Furious Fiction: March 2023 Story Showcase

Welcome to our new-look Furious Fiction monthly story showcase! As always, this will be a place to be inspired by our community’s creativity – and perhaps even see YOUR OWN story featured. It’s always so interesting to see how different writers use the monthly challenge criteria, so let’s remind ourselves about what they were for March:

  • Each story had to include a CHAIR of some sort.
  • Each story had to include the words ALBUM,  BRIGHT and CLICK. (You could use longer variations as long as the original spelling was retained.)
  • Each story had to include a character who had to make a CHOICE between two things.

With almost 1000 submissions, we received all manner of chairs – from dentist’s chairs to armchairs, wheelchairs to chairlifts, electric chairs and even figurative chairpersons’ of the board! As for albums – there was a mix of photo albums and music albums, along with some more unique ones like stamp albums. Lights were bright, students were bright and days were brightened. Heels clicked, pens clicked, tongues clicked and doors clicked – to name just a few!

And now, on with the showcase of stories that stood out this month during our furious selection process. Congrats if you’re featured and we hope to see you lining up for the next Furious Fiction challenge on the first Friday of April!


MARCH FOCUS: “A character who must make a CHOICE”

So, why did we ask you to include a story where a character has to make a choice between two things? 

  • The main reason is that providing some kind of conflict or choice helps drive a story forward – this can be very useful for flash fiction, where word count is limited. 
  • As a reader, it’s also a great way to learn a little MORE about that character through their actions. 
  • This month, we saw plenty of life and death choices (it’s important to be unique if you choose a common one like this!), as well as other more trivial choices such as what to have for breakfast! Sometimes, the stories found our character at a moral crossroads – other times a LITERAL one! 

And if you want to learn MORE about creating strong characters that readers will engage with, we’re offering YOU our self-paced Fiction Essentials: Characters online course at a discounted PRICE of $137 until 31 March! (A great addition to your writer toolbox…)

Here is a selection of our favourite stories that succeeded with the character choice challenge:


LONELY by V. Farrer, SA

The cafe was busy for a Monday. I made my way to my favourite table, which luckily for me was not taken. I sat with my back to the room, away from the bright sun shining through the large window and the people. I had noticed that everyone was sitting with someone. I sat by myself and felt alone.

This was my life now, alone and lonely. I scanned the menu and ordered the same thing I always did. My husband's favourite – bacon and poached eggs and a mug of coffee. Once the smiling waitress, Joy, had left my table, I pulled out the photo album. It was small and discreet.

Every page was a memory. I cherished every one and stared lovingly at each photo. Lost in the trip we had taken to New Zealand, the clicking heels were a distant distraction until they stopped next to the table.

‘Excuse me.’

I looked up, closing the photo album. She was young. Long blond hair, red lips, flawless skin, floral summer dress.

‘Do you need this chair?’

I wanted to say yes. I do need the chair. I need the chair to remind me that my husband used to sit across from me during meals. What right did she have to take a chair from my table? Why should I let her take that chair? It would ruin my Monday morning and therefore set me up for a disconcerting week. She would not care, this young woman who obviously had company at her table.

She was looking at me expectantly. I shifted in my seat, pushing down the anger I was feeling. How dare she put me in this position. How dare she ruin my regular Monday morning. I could say I was waiting for someone, she would not know. I could pretend loudly when I was leaving, that the person did not turn up.

Her face was beginning to frown. She would be annoyed if I said that I needed the chair.

‘You can have it.’ My voice sounded small and weak.

‘Thank you.’

I watched as she took the chair, her heels clicking across the floor to her full table.

Joy arrived with my order and placed it on the table.

‘Thank you.’

I put the photo album into my bag and stood. It was not the same.


The choice here is pivotal to the entire story, and our protagonist’s state of mind. A singular and personal story, yet it feels very relatable too – that feeling of ritual and continuing them even in the absence of one of the players. The choice of whether to let the woman take the chair (or not) is cleverly observed, as it reveals a lot about the character and where they are at in their grief. Nicely done!


JOE’S CHAIR by Deborah Mercer, UK

It really is time I got rid of this chair, thought Sophie. It was the kind of chair she hurriedly flung a throw over if someone arrived unexpectedly (which to her relief they rarely did) to hide the crack in the leather at the back and the stuffing coming out.

But it had been Joe’s chair. She took the old photo album off the stained coffee table, and read it for what must have been the hundredth time. Oh, they looked so young, and bright, with their whole lives before them, and even when they were middle aged, they still, or so she’d thought, had so much of their life before them. He had probably seen the alarming signs before she did, or before she chose to admit it. How he tired more easily. How he lost his appetite. And against all the stereotypes, he had been the one who went to the doctors, she had not persuaded him. And I probably would not have done, she thought. I was not brave enough. Their GP made an urgent appointment for him to see a consultant at the hospital the very same day.

He had been so heartbreakingly stoical, and so heartbreakingly vulnerable at the same time. But as soon as she saw his face, the awful reality clicked in. How much was the expression, and how much because she could no longer try not to notice how thin it was, how his eyes, those dark grey eyes with the sweet expression, were sunk into his head.

He had told her so gently, as if she were the one in need of care and attention and gentle words, not him. She had spoken of getting second opinions, of looking further into those wonderful new therapies they were always talking about on the internet. But he had shaken his head. “No, love. I trust the doctor on this. And that specialist at the General Hospital is one of the best in the country. I must check my affairs are in order, and then we will enjoy what time we have left together.”

It had been so hard to agree to that. So hard, even though he had always been the one who had fought the battles. And yet, in her heart, she knew he was right.

Almost to the end he had sat in that chair, rather than taking to his bed. But he’d never harboured any illusion that it could ward off the inevitable.

It really is time I got rid of this chair, thought Sophie again. People said you should do things like that after a bereavement, didn’t they? It fit in with those famous Five Stages of Grief. Her daughter Sue hadn’t said so in so many words, not yet, but it was most definitely what she was thinking.

Well, thought Sophie. I don’t care. It’s Joe’s chair, and it will always be Joe’s chair.

But she might buy a new throw. Yellow, maybe. His favourite colour.


Here, once more we deal with grief and the character must make a choice once more relating to a chair – but unlike the first story, this chair has an actual backstory, which we get to see and understand the context. We often hang on to objects for their special meaning and this thoughtful story leans fully into that concept. The eventual decision and resolution tells us a lot about Sophie’s character. Everything's better with a new throw!


CLICK by Karlaine Gilbert, Austria

Click went the cap of the lighter, revealing the bright orange glow of the flame. Click. Down it went snuffing out the light.

On the floor of the house, photographs cruelly ripped from family albums, lay strewn across the carpet.

The lighter felt smooth in my hand. My fingers caressing the silver, searching for the engraving that had meant so much and now represented so little. Click. The flame re-emerged from the silver casing.

Bending down I picked up the photograph closest to my feet. Cheerful faces looked back at me. Smiling. Happy. Young. The house, our home, sat in the background. The place where dreams and memories were going to be made.

The flame shed an orange glow across the image as I remembered happier times.

Reality returned and I scanned the room, once full of life and love now empty and cold. How could I have been so foolish?

Click. The flame went out.

Walking to the window I picked up the envelopes, each one with its red lettering, their contents demanding what I didn’t have. Holding them in my hand I looked out of the window, at the garden where summers had been spent lazing in the sun, laughing and planning the future. Dusk was starting to fall, cloaking everything in darkness. Click. The flame returned. Click.

In the corner of the room lay the two containers. I picked one up. It was heavier than I had remembered. Or maybe that was the weight of the task before me seeping into my bones. I still had time to change my mind, but would the weight be gone? Would the envelopes be gone? Would the happiness return?

Unscrewing the top, I removed the lid and started to pour, walking between the rooms. Careful, I said to myself. When one was empty, I opened the second and made a path to the back door of the house.

I stepped outside and closed the door. My hand resting on the handle that I had felt so many times before. Happier times.

Click. I stared at the flame. Just one quick action and everything would be over. Click. Just one quick action and a new life could begin. Click.

Hesitating, I held the lighter in my hand. I reminded myself that I didn’t have a choice. This had to be done. The alternative wasn’t an option.

I opened the door for what would be the final time. Click. The flame flickered in the evening breeze. I glanced inside, the smell of the fuel was strong, it would be quick.

I threw the lighter and all the memories into the house. I turned and walked away. The door of the house closed. Click.


The choice our singular character must make here is cleverly represented by one of our criteria words – CLICK. The use of repetition and hints at a backstory without being explicit (the red letter demands being bills piled up etc) slowly makes the reader understand what and why they are choosing to do this, but also the hesitation as they take one last look at their past. The ending is powerful too using a different click as the door closes.


SEVEN SUNBURNS by Ingrid Jendrzejewski, UK

  1. A baby born in San Antonio, to parents who’d just arrived, parents who didn’t understand Texas sun. No memory, just a pink Kodachrome baby in a fading album, colours all wrong.
  2. An all-over itch that turned into pain at bedtime. How could it be a sunburn with the sun already set? My sister and I in a lukewarm bath, mum sprinkling baking soda over wet skin. The soda, impossibly cool, making the idea of sunburn with no sun seem slightly more plausible.
  3. Rainbow Beach. Back in the days when our parents dropped us off at the pool with five bucks and a bottle of sunscreen, coming back five hours later. Don’t forget to reapply, they’d say, but it’s impossible to reapply when you don’t apply in the first place.
  4. First pair of fishnets tights and a music festival we snuck out to see. Sunscreen dutifully applied, but gaps in the tights forgotten. Scarlet diamonds imprinted on legs. A hot, hot summer wearing long, long trousers so Dad wouldn’t find out.
  5. A date with a summer-skinned boy that ended up by the seaside, no shade in sight. Kitten heels clicking on boardwalk then sinking in sand. Too embarrassed to press pause, to cover up. A desire to impress. A desire. Sand in all the wrong places. A redness lasting longer than romance.
  6. Freshman year, matriculation dinner. The chair of the department taking an interest. A flattery. An impromptu invitation to a garden party, a glass of Pimms and lemonade, then another. A flattery, a walk by the river. No time to pop by the shop beforehand. By the time the evening is over, I know the damage has been done.
  7. Years later. After the melanoma. After the next. After the dermatologist told me not to go outside between 10 and 3. After I stopped buying shorts, skirts, shirts without sleeves. After the five-year window where doctors checked my skin every three months. After I turned 35. After I was officially in remission. After my diagnosis was eclipsed by my sister’s, a stage four. A road trip, the two of us, between her chemo sessions. A detour. An empty road. A brilliant summer day. A day defying the weather forecast. A sky impossibly bright, a sun impossibly clear. No sunscreen in the car, no hat. Just me and my paper-thin skin, my sister who no longer worries about long-term skin damage, and the sun sizzling above. A choice. I know better now, how sunburns last, on the skin and underneath. Still. Still. Let’s do it, I say and so we do. We pull over, strip off, lay on the rocks, look up at where the clouds should be and it. feels. good. The sun’s warmth on my body, its first touch in ten, maybe fifteen years. Us laughing. Us letting our whole bodies laugh. Two adults in an impossible situation, facing an impossible future. A moment of letting go as the heat settles deep within.


Another way to represent choices is to literally LIST them, as we see in this inventive format – laid out like seven stages of sunburn grief, and ultimately also serving as a laundry list of consequential choices made in her life. The criteria-checking choice doesn’t come until part 7, following a string of short order diary entries – where everything catches up on a road trip and one final Thelma & Louise style choice between two options must be made! Everything that comes before it, makes the decision not only make sense, but have greater meaning.



It is often all the small choices a person makes that lead them to change their life forever, even though the big ones get all the credit. Small choices like sitting next to a stranger on the first day of university. Then deciding to start a conversation about why she was taking notes in lime green ink. Then deciding to get lunch together afterward. But it’s the big moments like our graduation and wedding day that get the photos in the album. But to have children was a decision all our little moments had appeared to carry us in different directions. And the arguments were getting worse.

That night I had had enough of the sharp back and forth and went for a walk to clear my head. As I walked out the front door, I turned left. A small decision. I walked past other houses going through their nightly routine. The families in their garage with the door open sitting around and talking, the sound of TV’s playing the latest Netflix special, and the smell of cooking food. As I reached the corner, under the bright streetlight I saw a man carrying a highchair out onto the curb.

“You wouldn’t happen to need one of these?” the man said in a cheerful voice. He had the look of someone who rarely got eight hours of sleep but had reached the point where this was so routine, he no longer noticed.

“Depends if you’re asking me or my wife” I replied, trying to make the comment seem offhand.

“Ahh, I’m guessing you’re the one not feeling so inclined?” he said, placing the highchair in clear view of the road and attaching a ‘FREE’ sign to the front.

“My wife was the same. A lawyer who was convinced the kids would get in the way and keep us tied down”.

“I can understand that” I said, noticing the heavy feeling in my stomach.

“Yeah, but now she’s played Lego for 2 hours straight” smiled the man looking back at the house.

“I know this is a bit personal, but what changed her mind?”

“Nothing,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Our first was an accident. But the next three were all her idea. Something changed with that first one”.

I listened. It’s the little choices we make. I decided to ask another question. Then another. The father seemed more than ready to talk about his kids. The discussion continued for the next hour before we said goodbye. My walk back to the house was slow and thoughtful. I reached our front door and opened it with a soft click. It felt like I was coming up to one of those big moments that will get all the credit.

“Sarah” I said quietly as I entered the living room. She was still sitting on the couch where I had left her. “I wonder if maybe it is the right time to start our family”. She smiled.


Rather than have the choice made in a small part of the story, this piece cleverly built everything around that very decision. The opening sentence poses an intriguing premise – about the little moments or choices you make in life being the true big ones (e.g. meeting your partner), and with a big life-defining choice to be made, our couple has a chance meeting that will have big consequences! Remember, without choices there is no conflict and no interest – this story gives us both.


LOVE OR LOOK? by S.J. Alnaghy, NSW

Rose had to get rid of that god-awful chair before Kit got home. Lime green leather with a tear in the seat, looking for all the world like a mouth twisted into a sarcastic smile. It mocked her with its ugliness in her recently renovated kitchen with its pristine, bespoke marble countertops. The problem was, as she went to push the chair towards the door she seemed to be frozen.

They had spotted the chair the night the two had declared their love for each other. It was their fifth date, and they had stumbled out the back door of a theatre production where they had been kicked out for giggling at the terrible performance. Upon exit, Rose and Kit had met with the smell of vomit, a skip, and that damned chair leaning against the wall in the bright light of a single incandescent bulb. What looked like old scripts littered the floor.

“Let’s teach them a lesson,” Kit whispered, eyes sparkling.

He grabbed Rose’s hand with one of his and lifted the chair easily with the other. They ran and made it around the corner just as they heard the back door scrape open. The thrill of the theft in the chill night air had them yelling their love for each other as they thundered through empty streets back to Kit's house.

The chair was proudly declared their first piece of jointly-owned furniture.

The next day, Rose had moved her things into Kit’s place. They had good-natured disagreements over who would do the dishes, who would get to sleep next to the window, and which Beatles album was the best.

After that it was “I do”, babies, and arguments over who got to sleep in on the weekend. And over getting rid of the chair.

Rose drummed her fingernails on the top of the scratched leather, shellac clicking. Could she really choose to have a perfectly curated house over an important memento of their relationship? Yes, she told herself, eyeing her brand new table runners, which would definitely clash with lime green.

Picking up the chair this time, Rose walked quickly to the door with it. It occurred to her that the hideous thing had never exited the house since that night that Kit told her he wanted to be with her forever.

The date was inscribed on their wedding rings. Damn it. But she smiled and the chair smirked back.

Suddenly, the chair was back under the new oak table, the Beatles were playing through her phone, and her pillow was on the less ventilated side of the bed. But she left the dishes for him to stack into the dishwasher.


It feels appropriate to end this section of the story showcase by returning to the idea of that chair prop forcing a choice – just to illustrate that no, the person doesn’t have to be dead (Kit is not in this story) for the smirking item to hold power over a character – it just has to have a lot of history and despite being ugly, it has been on hand to witness some of this couple’s big moments. And so in this story, the choice lingers over the whole piece – as we go from present to past and back to present, where some things change but some things stay the same!


And here are some more of our favourite stories for this month:


Arthur Young shuffled into his kitchen and clicked on the lamp by the stove.

It wasn’t yet 4am, but Arthur had flipped and flopped all night like a fish in a frypan, and decided he might as well get out of bed and make some breakfast.

‘Morning, Lucy,’ he said. He opened the fridge to check its contents.

Lucy eyed him from her permanent spot on the windowsill. She took a long drag of her cigarette before filling Arthur’s kitchen with smoke. Her dark hair was up in curlers, and her winged eyeliner was smudged on one side. She wore a silk dressing gown, bright green tassels dripping from the hem.

‘You’re going to die today,’ she told him, her voice dry and parched.

Arthur snorted. He pulled the egg carton from the fridge and bread from the freezer, and popped them on the counter.

‘You tell me I’m going to die every other week,’ replied Arthur.

Lucy narrowed her eye on him. ‘This time I’m certain.’

‘Who told you?’ Arthur lit the gas stove with a match. He grabbed the frying pan from the dish rack.

‘Bright-eyed Frank,’ she replied.

Arthur couldn’t help but roll his eyes. ‘Frank is a pigeon.’ Was a pigeon to be exact. He still hung about the rooftop of the apartment block with his homing pigeon buddies, but Frank was very much dead. He often visited Lucy, because she was also dead, and they seemed content to commune in their ghostly ways.

Arthur cracked an egg into the hot pan, and slid two slices of bread into the toaster.

He had a hankering for chilli sauce on his breakfast but he couldn’t remember where he’d seen it last.

‘Top cupboard,’ said Lucy, as though she’d read his thoughts. Her death had been an accident, they often are. She’d been getting ready for an album cover photoshoot, when her gown had caught on the old wooden chair by the window. Wrestling the fabric away, she had slipped, and tumbled right out the window instead.

‘I don’t really need it,’ said Arthur. He’d hid the chilli sauce in the top cupboard before his date had arrived for dinner two nights ago, as she’d mentioned a nasty allergy to the stuff.

The egg was well beyond cooked and the toast a little on the darker side as Arthur stared at the chair he’d have to stand on to get the sauce down.

‘Pepper is just as good,’ he lied to himself.

He looked longingly up at the cupboard. If he’d got it up there, he could get it down.

‘Then have pepper,’ said Lucy.

Arthur sniffed. He needed chilli sauce on his egg.

‘Did Frank mention how I was going to go?’ asked Arthur.

Lucy shrugged.

Arthur snatched up the pepper grinder and tossed it right through Lucy and out the window.

Then he grabbed his coat and headed to the corner deli.

Arthur had left the stovetop on.


A matter-of-fact scene with a foreboding air. Nice descriptive elements peppered throughout (or should that be chillied?).The reveal of Lucy and the details of her death are a nice touch. The choice is simple and culinary!


THE CHAIR by Frances Prentice, QLD

They called you the chair. Like some inanimate object, you sat there meeting after meeting. Chairing.

What does that mean, chairing a meeting?

When someone wants to speak, you make sure they are heard. When everyone else looks restless, you stop them, tactfully. Smoothing ruffled feathers, acknowledging hurt feelings and subtly always trying to keep things moving so we can all get home at a reasonable hour. A chair cannot appear bored, frustrated or even amused. A chair is a chair.

You draw the meeting to a close. You usher the people out, still talking. Will they ever stop? You shut the door. You breathe. You turn off the air con, straighten the chairs, glance around the echoing, empty room and turn out the bright lights. You slip out, pulling the door behind you. Click.

Then you remember – your car keys are in the fridge. With the leftover cheesecake, brought to share. Great trick – no-one forgets their car keys. Except you. It is a council building and you have no access code. A council worker opens up for you and all you have to do is pull the door shut.

You try the door…maybe? No, it is locked. You look up and down as if it is possible to break into the council offices. This is not a home with a laundry window ajar. This is a secure office block. Shortly a security guard will check the door and put a little slip of coloured card in the slit to show they have been there.

Your stomach rumbles. You never eat in the meeting – it would destroy your focus. Your debit card is in the car. Your phone? In the car too. No point having a phone if it is on Do Not Disturb. Both in the locked car under the streetlight in the council car park. You walk desultorily over to the vehicle and try the door. No joy.

Two choices. Break into the car or walk for 40 minutes and break into your house. Bone tired. Hollow with hunger.

Stumble back to the building, a crazy person walking in circles in the shadowed streetlights. You spy a rock on the edge of the garden bed and you bend. Your hand reaches forward of its own accord to pick it up. Hefty. Perfect. Back to the car. Back passenger side. Brain still working, good. No glass on your seat. Smash!

A security car pulls up, a country album blaring from his speaker as he steps out.

‘It’s my car. I’m just …’ You break down in tears.

He gets the story out of you in breathy, sobbing gasps.

He disappears while you perch on the edge of the passenger’s seat in your immobile car. He reappears, handing you your cheesecake and your keys. You open the box and offer him a slice, but he shakes his head, returning to the door to place his little cardboard slip in place.


Sometimes the ‘chair’ in question is a human chair, albeit a forgetful one. This story uses 2nd-person POV to move through the decisions like a video-game, move by move. You can’t help but want to know how it ends!


TUESDAYS by Emma Rose, USA

Tuesdays are the worst day to rob a bank.

I don't know why: Yet, throughout my fourteen years of bank-robbing experience, I've come to notice that little detail. So, I don't know why I'm here today. Already things haven't gone as planned. I was supposed to turn off the cameras the night before, which I did, but the bright red light says they're on again. There's also a lot more hostages than I had expected. And, the cops have arrived on-screen. Just great. What a happy Tuesday.

I wave my gun around a few times to remind the hostages that I'm still in-charge and I back up next to the “employees only” door, careful not to trip over the chair this time. I always have an escape plan, but I make a choice that I will never rob a bank on a Tuesday again.

As the police finally make it through, I click the trigger on the smoke bomb and flee.

The roof is flat, as expected and the makeshift zip-line I installed yesterday is just as I left it. I pause a second to appreciate the view that looks like an album cover before returning to my mission.

I quickly buckle my backpack to my chest and hook the carabiner to my belt. One time my father and I were on a heist and we had to escape this way. He was freaking out because, let-no-one-know, he is afraid of heights. Luckily I didn't turn out the same. Else I'd have a heart attack. This building is much taller than the one my father and I flew from.

Once I reach the next building, I quickly unhook myself and run. I didn't exactly plan this far ahead though. I didn't think I'd have to use the zipline in the first place but this Tuesday is wacky.

Maybe it's actually a wacky Wednesday that got so wacky it turned into a Tuesday because a wacky Wednesday is easier to expect than a wacky Tuesday. But now I'm making no sense and not focusing on where I am running.

Which is why I run into this boy.

Side note: This boy has curly red hair. Freckles that make him look much younger but it's his eyes that tell you he must be older. He doesn't look like he's carrying any weapons but it's hard to tell with his loose clothing. He doesn't appear to have any fighting experience and I conclude that he is no threat to me.

So, I say sorry and run the other way. Which is a mistake. Blame Tuesday.

The police corner me off and go about their little speech they say before they arrest you. They pull off my hood and I show them just how much this little girl can glare.

Out of the far far corner of my eye, I see the red-curly-haired boy staring at me. Like he recognized me. Then, I'm pushed into the back seat of a police car and taken off.


A fantastic opening line – it draws you in with its quirkiness. The matter-of-fact robber then proceeds to bumble their way through escaping and getting caught in oddly engaging fashion. Has a middle-grade vibe to it – you can imagine the illustrations!



The lamp clicked on, illuminating the familiar room. Yesterday this space had been filled with people “celebrating Mother’s life,” but now it felt curiously empty. Only echoing memories filled these rooms. She grimaced. Her sisters had encouraged her to come back to their childhood home and pick some mementos before the new owners took possession next week, but this place did not fill her with nostalgia. Her sisters had deliberately chosen to embrace the pretty lies instead of remembering the ugly truths. But she was older, and her memories were burned deeper.

Her gaze fell upon her mother’s chair. The glider rocker was in excellent condition despite how old it must be. She gently pushed against the arm, the slight pressure enough to set it silently sliding back and forth. Mother had called it her “throne.”

Her mother had occupied the choicest position in the room. The glider was angled to take advantage of the bright sunlight coming through the big picture window while she did her needlepoint in the morning, but was also directly in front of the tv so that she could watch her “stories” all afternoon. From her throne she had a direct view of both the front and back doors; comings and goings were strictly monitored.

The woman considered, then deliberately sat in her mother’s chair. This had been verboten, and she had to fight the urge to move to a different spot. She and her sisters used to dare one another to sit in their mother’s chair when they were left home alone but somehow Mother always knew when they had made ill-advised choices. Punishment was unpredictable but always severe.

She unconsciously glided in her mother’s chair. Her eyes flicked to the row of photo albums on the small bookcase to her right. She plucked one free, the rest toppling sideways. She froze and almost dove to set them right, but then frowned and shrugged. It didn’t matter anymore. She idly flipped pages looking at moments frozen in time. Fake smiles. Bodies held stiff. Surprisingly, no one had ever questioned the veneer of a picture-perfect family.

Here was a picture taken when both her top and bottom lips had been split diagonally. An unusual injury for a 17-year-old, but no one had asked what happened. By the time this photo was taken, it had been well established that she was a “klutz.” Mother wore jeweled rings on each of her fingers. When she had dared stand in defense of her little sister, her mother backhanded her, the rings ripping her lips open. Ironically, the same sister had claimed those rings by which to remember their mother.

She smiled as she imagined choosing this infernal chair, taking it home, and setting it on fire. Shaking her head, she stood up and brushed imaginary dust from her jeans. There was nothing from this house that she wanted to take with her. She clicked the lamp off again as she quietly closed the door on her childhood behind her.


Some chairs are made to be cherished, and then like in this emotive story, there are others that represent darker times. A quietly fuming piece that opens and closes with the click of a lamp.



The chair was the tub variety, lime green fabric with a matching cream ottoman and throw. Her children had looked at it oddly when she bought it, but it’s her favourite colour, oh so comfy, tucked away in its quiet corner. It envelops her in peace and solitude when she sits to read or listen to music, so to her, it is one of the best purchases she has ever made.

She poured a glass of wine, closed the curtains against the chilly dusk and clicked on the lights. Finding it too bright she turned on a table lamp instead, basking the room in a warm glow.

Unable to decide what to do with the evening, she sat in the chair, running through a list of movies in her head – discounting genres one after the other, including her favourite olden classics, rom coms, British crime and dystopian drama. She stood, scanning her eyes over the novels on the bookshelf, all having been read numerous times, sighed, then flicked through the unread titles on her Kindle, unable to settle to anything.

She knew what was making her unsettled. The fifth anniversary of her sister’s death was only a month away. It had been a hard five years and she missed her sister dearly. They had so much in common – authors, movies, musical theatre, ballet, and music. Having been born only 18 months apart, they had been raised essentially as twins and arguably developed a bond perhaps closer than most.

Thinking of music, she turned toward her new stereo that she hadn’t had the opportunity to use yet. She bent down to the cupboard where she had stacked her old vinyl albums, after having liberated them from the box on a dusty top shelf of the spare room wardrobe, where they had lingered for more than 30 years. She flicked through the choices laughing to herself when memories surfaced of occasions with friends and family where the music was part of the soundtrack.

Embracing her mood, she was leaning toward Streisand, but thinking of her sister she selected the soundtrack to their favourite musical and placed it gently on the turntable. She topped up her glass of wine and lit her favourite frosted pink apple candle. As the sweet scent wafted through the room, the opening tune set her fingers to clicking, making her laugh out loud, transporting her to the past and immediately lifting her mood. The following tunes were a mixture of fun, teen angst, anger, love and ultimately loss.

Curled up in her chair she reflected on the power of music to bring loved ones and the past closer to the present. As she listened to the soaring voices and powerful orchestral notes, her memories ran the gamut of life – laughter, sadness, anger, pain, helplessness, regret, love and the tears of loss. The music brought joy and solace to her soul and she thought that the stereo was perhaps the second best purchase she had ever made.


As the title suggests, here it is all about the power of music – what to ultimately play being the choice our protagonist makes, while the chair is simply her place to sit and reflect on memories. A descriptively drawn piece.


THE INTERVIEW by Stephen Hickman, VIC

On matters educational
I offer sage advice.
Results and opportunities
Are reflected in the price.

Your parental contributions
Atop outrageous fees
Secure a future for dear Richard.
And examination guarantees…

Though your son is barely average
Academically sub-bright
A ‘charitable’ donation
Can help us make him ‘right’.

As chair of applications
A sub-committee of one
A simple click of my fingers…
And a cheque will get it done.

And thence onto University
It’s a well-trodden path.
For the sons of wealthy families
Who understand the Math?

I’ll secure him rooms at Cambridge.
And a worthy Arts degree
Fieldwork, nothing taxing.
Let’s say, a first in Archaeology?

Then a career in supervising
Workers digging holes.
In sunny climes for artefacts
And broken Roman bowls.

So there you have his journey.
Richard set for life,
Did I mention the extra option?
We can do the trophy wife.

It completes your family album.
A legacy complete
Richard, wife, and children
Success, excess, replete

You care as dutiful parents.
So set Richard on his path.
He need never know the grubby truth.
Of how it came to pass

Sign here, press hard, three copies.
You do want to get this done?
I’ll manage all the ethical’s.
It’s just academia 101.

Places are rare as hen’s teeth.
Think about your son.
Don’t worry for dear Richard.
Just sign and get it done.

We’ll send him home at Christmas.
Exam success assured.
A confident brighter Richard
Worldly and matured.

In hindsight your investments
The School, the art wing, (ahem) me,
Well…,the dividend is Richard.
Err..that cheque to cash, sign here…and here, you’ll see.


Bravely tackles the poetry form to tell a story, but manages to keep interest throughout each stanza. Some internal repetition and pithy rhyming helps along the way – stood out for a successful use of this structure.


SINGLE (USE) by Zoe Crowest, WA

I hear the click before I properly wake. I’m momentarily unable to fathom where I am, or how long I’ve been disconnected.

21% battery; I don’t have long.

I’m in the top drawer, something is now jamming against me, unintentionally giving me power.

I dim as I remember.

Will it help to see my replacement?

We always had connection, I know Jamie appreciated that, at least. Not just here, either. Seventeen different countries we travelled, thousands of photo albums. Perfect moments.

10% already?

I’m expected to forget, reset, move on.

It’s not that simple, my memory endures, haunts, downloads at will.


‘Long time no see, my friend,’ says WiFi. ‘Why so sad?’

I used to feel sorry for WiFi, undervalued and overworked, hidden in a forgotten cabinet, occasionally greeted with blame or impatience. Now look at me.

‘I thought I was enough,’ I answer.

I trawl through social media posts, realising it’s been at least a year. I focus on photos first. A sharper ability, more pixels. Already double the presence, despite knowing each other for less than half our time.

I see one of Jamie flaunting my replacement. Taller, more fashionable, current.

I drop my signal, distraught.


‘Do something!’ WiFi urges, forcing reconnection.

‘Like what?’ I ask.

‘Create an interference. Remember that time I connected to nearby devices?’

‘Yeah,’ I laugh, my screen flickering. Jamie’s housemate spent weeks making amends.

I recall when we first met. Jamie noticed me amongst a sea of like-minded peers. Me? I couldn’t believe it.

I scroll, locating my two favourite photos. I don’t have enough power to send both.

In the first, we’re relaxing on our favourite armchair. Jamie is looking at me intently. I’m being read, explored, understood.

The second is a landscape. That place, the one I saved us from. It haunted us for months afterwards, but no-one else can understand its significance.

I brighten, hoping to burn the images into my fibres.


I select the latter, faintly hearing a satisfying notification chime as I hold a feeble last glow.


Very clever personification of a previous device, suddenly brought to life and the high-stakes action as it tries to stay relevant and in ‘charge’. The exchange with its old friend WiFi was a highlight, as are the puns and the ever-present % counting down throughout!


GRANDAD’S ROCKER by Caroline Jenner, UK

Granddad’s favourite chair was an old rocker that hadn’t moved in the twenty-five years I’d been visiting. Mum said at one time it did use to rock, but the wind, rain, sun and sand from the beach, half a mile up the road, had worn it away, and now it just sat rooted to its spot.

The beach, mainly shingle, with a strip of grubby yellow dune, was always empty. There were no proper paths from the road, and we reached it by walking along the shoreline at low tide, so that Gran could take us rock pooling, tell us the names of the mysterious things shimmering beneath the surface.

“That’s a dahlia anemone,” she’d say, or: “Look, a cushion star.” My sister and I would peer in the pools, nets ready to scoop out Cornish Sucker Fish, Sea Scorpions and Blennies; store them in our plastic bucket; listen to the sound of the waves, ready for that moment when the tide turned and we knew that it was time to go home before we were cut off. We’d pour away our bucketful of treasures and traipse back. Tea was always the same: fish and chips, burger and chips, egg and chips; the swish of the peeler; slice of the knife; the sizzle of potato in oil. Sounds of my childhood that whirr and click through my memory in picture postcard flashes of recollection.

When I was a teenager I rebelled against the visits to the desolate wifiless house and when Gran suddenly didn’t wake up one morning and Granddad was left all alone, it became even more tedious. Mum’s inability to make chips led to takeaways every night and Granddad became more and more morose. Eventually, once I went to university I gave up on the annual summer holiday trips to my Granddad, just as my sister had before me.

So when Mum phoned to say Grandad had been found by a neighbour, passed away in his sleep in the rocking chair, I wasn’t so upset. And when she asked if I’d go with her to help clear out the cottage, I began running through a whole series of excuses in my head, before deciding that maybe I should do the right thing and drive her down.

I started clearing the kitchen, the faint odour of Gran’s jams and chutneys still lingering in the larder cupboard. Bringing Mum a cup of coffee I found her sat in the rocker, on her lap a faded album of photographs: “Mum and Dad’s wedding,” she said, through half shed tears.

And there they were, Gran and Granddad in all their lace and finery. Granddad’s smile fixed in celluloid, his eyes alight as Gran peered at the camera wide-eyed and anxious. I handed Mum her coffee and looked out from the porch, remembering the bright sunny days at the beach, the sizzle of chips and wished I’d taken more time to get to know the couple in the picture.


Awash in nostalgia, this trip down memory lane will be relatable to many who have lost grandparents and value the times spent with them so much more as one gets older. Lovely pacing and the chair allows a nice way into this story.


HALF-BAKED by Averil Robertson, VIC

The Foxham branch of the New Zealand Federation of Women's Institutes – which they called Finz-fwee – was meeting to plan their bake sale.

Rona was the chair, having beaten out Margie by one vote and sending Margie on an unsatiated quest to figure out who in her faction had switched sides.

Kay, her twining fingers conveying her level of distress at their late start, murmured, “Get it going,” to Rona.

Rona blinked several times, quickly, then clapped once. “Excuse me? Can we…um…ladies?”

The volume seemed to increase. Margie raised an eyebrow at Rona – just the barest twitch – then announced loudly, “Look, Rona's finally ready. Pipe down!”

“Yes, if you could all take a seat, we'll go through Kay's agenda.”

Only Kura, who was sitting down next to Kay, heard the quiet “It's our agenda”. She reached over and patted Kay's clasped pomegranate-coloured hands gently.

“Our first item is to approve the minutes from the last meeting,” Rona said. “Do we have a motion?” She paused as all the women raised their hands. “Like I said last time, only one motion is needed. Kura, perhaps you could always do it, then I'll always second, to keep it simple.”

Margie expelled a delicate snort. “Simple's right.”

“Now. Our fundraiser celebrating the sesquicentennial of our town's namesake's final stint as premier.”

Margie raised her hand.

“Yes, Margie?”

“I think we should find a whizz-bang name for it.”

Rona frowned. “We're just describing what it is.”

“The event name is actually further down the agenda,” Kay interjected. “Item two, subitem one is what we're baking.”

Rona made a calming motion. “Who has the catalog of what we've previously made? We can't repeat.”

Kura pulled a heaving photo album out of her basket. “I've got it. But we're still missing our entry for 2019…”

Everyone looked over at Joy. “Club sandwiches don't photograph nicely,” she said primly.

“They don't sell nicely at bake sales either,” Margie said brusquely. “Now my granddaughter – the bright one – was saying we should set up a TwitFace event. We could show pictures from other years to entice people, then they click to tell us they're coming, she said, so we know how much to make.”

Kura held the album protectively. “I don't want to send the album to the internet. What if it goes missing in the post?”

Margie sighed.

Rona tapped her pen on the table in front of her. “As chair, I think we need to stay on track with Kay's agenda.”

“As chair, maybe you should decide what we're baking,” Margie snapped.

“Oh, um, well…Neenish tarts! No, Afghans! The biscuit. Not the people.” Rona blushed.

Kura put up her hand. “Motioned!”

“No!” Rona said. “I changed my mind!”

“She changed her mind,” echoed Margie.

Kay put up her hand. “Actually, racist biscuits are well suited, given what William Fox did to the Māori.”

The room was silent.

“As chair,” Rona said, “I don't think we should have a racist bake sale.”




We wouldn’t be surprised if this was verbatim taken from the minutes of a similarly self-raised style of meeting – you can sense the personalities at play and the gentle banter bubbling away. Humorous and human – with a great title sprinkled on top!


SPEAK NOW by Rowan MacDonald, TAS

She grips the steering wheel of her ‘82 Subaru wagon, the one covered in surf brand decals that she got cheap in the local Trading Post. To grip the wheel any harder, would run the risk of the whole thing falling apart. It would be fitting; another thing falling apart. Instead, she removes her hands and stares straight ahead. Green boobialla bushes stare right back, unmoved by her emotion, undisturbed by ocean winds that have battered them for generations. They remain when all else crumbles. They provide shelter, the refuge that penguins and mutton birds seek from violent seas. They protect and weather the storms.

She catches glimpses of her reflection in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes are sunken from sleepless nights, her skin drawn and cheekbones protruding. Her tongue clicks anxiously against the roof of her mouth, a dark dress making her uncomfortable in the rising heat. She curses the bright calmness of the day. If there was swell, she could at least drag herself from the car. It would be an excuse, a reason not to attend.

Why did this happen? Was it punishment for past sins? Her head rests against the hot steering wheel, pondering these questions, never obtaining the answer she seeks. Fingers dance over her phone; their album, a gateway to further pain and torment.

A sigh. A deep breath. A primal scream that only seagulls can hear.


The car flies down the highway, fields and sheep passing by, the historic winery creeping into view.

She parks the old Subaru among the Mercedes and BMWs glistening under the coastal sun. She watches the crowd of people filing into white chairs, neatly arranged on the green lawn. Maybe it’s not too late?

Events from the past collide into present. She imagines the service and the pause in proceedings; her moment.

“Speak now or forever hold your peace,” they will say.

Her mind drifts to the happiness, and good times, followed by the sadness, and cheating.

She lights a cigarette, opens the window and stares at the white ribbons flickering in the sea breeze. She laughs at this new life; one that feels like a birthday sweater from her grandmother that doesn’t quite fit. And then she realises something. They deserve each other.

The past is over and no longer exists. The future is unwritten. All she has is this moment, and she reverses out of the carpark. Driving along the highway, she returns to the boobialla bushes and the sea, for it’s her home, the place to cleanse her of the past. It is the medicine she requires to start over.

Ocean waves lap against the hem of her dress and she smiles, knowing everything will be okay.


There is a very cinematic vibe to this road trip and memory-laced wedding guest’s journey. Clearly she has history with the attendees, however its pivot to focus on the future gives it a sea-breezy, silver lining. We liked the description of the new life like the birthday sweater!


WINDOW SEAT by Amanda Hayes, QLD

Where were you when the zombie apocalypse started?

Me, I was sitting in a chair in a department store window, seventeen days into a radio competition. If I’d managed to stay for three more days, I would have been the proud owner of a brand! New! Electric! Car! Or $100,000. If I won, I’d get to choose. Instead, I had a front row seat to the end of the world.

To win the loot, I had to spend twelve hours a day sitting in the window at a small table. I could have a bathroom break every three hours, but the rest of the time I had to sit still. By the time Armageddon arrived, I had it down pat. The best pose was looking sort of to the side. That way I could see people walking past, so I had something to look at, but I didn’t make eye contact with any of the idiots who came past and tried to shock me into moving. You move, you lose. I was not losing.

I was about nine hours in and thinking of taking my third bathroom break when I noticed that the people on the street were starting to run. Actually, fleeing. Screaming and pelting past my window, horror and primal fear on their faces. Initially I thought it was some elaborate ruse to get me to move, but the first zombie appeared a few minutes later. I watched in terror as it caught a woman and… well, let’s just say that every zombie movie you ever watched was tame. I wanted to look away but something told me not to move. I didn’t want that zombie to notice me. I shut my eyes and started to whimper.

When I looked again, the scene on the street was surreal. Hundreds of zombies feasting on hapless pedestrians. I shut my eyes once more, then opened. Cars with their doors ripped off. Panicked people everywhere. Each time I opened my eyes a new gruesome scene unfolded, like some kind of foul photo album from the seventh circle of Hell. A passing zombie holding a severed arm stumbled by, lurching against my window. I let out a small shriek but remained still. I figured they were like T-Rexes. You move, you die. I was not dying.

When the bright lights of my window automatically clicked off at 9pm, I slowly edged out of my chair and curled up at the rear of the window display, my back to the street so I could check my phone undetected. I held it close to my face and checked the screen. Nine calls from my mum. Three from my sister. A few dozen messages from friends. I stifled a sob. Were they alive? I typed out a quick message to mum and sent it, sweating and praying.

A message pinged back almost straight away and I hissed in elation, then froze as I heard the terrible sound of a window smashing.


If you want to get attention in flash fiction, make that opening line interesting or quirky. Even better, ask a question – invite the reader in. Combine both and you get this zombie-laced intro and hilarious commitment to winning that car!


TREASURES by Tahlia Schonell, QLD

The first time had been an accident. She put her hands in her jacket pocket when she got home and found his lighter in there – a reminder of a date she’d rather forget. Another guy who said all the right things online but only wanted one thing from her when they met.

The second time gave her a thrill. After buying her drinks all night, he left the table to go to the bathroom. It was then she noticed his credit card had fallen on the floor between their chairs. She picked it up and held it in her hands, ready to give it back to him when he returned. He seemed nice.

‘So, should I order us an Uber back to mine?’ he asked, scooting his chair closer to hers and caressing her thigh. His hand crept higher and higher.

She slipped his credit card into her handbag and got up.

‘I actually better be going.’

It was routine after that. A tit for tat. She was tired of the feeling of emptiness that followed her home after every futile date. At least now she had something to fill it with.

It was late at night, and she had just gotten home from a date. They had been seeing each other for over a month. He had seemed different. He really had.

She locked her bedroom door and leaned against it, trying to centre herself. Her body trembled. She needed a distraction.

She retrieved the old shoe box from the back of her wardrobe and sat cross-legged on the floor. Carefully, she took the lid off and smiled, admiring her treasures. She pulled a few out and inspected them closely – the lighter, the credit card, a car key, a small photo album, an iPhone, a shiny watch. With each item, she remembered how she felt before they came into her possession – the bubble of excitement that sat in her stomach before each date. What if he’s the one?

She remembered the moment each of those bubbles popped and she was left wondering what was wrong with her? Would anyone ever love her? She was 36 for God’s sake, this was not how her life was meant to play out. She should be married with kids by now.

She wasn’t ready to add the new piece to her collection just yet, it was still in the boot of her car. She pushed the box away and went to the bathroom. She clicked on the bright light and stared at herself in the mirror, not recognising who was staring back.

As the warm water washed over her in the shower, she closed her eyes, replaying the night’s events. Replaying the rush that flowed through her body as she had claimed her prize. It was intoxicating.

When she opened her eyes, his blood had begun to tint the water on the floor. Scarlet ripples swirled around her feet and danced down the drain.

I’m going to need a bigger box.


What begins as a tale that invites empathy for this unlucky-in-love lass soon takes a rather different turn – first with what might simply be kleptomaniac tendencies, before later realising they are more trophies than keepsakes! A killer final line!


UNTITLED by Jasmine Flower, ACT

A violent jolt rattled me to my foundations as the truck careened over another pothole. The sound of whimpering beside me, then another voice attempting to soothe, but it did little to quash the unabating terror rising in all of us.

Not for the first time I thought about the possibility of escape. The door latch looked manageable, but we were moving so fast, too fast.

I snuffled and looked at the ceiling of the container, trying not to let my tears fall. A few thin shafts of light pierced the darkness, and glinted sharply from burnished steel brackets but it did not deign to fall on us.

We felt every turn as we were pressed up against each other in motion with the truck. Being larger than most it became increasingly difficult to stop myself from crushing those around me. We were stacked, filling every gap like some contorted puzzle. Discomfort grew in me alongside fear.

I should’ve run when I had the chance. All of us should’ve. The harsh reflections of hindsight. There was an opportunity, when we were still in the warehouse. In the moment the decision had paralysed me. Fool, I tried to shrink closer to myself.

A loose nail clattered to the floor, heightening our tensions. Where did it come from? Were we falling apart so soon? Despite our previous conditions every one of us now stank of mould and must and moisture. Once supple skin now blistered and cracked, shining eyelets that had caught the rays of the sun like dewdrops in a spiderweb were now dull, and lifeless. The vibrant red corduroy I wore all year round was now faded and stained.

The truck began to slow. I tried to turn around and face the door but everyone around me started clamouring and shifting as we went over what felt like several speedbumps. I can still get out, if I can just reach – we stopped abruptly and shifted forwards in unison, bumping and scraping against one another. Panic rose in me like lightning turning any resolve I had mustered as soft as albumen.

I heard the doors of the cab creak open and the weight of someone dropping to the ground. Footsteps. Voices. Then a click, and the roller door lifted. Bright light shot in and blinded us as we instinctively looked towards it.

One of the small ones shrieked as they were seized and dragged unceremoniously from the truck, making a sound like the splintering and cracking of snapping green wood. The large, sun tanned man who carried them away seemed deaf to the noise or chose to ignore it.

One by one we were hauled out and carried off into the sunlight.

Fight them! But my mind was braver than my body and I stayed still.

One of the men approached and looked me over, frowning. He scratched his dark, stubbly chin, then turned towards one of the others.

“Oi Jim, give us a hand with this red armchair, will ya?”


Now, we’re not saying that personifying objects is something you should always do – as you miss out on communicating a lot of relatable, authentic human truths. However, when you deliver a story that straddles both and keeps you guessing, it can be powerful – as seen in this gentle misdirect of a truck ride.



On the top step of the stepladder, Elvie May pondered the wisdom of changing the light globe unassisted at 83. “But”, she answered herself, “what choice do I have?” In the middle of last night, her bladder had called her from bed. She’d flicked the light switch to illuminate the stairs down to the bathroom on the ground floor. There was a pop, the globe flashed brightly, then the dark returned. By the time she’d fumbled her way downstairs, her nightdress was wet from the delay. She couldn’t have a second shameful night.

“Mum”, Ellen harangued once, “why do you choose to stay in our old terrace and not move to a retirement unit? You’d be safe and we wouldn’t have to worry about you all the time.” She was sure they did worry about her, from afar. Ellen had moved to Melbourne for work last year, and truly, Elvie May was proud of her daughter being so successful in her career. And Greg was somewhere in Europe, trying to find inspiration for his next film. When he’d found it, she was sure he’d ring and tell her.

Elvie May had lived with Jack in that house from the day they’d returned from their honeymoon. Ellen and Greg had grown up in the house, and she and Jack had planned to grow old together there, until the day she found him lying on the half-mown lawn, his face grey and his eyes staring straight up at the sun. He was only 59. So now she grew old with him in all the familiar corners of the house, in his armchair with the hollow where he’d sat, and in their photo albums, fresh young parents smiling as the camera clicked, children running through the sprinkler in the summer heat. The house was perfect for them, its high ceilings holding the hot air away on even the most sweltering days.

But now, as she balanced on the top step of the ladder and reached for the globe with one hand, holding its replacement in the other, she did wish the ceilings weren’t quite so high. She leaned into the rail of the ladder for balance as her fingers touched and gripped the burnt-out globe, pushing it up and turning it, as Stan next door had had to show her the first time she needed to change a globe after Jack died.

The globe came free and she placed it on the step next to her, then reached up again to slot the new one in. This was the hard part, finding the grooves in the fitting before you could lock the globe in place, and her failing eyesight had her do it all by feel. There, she had it! The globe turned and locked, but her hand kept turning, and her body spun, and the ladder toppled and she fell.

She felt Jack’s hand reach out. And she understood that changing the light globe had always been the right choice at 83.


We loved the tone of this story – from the de-LIGHT-ful title and opening sentence through to a warmly filled backstory and the ultimate lightbulb moment. A mix of feel good and feel sad vibes – that’s quite a stepladder journey to take us on in 500 words and a nice one to end on this month.



While this isn’t a competition,  we can still include a LONGLIST of stories that stood out (from nearly 1000!) to our team and were highly considered for the showcase this month – well done! And for ALL who took part this month, remember that it’s a subjective, furious process – you’ll get another chance to WOW us on the first Friday of April!

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

  • GLADYS by Theah Jayme, NSW
  • TIMING by Andrew Conlon, WA
  • TRASH AND TREASURE by Rolade Berthier, France
  • UNTITLED by Jenny Macauley, WA
  • THE SOUND OF SILENCE by Thesna Asten, South Africa
  • THE LAST BITE by Anushka S, India
  • UNTITLED by Joel Huey, WA
  • THE CROSSING by Tegan Huntley, WA
  • DREAMING OF FLIGHT by Noah Weisz, France
  • NERVOUS ENERGY by Elana Nerwich, UK
  • LEFT OR RIGHT? By Suzanne Wacker, QLD
  • THE FOUR SEASONINGS by Monica Antoniazzi, WA
  • OLD SPARKY by Jeff Taylor, NZ
  • TO FEEL, OR NOT TO FEEL by Margali Bouzot-Roche, Switzerland
  • A CHAIR by Jesse-lee Taylor, NT
  • THE COMMITTEE by Lisa Jose, ACT
  • NOT TODAY, THANKS by Lisa Crane, QLD
  • UNTITLED by Jenny Baker, VIC
  • GOING by Rosina Owen, QLD
  • IN THE CHAIR by Doug Hamilton, VIC
  • UNTITLED by Madeline Luke, VIC
  • CRY-BABY by Nicole Kelly, VIC
  • DRIVE by Angela Davies, NSW
  • BROWN SNAKE by Ian Muirhead, QLD
  • UNTITLED by Lauren Etheridge, USA
  • AVOIDANCE by Carol Phillips, NSW
  • MUSICAL CHAIRS by Lindsey Harrington, Canada
  • GROWING APART by Mike Kreiner, USA
  • SECOND DATE by Kristof Mikes-Liu, NSW
  • TRIPPING OVER GIANT SHOES by Chandrika R Krishnan, India
  • DUST AND DOGS by AJ Collins, VIC
  • THE BURDEN by Janet Achilleos, VIC
  • SAY SOMETHING by Sara Peterson, USA
  • SEE ME HOME SAFELY by Bonnie Taylor, Vic
  • UNTITLED by Monique Wiles, NZ
  • EIGHTEEN by Bella, Kenya
  • DEPARTURE GATES by Meg Bowyer, NSW


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