from the unrelated beautiful humans you meet in your life.

X-RAY UNIFORM OSCAR by Roger Leigh, NSW

The rules of X-ray Uniform Oscar had been established back in Year 5. Jeff and I always played by them, until Charlie joined our class and changed the rules, the game, and us.

On Charlie’s first day at school, he kissed Becky Welblessed who had been radiant and pure all the years we had known her. On the Tuesday, he got into a fight with Todd ‘Knuckles’ Milligan leaving Todd with a crushed nose and ego. On Wednesday, he told Mr Bailey that his funeral would be sparsely attended. And while Mr Bailey was still reeling, he added, ‘but I’ll be there.’

On Thursday, Jeff and I climbed the ladder to the school roof. We chose Thursday’s, because Mr Bailey was lunchtime supervisor and he used the games’ shed to hide and drink whiskey. I once told my dad about Mr Bailey. He said he would drink during the day too, if he had to teach me and Jeff.

We sat with our backs against one of the school’s big brick chimneys looking out over the playground and the bush beyond. Charlie appeared at the top of the ladder, marched past us, and perched on the edge of the roof. He looked down and fired snot rockets from each nostril. The screams from below suggested they landed among the girls playing hopscotch.

He turned to us grinning.

“Guys!”

I nodded nonchalantly.

Jeff was not so cool.

“Hey man, neat snot bombs.”

Charlie accepted the accolade without comment.

“You guys just sit up here?”

“There’s stuff to do.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah.” Jeff waved his arms expansively. “Loads of stuff.”

“Right.”

“We could play X-ray Uniform Oscar,” I suggested.

We gathered around the furthest corner of the roof. The corner where the high voltage electricity line passed nearby.

“So, x-ray uniform crossbar. How does that work?”

“X-ray Uniform Oscar… You leap out and grab that wire, and a hundred million volts flows through you. The electricity lights up your body, so we can see through your uniform… like an x-ray.”

Charlie’s eyes flashed a challenge. “You’ve done this?”

“Well, there’s the Oscar rule. You act as if you’re holding the wire. Jeff, you show him.”

Jeff made as if to reach out and grab the wire. Then leapt back—eyes bulging, arms rigid before him. His whole body spasmed. He fell to the ground and shook violently. His body arched… finally relaxed… then arched again. After a minute, he lay still, trying to suppress his breathing. It was one of his best performances. I was about to award him an Oscar.

“Meh,” Charlie said.

“What?” Jeff shrieked as he sat up. “You do better then.”

Charlie stood on the corner of the roof. He leant out. And then he leapt and grabbed hold of the wire. He hung there eighteen metres above the ground.

We weren’t responsible for what happened next. We never knew nothing about it. We were in the library. We were there the whole time.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The language of the playground is so relatable. After all, while we may not have sat on the school roof or hung from high-voltage wires during our early years, we more than likely made up silly games (with silly names) or experienced different friend dynamics and how the arrival of someone new can change everything. In this case, Charlie is a real live-wire, so to speak, ruining our narrator’s chances with Becky Welblessed and causing trouble throughout the school. What happens next is … well, you know what happens. And those final four sentences manage to ‘stick the landing’ perfectly (even if poor Charlie doesn’t), a dark but believable response to such an, er, emotionally charged situation. 

ROMEO JULIET WHISKY by Ryan Klemek, USA

Juliet furrows her brow. “So, let me get this straight. You think I should drink this potion and fake my death?”

“‘Tis the only way, I'm afraid,” Friar Laurence says.

“That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. What if Romeo doesn't get the message? You know how melodramatic he is. He'd probably do something stupid like kill himself for real.”

The friar sighs. “I suppose you're right. I hadn't considered that possibility. Maybe you two could just sneak off in the middle of the night and go somewhere far away where your families can never find you.”

Juliet rolls her eyes. “Duh.”

That very evening, Juliet and Romeo flee Verona for the rolling hills of Scotland. Luckily, they both know the combinations to their parents' wall safes, so money is no object. They've checked into the best hotel in Edinburgh, hoping to have themselves a proper honeymoon.

“I can't believe we pulled it off,” Romeo says with a burp.

“I'm excited, too, but maybe you should cool it with the celebratory whiskey,” Juliet says. “At this rate, you won't be able to perform your husbandly duties.”

“What are you, my mother?” he slurs. “I'll be fine. Now, come over here and gimme a kiss.”

Romeo puckers his lips like a fish, but Juliet recoils when she gets a whiff of his breath. While she's fetching him a mint leaf, he succumbs to his drunkenness and passes out on the bed. She shakes her head, then storms out of the room to walk off her frustration.

Is this how it's going to be from now on? She was sure he didn't drink quite so much during their twenty-four-hour courtship.

“I guess you never really know a guy until you marry him.”

He'll be good in other ways, she's sure. He can fish or hunt or whatever it is men do. What else is he going to use that sword for? He's already killed all her blowhard cousins.

She returns to their suite to find a ghastly sight: Romeo dead, face down in a pool of his own vomit. To her surprise, she doesn't shed a tear; in fact, there's a new lightness in her bosom.

“I wonder what that Paris is up to,” she thinks. “I never did give the poor fellow a fair shake.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This is a good time to address the Shakespeare-sized elephant in this creative challenge’s room – pointed out by many who scanned the list of words for likely combos. And you can’t help but notice both Romeo and Juliet are present in this phonetic line-up. As a result, we saw a large number of stories play on some variation of the famous tale, and hey, why not! Is it derivative? Of course! But if you do it well, it’s also a clever way to bring the reader along for the ride without having to fill in the contextual stuff. In this story’s case, we’re treated to a more modern alternative to the ending of the classic, only half as tragic and exposing some of the flaws in the bard's original.

CHARLIE VICTOR JULIET by Jo Skinner, QLD

I’m here an hour early, waiting for your flight to land. It’s been thirty-two years, three months, one week and two days since you left. I’m worried you’ve changed your mind, worried that I’ll say the wrong thing. I won’t mention that I’ve thought about you every single day, that I was in hospital with a broken heart when you didn’t come home.

Perhaps you sensed how much I longed for a little girl, how disappointed I was when the midwife handed me my fourth son – my Charlotte, a Charlie. Victor strutted with pride, his virility again affirmed. He even gifted me an eternity ring that I still wear on a chain around my neck.

You were different from the start. The only one with my brown eyes. You arrived early, were quieter, smaller, and more intense, the only one who resembled me.

The difficulties began when you started school. With Victor the president of the local rugby league club, your brothers all played. I worried about you. You were slight, a dreamer and preferred to read. He needs to toughen up, Victor said. It’s good for him.

I should have stood up for you, but the others loved the game, and it was a family tradition, being involved with the club, celebrating wins, commiserating after losses.

Things got bad the day you played dress ups and came out wearing my blue silk, your tiny feet clip clopping around in sparkly heels, my old handbag on your elbow. Bloody poofter, Victor roared and beat you black and blue.

Where’s the harm? I said, He’s just a little boy having fun, and I copped it too. I think that’s when you began to disappear, your brown eyes dulled, your body always vigilant. The truth is, I was frightened too and wanted things to go back to normal. I longed for rowdy careless conversations, evenings mud-splattered and sweaty from training, a pile of filthy shoes at the front door, and muffins disappearing as I pulled them out of the oven.

I smuggled you books from the library, made excuses when you didn’t show up to train, but you became unreachable. After you grew up, all bony knees and elbows, dark fuzz above your lip, I left you alone.

I’ll never forget the night you disappeared. Rain slashing down as I parked in the driveway with a carload of groceries. I heard Victor shouting, saw the screen door fly open and you running. I should have driven after you immediately, not waited until you were classified missing. I never imagined you’d be gone so long.

I watch the plane taxi in, my broken heart a bloody mess and check each passenger as they alight, resigned when you aren’t amongst them.

I approach the slim, smartly dressed woman still waiting then realise I no longer know what you look like.

Mum?

It’s only the eyes I recognise. Charlie, I whisper.

Juliet, now.

I embrace her, the eternity ring crushed between us.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

A change of pace now to tackle an emotional reunion as our mother narrates the childhood of her son Charlie and the events that led to his departure more than three decades earlier. Here the title is simple in suggesting who the players in this story are – Charlie, the youngest son who doesn’t fit the mould that father Victor wants to place in him. And while it’s easy to expect that “Juliet” in the title must be the mother waiting at the terminal, the actual reveal makes a lot more sense. While this nuanced subject matter is explored with fairly broad brush strokes here, it still packs a punch in the final meeting.

WHISKY UNIFORM PAPA by Deryn Davies, SA

Dad always wore the same thing to the pub. Jeans, with the blue dye leeched out to mottled concrete grey. A tidy shirt, done up at the collar as if he’d lost a tie along the way. Brown work boots, factory issue.

He was a lark drunk. Would get home and terrorise the dog. Going “come here, girl! Come here!” and when she came, he’d say it again and again even though she scrabbled up close to him, whining, unable to grasp the misstep in her doggly duties. Why this wasn’t good enough.

Dad did that to anyone.

Even though winter slapped our town stupid and it wasn’t a pub sorta day, when I told him I was leaving, didn’t know that I’d be back, he buttoned his collar. He returned, larkish, nose running from the cold.

Told me to fetch him a drink, love. And again, and again. He laughed. Didn’t ask why I couldn’t get a degree here, at home. I didn’t say.

I even thought he’d forgotten, until the night before my leaving. He tore a hole in his jeans pulling them on, then jerked his head at me.

‘Well?’

‘Well, what?’

‘Well, come on.’

Brown boots crunched gravel. I followed a pace behind until we sat side by side at the bar. The lights were yellow and low and gave the room a dingy gloom.

At home it was beer, but the bartender put down two short glasses of amber whiskey. His appraised me a moment, nodded at dad, corroborating something. I never knew dad spoke about me.

Dad looked straight ahead when he cleared his throat.

‘Thought we should have a farewell drink. You know.’

I turned to face him, but he didn’t move. His profile was stiff, hazy in yellow dinge. He drank his glass in favourable sips, slow. The ice clacked against my teeth.

‘Don’t put up with shit. Better to get kicked out than stomped on.’

He was giving me advice?

‘Keep your nose clean.’

I balked. What did he know, anyway? Anger, indignation reared up. He’d never left like I was leaving. He came here. Drank himself larkish instead. He had no advice to give.

His eyes flicked to mine, then away. He ordered us another glass.

‘You gotta say more over there. People… they need chatter.’

My teeth bared to bite, to tell him what I thought of his chatter. But then the bartender poured and my eyes stuck to the bottle he’d picked. Mine from the top shelf. Just mine. Dad drank cheap. He was skint. No money, and no frame of reference for advice.

But he didn’t want to send me out into the world with nothing, either.

I cleared something out my throat. Washed it away with whiskey.

‘I can chat, sometimes.’

‘Good, good. I…’ he paused and thought better. Wrapped an arm around my shoulder, squeezed. ‘You won’t be back, maybe, but you’ll still visit. Right?’

The whiskey heated up in my stomach.

‘Right, yeah.’

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

From a mother’s reunion to now a father’s farewell, as a man of few words struggles to communicate the mix of emotions as his child, all grown up, gets ready to leave for the city. In particular, we loved the strong narrative voice on show here, right from the start, through both the dialogue and the observations. It seems right at home in this country setting and the stand-off a meeting of generations and cultures all at once. Another authentic slice of rural life, and a tale as old as time – with short tight sentences to match the setting.

HOTEL ROMEO DELTA by Beth L Kingsley, QLD

There is a right and a wrong way to remove a heart.

The exact technique, Juliet learns, is dependent on how much you want to salvage; how much of the broken heart you still need to be usable.

She watches the heart pump and pulsate as if it doesn’t yet know it has been cut out. Its ventricles shine, the fluorescent lightning above reflecting off the blood and bodily fluids as it gyrates.

“The longer the heart is sick, the faster you need to work. The window after removal narrows as some of the muscle fibres are weaker or damaged after struggling for so long,” the Professor explains.

This would have been pertinent information a decade ago, Juliet thinks to herself, her mind pulled from the human heart in the bucket back to the moment she met him in that hotel bar. Tropical palm trees stretched their fingers delicately through the sunset, tickling the fairy lights that were strung up. Soft, ambient music playing and a warm glow that could have been the wine or the weather or the pair of sparkling blue eyes sitting across from her.

He was a safe place to keep a heart, she’d thought at the time.

Much nicer than a blue, plastic bucket.

She takes in a sharp breath, back to the sterile environment, donning a pristine white lab coat and notebook to match – no words, no marks. Just a pen poised and the faint drumming of that bloody heart.

The Professor leans down with a pair of scissors and cuts, violently, into the heart. He carves away a chunk and brings it up close to his face, dropping his glasses onto his nose as he tries to extract a single muscle fibre from the hunk of pink flesh he’s gripping tightly between his fingers.

His movements are fast and precise. He’s quick, but not rushed, and the technique works. He’s left with a small piece of the heart muscle, unscathed, still beating despite all odds. Despite all traumas and a decade of illness it beats on. Doing its job, trying to provide life to its host who no longer needs it.

Juliet is watching as the Professor’s assistant suspends the fibre in a test tube filled with some concoction and it’s hooked up to a machine, maybe to keep it alive.

”That’s a delta wave,” he points to the graph on the screen and she nods, bewildered. She is finding it hard to focus on account of the gore and the glaring fact that if there is one heart here, on the floor, there is inevitably a body missing one.

She thinks, for a quiet moment, maybe it is hers and she presses her palm to her breast to try to feel the rhythm of her own muscle fibres in her chest.

To her surprise, it is still there.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

A stellar opening line will always get you attention in a flash fiction piece and here, this line achieves that in spades. There is also the hint of the figurative at play around the literal organ-removal issue – with reference to a broken heart keeping it ambiguous. Of course, as we meet the professor, we realise that this is indeed literal and poor Romeo has merely been “a safe place to keep a heart” until it was needed elsewhere. Why exactly are Juliet and the professor performing this grisly procedure? No time to explain, and perhaps that’s a good thing. Instead, we’re left with a scalpel-sharp slice of life/death and perhaps one fewer thing on Juliet’s blue bucket list.

WHISKEY TANGO FOXTROT by Claudia Nicholson, Greece

The trouble started, as it so often did, with Mrs. Huddersfield’s jazz hands.

Milly Featherstone winced. ‘Keep it low and fluid, Mrs. H. You’re dancing the foxtrot, not performing an exorcism.’

The South Haverford Seniors’ Ballroom Club was in rare form — they’d remembered their left feet today. They were due in Edinburgh next weekend for the annual Whiskey Cup Tango Invitational. Milly had finally scraped together a team: three sprightly octogenarians, two knee braces, and a man named Leonard who thought it was a gardening group but was too polite to leave.

She’d never imagined she’d be dodging bullets by Sunday.

It began at the train station. A clatter, a shriek and Mrs. Huddersfield’s handbag collided with a stranger’s briefcase. In the chaos of boarding, Milly grabbed the wrong one.

Inside:

– One microchip labelled Project Spirit: World’s last Whiskey recipe

– One British passport with Milly’s face

– And a name she’d never heard before: Agent Foxtrot

‘WTF, is this?’ Milly gasped.

Then came the Russians. Svetlana and Boris—competitive dancers with terrifying posture—cornered her at the B&B.

‘You haf our chip,’ Svetlana hissed, her heels clicking like gunfire. ‘Return it, or we lead you to a painful paso doble.’

Milly fled through the kitchen, side-stepping a hot pot of tea with flair.

The next morning, MI6 knocked on her door. ‘We’ve been tracking Agent Foxtrot since she went rogue. Fine footwork. Shame she betrayed the crown.’

‘I teach dance in South Haverford,’ Milly insisted. ‘The most dangerous thing I’ve done is jazz hands after hip surgery.’

But the passport said otherwise. So did the cult.

‘Only the Chosen One can perform the Sacred Sequence and reveal the Great Barrel,’ whispered their leader, a man wearing a tartan sash, with mirrored glasses and unsettling enthusiasm.

‘I don’t even drink,’ Milly said weakly.

Now it was all tango showdowns and encrypted dance steps. MI6 agents disguised as ceilidh fiddlers. Svetlana tried to stab her with a stiletto. Mrs. H. had Macarena’d her way into an intelligence briefing.

Despite it all, Milly taught.

Because Mrs. H. was finally pivoting without spraining something, and Leonard started calling her “coach” instead of “miss.”

The showdown came on the final day of the competition.

Gunfire erupted mid-routine. Svetlana leapt from the judges’ table. Mrs. H. weaponised her jazz hands. Milly intercepted a flying whiskey barrel with a surprisingly elegant heel turn.

And then—quiet.

One microchip crushed, one prophecy ticked off, one whiskey recipe gone for good.

As the dust settled and MI6 dragged Svetlana away, a familiar face approached Milly.

It was her.

Agent Foxtrot. The real one. Identical in every way, save the scar above her brow and a secretive grin.

‘Thanks for keeping my seat warm,’ she said. ‘You dance better than you think.’

Then she vanished into the crowd, leaving Milly holding a trophy, a dance team and a newfound taste for chaos.

Mrs. Huddersfield beamed. ‘Same time next week?’

Milly smiled. ‘Foxtrot or flamethrowers, I’m ready.’

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There are plenty of hilarious lines in this one, and once again a strong opening line that invites you to read on, intrigued. The visual humour that brings this collection of “three sprightly octogenarians, two knee braces, and a man named Leonard who thought it was a gardening group” is delightful, and you expect that Milly is heading to a competition in similar fashion to many country hall cake-bake-off style stories. And yet, no. What we instead get is a hilarious 007-style romp as Milly becomes a reluctant Agent Foxtrot and a bonkers-level action sequence unfolds. Yes, it’s chaotic and silly, but that’s ultimately what makes it memorable in a sea of similar themes this month. 

SIERRA X-RAY LIMA by Corey Picaro, QLD

It began, as these things so often do, with a puddle. Not the curse inducing, rain filled pothole kind, all unexpected splashes and ruined suspension. No, it was more like that quiet, polite friend that will sleep shivering under your couch cushions before asking for a blanket, waiting for you to notice.

Initially, it had manifested itself as a spot on her mattress, its origins mysterious and unknowable – but probably unrelated to the empty bottles of wine filling a box in the corner of her room. If one (say, a landlord) were to investigate the location of the stain, they might note that—assuming one sleeps on their stomach and about half a shuffle left of center—it sat neatly at hip-height. That might give certain clues to a certain kind of person. But, of course, landlords are not detectives. They’re barely landlords.

Upon summoning her landlord, she had watched as he prodded, sniffed, scowled at the ceiling above the damp spot and tactfully ignored the box of bottles.

“Move the bed,” he declared. “Or throw a towel over it.”

She tried moving the bed.

The puddle moved with it.

Then the dreams started. Always water. Out in the middle of the sea, nowhere to stand. Just floating, feeling the tug of the deep begin to pull her down. She woke to find the puddle had grown overnight, like the red ring around a cut your roommate would tell you was “probably fine”. The puddle didn’t care for explanations. It just was – like absence or traffic on the mornings you’re finally trying again.

She started to wonder if it was less a leak, and more a message. Not a ‘found a coin and make a wish’ sign. More like a fortune cookie—name spelt wrong, yet somehow still right.

By day three, she tried naming it. Something with flair, like Megatron or Cornelius. Smirking, she wrote the name on a sticky note. Then paused. Looked at it. It wasn’t a Cornelius. It wasn’t even a puddle.

The shape had changed again. The familiarity of it brought a lump to her throat.

It looked like Peru.

Peru had been a dream. Now, seeing it made her feel like she was being X-rayed in reverse—grief glowing faintly on the scan, where once there was only silence.

“It’s not you, is-”

She couldn’t finish. Because any answer would hurt more than the silence she had been living with.

On the fourth night, Sierra sat on the bed. No bottle this time. Just her.

And the mattress that only sagged on one side now.

The puddle sat silent.

“You always wanted to go to Lima,” she whispered, her voice ridiculous in the empty flat. “Said it…”

The puddle, for once, didn’t ripple. It listened.

Sierra learned to live with the puddle. It never vanished; it just stopped expanding. She bought waterproof pyjamas, stopped explaining it to guests and never asked it why it stayed. Because grief didn’t want answers, it only wanted room.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Another strong opening that relies on the unexplainable to draw you in. And in this case, it’s the appearance of a curious, er, wet spot in Sierra’s bed that prompts further investigation. There is something matter-of-fact about this ‘puddle’ that makes the story feel oddly pleasant, despite the clear lack of comfort such a thing in one’s bed would cause. And in the end, while we don’t get all the answers, this is perhaps the most realistic thing of all – with a final line that hints at the deeper figurative meaning that was likely there all along.

ALPHA ROMEO JULIET by Grace Braeburn, ACT

Two sects, unalike in philosophy,
On Instagripe, the setting of our scene,
Give rise to algorithm-crossed lovers,
Who take charge of their fate by simple means.

@α_romeo:
My bruhs, believe me, my Rosa’s the GOAT,
She’s slaying a bikini in this post.

@benz:
‘Your’ Rosa? Cringe. There’s a huge field to play,
You should follow Jewlz, like Merc and I, ‘kay?
Although she’s a bit of a feminist,
Her body and her face make up for this.

@merc:
Her account’s private but I’ll DM her,
She’ll agree, I’m her OG follower.

@α_romeo:
I guess following some lib chick might work,
Rosa once said I only followed jerks.

One DM later…

@α_romeo:
Sweet Jewlz, has my heart ever loved before?
Till now, I’ve never seen beauty like yours.

@giulietta:
Um, thanks? I guess? So you’re a friend of Merc’s?
There are a few rules we should go through first.

Strictly no racism, transphobia,
Misogyny or homophobia.
In fact, just don’t hate on anyone please,
On my account, I want people at ease.

@α_romeo:
Soft! What woke delusions I’ll help you break,
Lucky you’re mad lit, for our true love’s sake,
I’ll stay and counsel you till tomorrow,
Dispelling fake news is such sweet sorrow.

@giulietta:
We’ve exchanged less than a hundred words, though
I recognise you, you’re an alpha bro.
How often, if I may boldly enquire,
Do you think about the Roman Empire?

@α_romeo:
The Roman Empire broadly, I’m not sure,
Verona, specifically, somewhat more.
My Jewlz, now that we’re beginning to share,
I’ve a question for you too. Man or bear?

@giulietta:
It’s hardly surprising, I choose the bear.
Let me guess, not what you wanted to hear?

@α_romeo:
You think you’d win against a bear, do you?
My pookie, you’re totally delulu.

@giulietta:
I’m not your pookie. Yes, the bear would win,
But no-one would ask, “What were you wearing?”

@α_romeo:
When will you ALL learn that it’s not ALL men?
Stop blaming all the rest of us, blame them!
Here’s some free advice, from your better half,
What you need to do, is smile more and LAUGH!

Two hours later…

@α_romeo:
Are you still salty? How dare you ghost me!
You’ll end up as a childless cat lady,
A fate you deserve that’s crueller than death,
You’re ugly anyway, and worse, rad left!

The next day…

The peace of the morning brought Jewlz insight,
She blocked his account, reported his spite.
For her patience had rarely ebbed so low,
Than in those moments shared with Romeo.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Yes, we’re ending with one more Romeo and Juliet take. This one had such a strong sense of the social media voice and worked so well in capturing the play, that we simply had to share it. The style that the players all communicate in perfectly mirrors the original, and we all know that if Instagram or Snapchat had been around in 1597, these star-crossed texters would have been all over it. Highlights include Mercutio (@merc) saying “Her account’s private but I’ll DM her, She’ll agree, I’m her OG follower” as well as @guilietta quizzing @a_romeo on whether he thinks of the Roman Empire, to name just a few of the clever moments. Finally, the ultimate ‘death’ (having one’s account blocked) is also a great modern take. Fun stuff – and it even rhymes!

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 and deserve an ‘honourable mention’. Remember, all creativity is subjective – but if we longlisted YOUR story this month, take a moment to celebrate! 

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

• OSCAR SIERRA ECHO by Joshua Emery, NSW
• ECHO JULIET UNIFORM by John Allison, UK
• ALPHA PAPA X-RAY by Miku Nakamura, NSW
• WHISKY ECHO X-RAY by Philly Kash, USA
• SIERRA ECHO X-RAY by Pranksatawney Phil, VIC
• YANKEE X-RAY ECHO by Suzanne Wacker, QLD
• ALPHA ECHO TANGO by Melissa Pefianco, VIC
• ECHO ROMEO FOXTROT by Kim Hoey, USA
• MIKE HOTEL UNIFORM by Gloria Lathan, VIC
• NOVEMBER FOXTROT ECHO by Kit Joans, USA
• PAPA GOLF HOTEL by John AD Fraser, SA
• MIKE NOVEMBER ROMEO by Bronwyn Boehm, NSW
• ALPHA QUEBEC YANKEE by Robyn Knibb, QLD
• DELTA BRAVO ECHO by Sam Loran, Canada
• PAPA DELTA X-RAY by Sam Pringle, VIC
• QUEBEC HOTEL ECHO by Diane Giombetti Clue, USA
• BRAVO PAPA WHISKEY by Kaylah Strauss Tromp, TAS
• CHARLIE MIKE JULIET by Kenneth Mann, UK
• JULIET ALPHA QUEBEC by Jacquie Bell, QLD
• UNIFORM PAPA VICTOR by Jen Hacker, NSW
• ALPHA ROMEO X-RAY by acspecials, VIC
• BRAVO NOVEMBER VICTOR by Maggie Lewis-Stevenson, USA
• ROMEO WHISKY TANGO by Malwina Strutt, NSW
• ROMEO ALPHA TANGO by Jeff Taylor, NZ
• ROMEO JULIET HOTEL by Cee Ford, WA
• MIKE NOVEMBER ROMEO by Spencer Gardiner, UK
• NOVEMBER ALPHA VICTOR by Mami Abels, SA
• JULIET NOVEMBER TANGO by Nelly Shulman, Israel
• HOTEL GOLF UNIFORM by Adison Sobczak, USA
• YANKEE UNIFORM FOXTROT by Raylene Hewer, WA
• ROMEO ECHO MIKE by Immy Mohr, NSW
• PAPA UNIFORM X-RAY by Roopa Menon, UAE
• OSCAR UNIFORM ECHO by Kerry Cox, WA
• MIKE DELTA ECHO by Jane Hodgkinson, QLD
• FOXTROT YANKEE JULIET by Madeleine Armstrong, UK
• PAPA KILO UNIFORM by Stacey Omeros, QLD
• JULIET NOVEMBER TANGO by Elisa Rivera, VIC
• BRAVO ECHO MIKE by Keba Ghardt, USA
• WHISKY UNIFORM JULIET by Lisa Zeltzer, Canada
• WHISKY LIMA GOLF by Jessica Carroll, VIC
• X-RAY HOTEL WHISKY by Chris Doty, USA
• ROMEO JULIET TANGO by Dreena Collins, Jersey
• CHARLIE WHISKY FOXTROT by Eryn Gibson, NSW
• GOLF HOTEL INDIA by Amelia Arkas, Czech Republic
• DELTA KILO CHARLIE by Laila Miller, WA
• SIERRA ECHO DELTA by Ross Champion, WA
• BRAVO WHISKY PAPA by Chloe Paige, VIC