Welcome to the May creative showcase – where we count all the votes that your story got and reveal the winners. This month’s prompts were democratically elected as follows:
- Each story had to include a VOTE for something or someone.
- Each story had to feature an item made of silk.
- Each story had to include the words ANGRY, CIRCLE, STRIKE. (Longer variations were acceptable.)
We were swamped with silk scarves, dresses, handkerchiefs and silky writing this month. Angry workers went on strike (often in a circle), juries decided people’s fate and people jumped out of planes with silk parachutes.
Besides jury voting, there were also plenty of political stories, school president campaigns, prom kings and queens, reality show finals and trivial votes alongside life-or-death decisions. Whether you laboured over the assignment or were liberal with the prompts, we commend you for taking part.
There were also the votes that WE cast to decide our favourite stories this month. And we elected as supreme leader, the Top Pick story from Dreena Collins. You can read it below, along with other showcased stories and our longlist at the end. Enjoy!
MAY TOP PICK:
LIFE LINES by Dreena Collins, Jersey
I have three eulogies in my pocket, folded tight.
The paper is buckled like a fortune cookie. One attempt too many to make it smaller. You can only fold paper seven times, regardless of size. You can’t make it smaller, no matter your strength of will. You taught me that.
The wedge of Basildon Bond destroys the outline of my jacket, protruding. Angry. Bulging and moving of its own will, like a cartoon heart.
You shouldn’t put things in your breast pocket. Only pens. Even then, make sure the lid is tight. No one wants a map of China on their silk suit. Another thing you taught me.
I made a poll in a group chat two days ago, asking which tribute to read. I invited the children, cousins Sue and Dave, and then spontaneously added Bob from next door. After all, strangely, he probably knew you best.
Of course, I didn’t give the details of my masterpieces – just asked them if I should talk on:
- How we met (one vote)
- A pillar of the community (four votes)
- A ‘complex man’ (no votes but one confused face emoji).
It didn’t help.
The first tells the story of our youth. Well, I was seventeen and you a not-so-youthful twenty-nine, but I don’t mention that. Different times, you’d say – though I noticed you’d started to round my age up and yours down, recently. The truth is, though, it’s me I’m protecting. I’m ashamed. What a foolish little girl I was.
You’d be happy with the second. It talks of your character, but only the good one. The side who went to church and wrote long missives to the newspaper. The portrait you drew of a man who’d do sponsored walks aged 72 and never swear and always eat his greens. Half a man. The public half.
This morning, I put a strike through any sarcasm that had crept in. I’d have to read that one with my fingers crossed.
The paper rustles and tenses as I fidget on the pew. Fighting my amateur origami; threatening to ping open and spill out. All my secrets. Like a jack-in-the-box of truth.
Version three – that’s a doozy. It starts with a warm-up joke (‘He always said I had to have the last word, so he’ll be spinning in his coffin now!’) and then mutates into binary like Dorian Gray’s painting. ‘He looked so mild-mannered, didn’t he? You’d never think that he’d call me a stupid bitch if I burnt his toast!’ That sort of thing. It circles around the issues, reining them in like a flock of displaced sheep until they are there. En masse. Irrefutable. The evidence.
You were not a good man.
The Vicar shifts and gestures towards me as he wraps up. It’s almost time.
One. Two. Three.
I stand up, take a breath, and I know what to do. You taught me well.
And after all these years, I think I’ve finally learnt my lesson.
FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
Sometimes the most important votes are the ones that you grapple with internally. So it goes here (although the additional use of an online poll helps allay any prompt-pedants out there!) in this first-person address to the deceased. Beautifully paced, we are introduced to the facts slowly, much like unfolding a sheet of Basildon Bond seven times until the full picture is clear. Along the way, there is an abundance of similes – a risky endeavour, yet each one feels necessary and original. The final ‘One, Two, Three’ has double meaning as our narrator makes her choice and in this case, not knowing the outcome actually adds to the story rather than detracts. A quietly powerful piece and worthy Top Pick!
BIG STICK DIPLOMACY by Wilfred Batty, VIC
“Come sit down for a second”, the co-pilot beckoned me, “Join our little circle.”
“What is this?” I asked, refusing to sit down with him or the other two survivors.
“Well. It was decided that, moving forward, we would make important decisions by voting”, the co-pilot explained, “Instead of just one person making the decision on behalf of all of us.”
“Is this about the parachutes for God’s sake?”
“We could’ve used them”, the lawyer sulked.
“The plane already crashed”, I yelled, “What the hell do we need them for now? We’re not going to fall out of the sky again.”
“Silk is a good insulator”, the doctor explained, “We really could’ve used that.”
“We were freezing!” I defended myself, “If I didn’t light them on fire, we’d probably all be dead.”
“Please”, the co-pilot put his hand up, “Let’s not resort to savagery. Not when there are important things still to be discussed.”
I grumbled under my breath.
“The fact of the matter is”, the co-pilot continued, “We are out of food. We are out of supplies. And our hope for immediate rescue seems bleak. With this in mind, I put forward the idea of cannibalising one of us. My vote is for the plumber.”
“Go to hell, you pig”, I spat at him.
“I vote for the plumber too”, the doctor meekly raised their hand.
“I guess I vote for the plumber too”, the lawyer shrugged.
“The co-pilot is one that crashed the damn plane”, I accused, “It’s his fault we’re even in this mess.”
“Oh, I vote for him then”, the lawyer said.
“Well, technically it was the pilot. I’m only the co-pilot. I didn’t really have any control of the crash. If it was up to me, I would’ve decided against the crash.”
“What’s your stance on the crash?” the lawyer asked me.
“I am entirely against the crash! I hate the crash! The crash is terrible.”
“That’s easy to say after the fact”, the co-pilot countered, “But realistically, you did nothing to stop the crash when it was happening. It kind of seems like what you’re saying doesn’t match with what you’re doing.”
“What the hell did you do to stop the crash?”
“See how angry my opponent gets after simple civil discourse?” the co-pilot pointed out to them, “His short temper is only a future liability for us, unless we deal with it now diplomatically.”
“Mm”, the lawyer considered everything, “My vote is for the plumber then.”
“That’s three to one”, the co-pilot stated, “The decision is final. Please submit yourself so that you may be killed and eaten.”
I picked up a big stick from the ground and held it menacingly.
“I’ll strike you all down”, I threatened.
“Well, with that in mind, I change my vote to the co-pilot”, the lawyer said.
“Same”, the doctor agreed.
We then lunged at the co-pilot, beat him, killed him and then eventually ate him.
We cut sausages from his legs in celebration of our democracy.
FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
It’s interesting where the mind goes when conjuring up ideas for a vote – and as you’ll see later in the showcase, somehow two of the selected stories involve plane crash survivors taking a vote! Here however, it’s definitely heading the way of that infamous Uruguayan rugby team's style of decision-making. What elevated this one was the streak of humour and absurdity that runs throughout the negotiations (“I am entirely against the crash!”) as they decide which survivor should be eaten and the swing voters seemingly change their minds so flippantly as if they’re choosing pizza toppings. For a story that is mostly dialogue, with multiple players, it navigates the terrain well – certainly better, ahem, than the pilot did.
HOW TO BEGIN A SCOTTISH PLAY by Michelle Oliver, WA
“When shall we three meet again?”
A booming crack of thunder and a simultaneous lightning strike accompanied the question. The air sizzled with energy as rain pelted the gazebo that sheltered the three sisters.
Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake Millicent, why must you make it sound so dramatic? We’re not primitive witches.”
Millicent glared at her sister. Cordelia was always so put together, even in the middle of a storm. “It’s not primitive to want to make plans!”
“Yes, but the cackling and croaking gets a bit old.”
“Unlike some, I believe in growing old gracefully.” Millicent pushed her wayward grey curls back from her face. The wet weather wreaked havoc on her hair.
“Just what are you implying, sister?”
“Only that some people try to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
“Did you call me a pig?”
Millicent shrugged, “If the shoe fits…”
“Stop your bickering,” Gertrude interrupted. She was the youngest of the three siblings, but sometimes she felt as if she were their mother. “Millicent is right. We need to set a date.” She flicked open her phone to bring up her calendar. “How about in two weeks on Tuesday?”
“Can’t,” Cordelia snapped, still glaring angry daggers at Millicent. “I’ve got Pilates followed by the Certificate III-Cauldron Cooking class at Metro TAFE.” She checked her iPhone. “I’m free this Thursday between 5.15 and 7.00.”
Millicent rummaged through her tie-died, silk shoulder bag. Pulling out a ragged, dog-eared diary, she flipped through the pages.
“Thursday morning suits me.”
“Morning!” Cordelia exclaimed. “Hell no. I mean 5.15pm.”
Gertrude examined her schedule. “Thursday evening isn’t good. I have the grandkids coming over.”
“For goodness’ sake, we’ve got a prophecy to deliver and an entire kingdom to overturn. Surely there must be a day we can all agree upon?” Cordelia asked, exasperation colouring her tone as she swiped pages on her calendar app.
“Look, I’m completely booked for the next two months.” Millicent flipped through her tattered diary. “I had to rearrange my schedule to meet up today. I’m free Thursday morning, or I could probably do Friday.” Her weathered and wrinkled brow furrowed even further as she paused, pen poised to circle the date chosen.
“Since we’re all here now, why don’t we meet after the battle and have the deed done today?” Gertrude suggested. “After all, it’s just a prophecy. It hardly matters when we deliver it.”
“Good idea, Gertie. If it’s to be done, then let’s do it quickly, without further delay.” Millicent stuffed her diary back into her bag.
“Alright, let’s get on with it.” Cordelia waved her hands impatiently. “The question is, to whom do we deliver the prophecy? Macbeth or Banquo?”
“I don’t suppose it really matters, does it?” Gertrude asked.
“I vote, Banquo.”
“I vote, Macbeth.”
Gertrude glanced from one sister to the other, and her stomach plummeted, knowing that she would have to cast the deciding vote.
FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
Is this a showcased story we see before us? More dialogue fun here as the Scottish play (we’re not going to say the famous Shakespeare work for fear of falling victim to the curse) is reworked to give us an opening scene with a modern spin. The squabbling between our three ‘witches’ Cordelia, Millicent and Gertrude is fun to eavesdrop on – as they struggle to answer the question from the first line (untouched from the original play). Scheduling conflicts and prior appointments force an impromptu vote and once again, the outcome of the vote isn’t as important as the journey we take to get there. A humorous tale, told by an idiot (sorry Michelle), full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
SOULMATE by Ani Mocebo, QLD
Soulmate.
Stylishly simple. Shiny, sleek, silky-smooth suntanned skin.
Sensual, sparkling, saintly smiles. Salivating.
Sublime, summery season surprise sorted: secluded seaside suite.
Superb start.
Shells, surf, sandcastles, sailing.
Shady sidewalk: sauntering, strolling, skipping, swaggering.
Shops.
Sorbet sampling. Spicy salsa. Sangria.
Shimmering sunsets. Star-studded skies. Succulent smooching.
Spirited soapy show-off showers. Suds.
Silvery satin-sheen sheets. Slow, sensuous, seduction.
Saucy, soaring, steamy sex.
Salty sweat. Spent.
Swooning. Sleepy snoozing. Slumber. Succumbed.
Saturday starts selecting something somewhere sensible … soon. Shared scrutiny.
Sign-saturation sideshow.
Sauced sausage sandwich … slash … snag sanger. Serviette soggy.
Swollen succession snaking sluggishly …
Stand. Shuffle. Stand.
Study sheets.
Shuffle. Stand.
Standout?
Shuffle. Stand.
Secondary selections?
Shuffle. Stand.
Suddenly, “Seat?”
Searching … “Seen.”
Split. Separating screens.
Silence.
Stubby scribbler … systematic scratchings.
Slot-slip-slide. Slot-slip-slide. Simple stuff.
Scrunch, scrunch.
Sly smiles. Sniggering. Scurrying.
Sunshine sunroof. Scorching sun. Scalding sticky seats.
Steering semi-circle snaking s-bends. Slow, scenic, steady sojourn.
Soft, slender shoulders sit snuggling safely — smugly. Sated.
Sniffing sandalwood. Soothing.
Soft-drink soda: straw-sipping, slurping, snickering, spittle-spluttering.
Slavishly singing saved silly song selections.
Snacks. Sugary sweets. Selfless sharing.
Sparring sledges. Scrappy spat. Scoffing sneers. Snarly. Savage stares.
Smartphone screen shines. Sounds. Stupidly stretch.
Sudden skating slide.
Super-angry. Shit-scared.
Shrill screams.
Screech. Skid. Sideswipe. Scrape. Spin.
Smack. Slap. Strike. Snap. Shatter.
Splash.
Silence.
Sleepy. Stirring. Sighs. Sights. Sounds. Sensations.
Saturated. Subdued. Spacey. Stunned.
Sharply stinging scratches. Searing sores. Streaming sobs. Suffering.
Stench. Stinking squelchy soaked sandshoes.
Smouldering, suffocating smoke.
Scrunched. Stiff.
Shivering, shaking.
Shocking scene surveyed:
Split suitcase strewn:
Scattered: summery shorts, sandals, swimmers, sunnies, sundries.
Spilled: salaciously sexy secrets. Silk scarf … snatched.
Smashed spectacle shards shining.
Scarily scintillating sparks sizzling.
Searching. Scouring. Separated. Stressing. Stretching, stroking, sliding, slipping.
Squinting. Supinely slumped. Splayed. Spreading slime sprayed.
Spatter-smeared. Slashed scalp. Slickened. Skewered skull. Slewed.
Sickening spew.
Sirens screeching.
Sweeping shadowy shapes. Searching. Seeking. Scraping.
Striding, stomping, stamping, stumbling, sneaking, scrambling, scurrying.
Staccato stuttering shouts stifled.
Squawking scratchy static squelched.
Snipping, stripping, strapping, swaddling.
Stringent smells. Sterilised. Stabbing syringe. Saline. Salve.
Scrubs.
Squirming. Shaking. Straining. Surging seizures. Swallow. Survive.
Surgical stainless-steel screws, set splints, staining seeping scabs, sutures, scars.
Sedentary stay. Strung. Swollen. Stranded. Starved. Sulking. Stewing. Seething.
Stark solemn solitude. Sinking shame. Sluggish sorrow. Smothered. Snuffed.
Spoiled. Sodden sentimentality. Sanctuary snatched. Shredded. Slayed.
Silk-scarf-sobbing.
Soulless.
FURIOUS THOUGHTS
Yes, it’s only 372 words, even though you might think it’s longer (amazing what getting rid of filler words will do). And yes, every word here begins with an S. Okay, that’s all well and good – but stories like this could very easily be filed under S for “Story gimmick”. However, the cleverness of this one is that it has miraculously managed to build a coherent story that not only incorporates this month’s prompts, but also keeps the reader engaged – quite the maSterclaSS. Sensational, sublime, surely supernatural stuff!
HARRY by Susan Hobson, QLD
Harry was a monster. No, really, an actual monster. Fur, black claws, the cutest little horns on each side of his head. I met him at the top of a mountain.
We were six women, survivors of a plane crash. We were surrounded by snow and ice and supplies were low. Things didn’t look good. Then along came Harry, all smiles and sharp teeth, and announced that we were going to be his lunch. One a day, he wasn’t greedy. Who wanted to go first?
We put our heads together. “We’re going to vote on it,” we told him. He shrugged.
We found paper and pens, and made ballot slips. He thought this was fascinating. I explained preferential voting to him. “That’s complicated!” he complained.
I drew myself up to my full height, bringing me roughly to his mid-chest level. I tugged his neck down with my silk scarf so I could look him in the eye. “It is our democratic right to complicate the voting process!”
We sat in a circle. I let him keep the scarf. I read names out for him, as he couldn’t read, and helped him hold a pencil so he could number the boxes too. Then he watched me as I started counting the first preferences.
“Too complicated!” he complained again.
“Well,” I said, “it has to be done properly. And doing things properly takes time. I don’t suppose you could go hunt us something to eat to keep us going, could you? We’ll build a fire and roast whatever you catch.”
Harry, grumbling, went off to do as he was told. When he came back with a mountain goat, we told him he was wonderful, helped him skin it, and cooked it in the fire. Cooking was a new experience for him. He really liked it. “We could do this every day!” we told him.
Finally, we couldn’t put off telling him the results any longer. “Harry, I don’t know how to tell you this,” I said sorrowfully. “You won the vote.”
“I won?” For a moment there he looked excited. I don’t suppose he’d ever won anything before.
“Yes, you’re the candidate who won the right to be tomorrow’s lunch.”
He was a bit angry at first, but I explained the system to him again, and promised we would play poker with him and keep him company until the end. He offered to go hunting tomorrow instead, and we all thought that was a great idea.
To cut a long story short, Harry ended up guiding us out of the mountains. We dressed him up in my silk scarf and a hat (to hide the horns) and introduced him to burgers (which he loved) and soft drinks (which he hated). In the end he set off on a search for more fast food. Last thing I heard he was into gambling, all set to strike it rich.
A good sort, for a monster, was Harry.
FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
This story was such a delight to read. And whether it was intentional or otherwise, it draws in elements of classic Golden Book ‘The Tawny Scrawn Lion’ mixed with ‘Harry and the Hendersons’, ‘‘The Gruffalo’ and those Uruguayan rugby players again (this time drawing on the more hopeful rescue side of their story). We loved the matter-of-fact way that Harry introduces himself to the women and the firmly tongue-in-cheek dig at the complicated Australian preferential voting system as they out-think the monster out of eating them. A lot of fun!
ONE ROAD IN, ONE ROAD OUT by David Wilson, VIC
Daybreak daybreak day breaks over the valley and over the town and over the river and glinting sun crests the eastern range and casts trees to silhouette all along the razorback ridge and light cuts through dead-weighted riverside air and pierces thick foliage and strikes the main street made of dirt and strikes wide-hipped verandas and their houses of dilapidated weatherboard and strikes yards overgrown with haphazard opportunistic ground level vegetation. A lone kelpie lifts her head.
One road in, one road out.
All along the main street gaudy silk ribbons of blue and gold hang from freshly installed metal poles which themselves shine hard against the grey-green bush and against the cleared scrublands and their burnt out and rusting car bodies and their rolls of tangled wire and everywhere an absence of people as all locals remain hidden behind barred heavy doors of their washed out and weather-beaten homes. Flies buzz.
One road in, one road out.
Old Merv takes the pot of boiling water and he pours himself a cup of tea and on this day he pours now a second cup of tea and he places this within easy reach of the armchair that has gone unused these past twelve years and he surveys the street through translucent curtains and internally he wrestles with today’s announced visit of the President and he remembers a distant time when this country held such things as General Elections and he remembers casting votes in what he had understood to be fair and democratic processes and he remembers an incremental creep of authoritarian overreach and a shared disbelief and of the people of this valley and of this country being taken thieved robbed by gangsters and he remembers the rushing and total and violent silencing of dissent. A magpie calls.
One road in, one road out.
Old Merv thinks of the President and he thinks of his henchmen and he remembers the last election before freedoms were stripped as an angry time and a fearful time and a passionate time and yet to look back on it now he sees it had been a still hopeful time before it had been crushed defeated obliterated and before kindness and compassion had been quashed and before hard-booted paramilitary men had taken over whole cities and before random invasions had been normalised and he remembers the night his vocal activist wife had drawn a circle in the dirt and “Don’t you see?” she had said and “We are here” she had said and she had pointed to the middle of the circle and she had looked imploringly to him and as she looked those many armed officers had smashed through the door and had forcibly grabbed her and struck her and she had fallen to the ground and he had never seen her again. He nods to the empty chair.
One road in, one road out.
FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
We suspect that the curious narrative style in this piece is likely to bristle with many readers at first. Punctuation be damned! Four chunky stanzas give us super-sized sentences/streams of consciousness followed by a short impactful ending for each. The result could have been a mess. And yet here, threaded through this fire-hose of words is a narrative with heart and meaning. We get a true sense of place (helped by those repeated lines) and in Old Merv, we find a formidable character with depth. We can totally see this being read at a Beatnik Cafe ‘open mic’ night, such is the lyricism laced within these lines. Perhaps not one for the prose and punctuation purists, but we revelled in its experimental flavour all the same.
FRIDAY NIGHT by Rosie Francis, VIC
The four of us sit in silence. I check the clock on the wall – 12 minutes until the vote.
I say silence, but anyone who's spent time in the ICU knows the rooms are actually full of noises. Ping goes a monitor. Beep suck beep suck goes the life-support machine like a metronome keeping life in time.
Mum sits closest to the bed so she can hold dad's hand. She says he knows she's there, but I'm not so sure. My two sisters are in their usual positions: Clare by the window, looking out at the city like it might give her answers, and Sara slouched in the armchair scrolling on her phone.
I reach into my backpack for the paper and pens. I am the youngest in the family and I still don't know how this vote became my responsibility.
As I tear the piece of A4 paper into six squares, Sara looks up at me and then to the clock. 6.32pm.
Sam is late and I'm trying not to get angry. We all know to be in the room at 6.30pm sharp, or you have no vote and must live with the outcome.
I start handing out the pens and paper just as Sam enters the room, apologizing and smelling like Lucky Strike cigarettes. His silk tie is flung over one shoulder like he's walked through a wind storm to get here. He circles the bed and says ‘Hi Dad,' before sitting on the arm of Sara's chair.
When I have my family's full attention, I speak slowly and clearly. I tell them the only two words they can write on the paper tonight. The girls exchange looks. Jeff glances from Sara to me. Mum gives me the flicker of a smile. I know which way she will vote and will always support her.
Scribbles are made and I collect the votes and sift through them, maintaining my poker face. Finally I say, ‘Tonight, my dear family, you have decided to …'
I pause for dramatic effect. ‘It's Thai.'
Clare groans as I knew she would, Mum squeezes Dad's hand, and I pull out my phone to place our order, which I know by heart. Last week it was pizza versus burgers, the week before Japanese versus Chinese, and tonight Thai wins out over Vietnamese.
Friday night elections have been a thing in my family since I can remember, and it's been my job to run it since I could pronounce the words. These days I still make six squares of paper out of habit. You never know when Dad might wake up and vote again.
FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
A family gathered at the foot of a hospital bed. A life support machine. A very important vote. Surely, we know where this one’s going, right? Well actually, hilariously no. The bait-and-switch in this piece is as delicious as a fragrant Green Curry, with all the players managing to keep a straight face throughout. And while this might seem like an absurd situation, for anyone who has had to endure a long stay in a situation like this, it’s the clinging to normal routines that keeps things from descending into a puddle of emotions. So, as well as being an amusing way to end this month’s showcase, it’s also authentic and heart-warming at the same time.
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 voted for your story this month, take a moment to celebrate!
THIS MONTH’S LONGLIST (in no particular order):
- THE VOTE by Wendy Stackhouse, WA
- ANYTHING BUT WHITE by Nimisha Ajaikumar, India
- WEAVE LA RÉVOLUTION by Casey Lawrence, Canada
- TOTAL DESTRUCTION by Maddison Scott, VIC
- EVERY VOTE COUNTS by Kenneth Mann, UK
- ANGER DON’T FIX ANYTHING by S.J. Hartman, USA
- THE RULES ARE THE RULES by Brandon Khenkitisak, VIC
- BRIDE POWER by Elizabeth Hilton, QLD
- HANGING IN THE BALANCE by Barend Nieuwstraten III, NSW
- HEAVEN’S BEST EMPLOYEE by Gabe Guratti, Brazil
- SOFT THINGS THAT LEAVE BRUISES by Rebecca Hefron, QLD
- A SHOT AT LOVE by John McParland, NSW
- TWISTER by Sally Simon, USA
- STRIKE IT, I LIKE IT! by JAKLAUGHING, VIC
- PROM KING by Ryan Klemek, USA
- POWER PLAYS AT LAVENDER GROVE by Lucinda Doughty, QLD
- THE WRONG MAN by Britt McCarthy, WA
- WOLFPACK by Kit Wilding, VIC
- THE INCIDENT OVER BLACKWOOD 9 by Dead Carcosa, USA
- DRESSED TO IMPRESS by Rachel Howden, NSW
- THE MULBERRY GARDEN by Charlotte Ludema, USA
- THE LAST LEAF by Julie Souter, NSW
- HELL FOR LEATHER (AND RHINESTONES) by Emma Greville, VIC
- EATING TONY by Andrew Harrison, NSW
- WHAT COLOUR IS THE SMOKE? by Nico Mara, Ireland
- THE CHARACTERS DECIDE WHO GETS EDITED OUT NEXT by Suzanne Wacker, QLD
- BOOK CLUB by Gale Deitch, USA
- THE CRAFT GROUP’S CRUCIAL DECISION by Dayle Anderson, VIC
- MY CIRCLE OF FRIENDS by Rananda Rich, NSW
- A HERMIT CRAB WITH TWO SHELLS by Chloe Paige, VIC
- THE WEDDING DRESS by Irene Joseph, UK
- MY MUM by Louisa Bochner, ACT
- SEW ETHICAL by Sharyn Swanepoel, VIC
- MINOR ELECTION by Pam Lonsdale, USA
- REVOLT IN BOX 7B by Georgia Hamilton, NSW
- GOD BLESS US, EVERYONE by Felix Wilkins, VIC
- IT WORKS FOR US by Angelo Tata, UK
- OVERCROWDED by Chara Long, WA
- A DEMOCRATIC GARDEN by Lisa Verdekal, Ireland
- FAITH IS A MARATHON by Tim Blomfield, UK
