This month, we challenged you to take your storytelling to new heights. Literally. Let’s recap what October’s prompts were:

• Your story had to open on A ROOFTOP.
• Your story had to feature a character who has run out of something.
• Your story had to include the following words: ADDRESS, BLAST, SWAP (longer variations were allowed).

What goes up, must come down, and it certainly rained down ideas – overflowing our story submissions bucket! 

We found ourselves perched on apartment blocks, rooftop bars, farmhouses, vehicles and yes, even the roof of a mouth. There were rooftop rescues, romantic encounters, Christmas catastrophes, zombie apocalypses, superhero stories, wartime dramas and some rather unusual encounters with the local wildlife. We even met a giant robotic pigeon with a very peculiar plan for redistributing the world's hats.

Meanwhile, our characters were running out of just about everything. Money, patience, fuel, cigarettes, excuses, chocolate, hope and, in more than a few cases, time. Once again, the one thing you showed no signs of running out of was imagination!

Along the way, we encountered comedy, heartbreak, unexpected twists and more than a few pairs of legs dangling dramatically over the edge.

But after surveying the literary skyline (through one of those coin-operated viewfinder things), we've selected the stories we think soared higher this month. And the showcase will begin with this month’s Top Pick – congrats to In Case of Emergency by J. Lee.

As always, thanks to all who submitted pieces this month – we certainly had a blast reading them; wouldn’t swap it for anything. So, with that addressed, let’s go on with the show(case)!

OCTOBER TOP PICK:

IN CASE OF EMERGENCY by J. Lee, ACT

Up here so high, the problems feel smaller down below. Can’t hear them through the concrete and seven steel doors. Rooftop edge a metre away, neighbouring buildings bristling with air con units and satellite dishes.

Up here so high, I can’t hear him scream and tantrum, can’t hear her calling my name needing a cuddle a nappy change a feed, can’t hear the accusatory silence of my partner.

I have run out of patience. Run out of ideas. Run out of excuses. Run out of hope.

Run out of places to run to.

Overhead, contrails fade towards the horizon. Leftover escape routes it’s too late to take.

A plane arcs across the sky, hundreds of passengers tucked safely inside. Swap places with me now. Let me click that buckle low and tight over my hips, let someone serve me a hot lunch in tin foil, let me absorb every instruction in the safety briefing. In case of emergency. Let me scrawl a new address on the landing card, a place in another country where life begins again.

I am a contrail following that plane, looking down at myself. Perched high and far in the future, wrinklier and wiser. I see my younger self pacing between the pot plants on that Chicago rooftop, desperate and self-castigating. A newish mum in an oldish relationship under strain. The collapsing heart of a family far from home. Drowning while trying to hold up a dysregulated three-year-old, a breastfeeding two-year-old, and a grumpy partner failing to land the deal he moved our family over here for. In a foreign country, without supports. Drowning.

I watch her blast herself with critique and tangle herself up in the struggle for control over chaos. I watch her stuff her anger down to where it will stew underground like an exiled cave-monster for a decade until it erupts way too late. I trace the seeds of hostility and hurt in the curdling soil of a once fairytale romance.

I want to throw her a rescue line, helicopter her out of the quicksand. Drag her into the future and give her a hug and a good feed. It will be ok. I want to tell her – speak up – act now – preserve yourself – face the monsters! Don’t leave it ten years.

But above my head, right up in the stratosphere, I feel my future selves peering down. They are laughing.

Let her be, girl.

You just wait.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Raw and honest, with a main character that gives us not only a rooftop perspective but a future one from even higher. We loved the way this piece used its vantage point to explore both physical distance and emotional perspective, as an overwhelmed mother imagines escaping her present circumstances. The occasionally messy cadence and repeated imagery of planes/contrails is particularly affecting, while the shifts between past, present and future add further layers – in particular, the unexpected final suggestion that even our future selves have more to learn. Thoughtful and beautifully observed – ambitious and a worthy Top Pick!

THREE KLEINESCHWEINE by Jane Hodgkinson, QLD

The Kleineschweine brothers sat on the rooftop surveying the skyline.

“I remember when it was all fields round here,” sighed Percy.

“No, you don’t,” said Hammy, “it looked like this when we moved in.”

“Still, it would be nice, wouldn’t it?” said Brian, brushing crumbs off his dungarees. “Real grass and trees again.”

“Dream on!”

“Back to work.”

He turned on his cement mixer, Hammy grabbed his saw and Percy went to find his spare twine.

The three brothers had been crammed into their tiny top floor apartment for too long. Brian had cut a hatch in the ceiling so they could get to the flat roof for air. One day, Brian said “Let’s build up here. Who would know?”

Now they were nearly done. Percy’s straw hut, Hammy's wooden shed and Brian's penthouse were spectacular.

“Oh, darn,” said Hammy, shaking his empty nail jar.

“Run out again?” said Brian, rolling his eyes.

“And I’ve run out of twine,” cried Percy.

“Fine,” said Brian. “Use my left-over cement.”

Hammy and Percy secured their walls with it and they were all finished. They celebrated with a beer.

“Cheers!”

Just then, with a deafening roar and blast of wind, a helicopter landed on their roof.

“The name’s Wolf,” announced the pilot jumping out, “Mr. Wolf. City Council. Here to evict the Kleineschweine family from this address.” He stopped in his tracks, staring.

“Oh no! Not HIM again,” said Percy.

“Afraid so,” said Mr. Wolf. “Clever pseudonym, boys. Very clever.” He scanned the rooftop. “And what have we here? MORE buildings without planning permission?”

He marched toward the straw hut, pulled a commercial-grade leaf blower from his utility belt (as if the helicopter blades weren’t enough) and cranked the engine.

“Quick, to the penthouse!” shouted Brian.

They peeped out. Because of the cement, the straw hut didn’t budge. Neither did the shed.

Wolf approached the brick penthouse, revved the blower, and blasted the walls. Nothing happened. Naturally. What was he thinking? Wolf sighed, switching it off.

“Look,” Wolf said, huffing and puffing, “got to say, I’m impressed. The council wants you out and the buildings demolished. But I badly want a place with a view. And this penthouse, shed and Bali hut -”

“And helipad,” squeaked Percy.

Wolf rubbed his chin. “I’ll authorise them, but – ”

“Yes!” Hammy cheered.

“– you hand me the keys. I’ll swap this with my den in the country, then we’re even.”

The brothers looked at each other. Grass and trees? “Deal!”

They signed a letter scribbled by Wolf, took the keys, and ran, grinning all the way to their new paradise.

Meanwhile, Mr. Wolf was getting a call.

“Wolf! Where’s the eviction report?”

“They’re out, boss. In fact, I’ve moved in.”

“You idiot!”

“What?”

“We’re evicting them because the block’s being demolished!”

Wolf huffed and he puffed and he threw his phone down.

“Next time, Kleineschweine! Next time.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

A change in tone as we ham it up with an urban planning take on our friends, the Three Little Pigs! We enjoyed this inventive fairytale update, with its rooftop renovations, council bureaucracy and a Big Bad Wolf armed with a leaf blower. The familiar elements are cleverly repurposed throughout, while the brothers’ resourcefulness gives the story a wonderfully satisfying reversal. And just when you think the Wolf might finally have won, the final twist literally brings the whole house down. In a month where we saw a lot of deep and emotional storytelling, this proved a welcome palate cleanser!

ON A VOLVO PARKED AT THE END OF A RUNWAY IN 1986 by Tamsin Liddell, USA

Renée and I lay atop Mom’s Volvo station wagon, opposite directions, ears brushing. My legs dangled, kicking the rear window. We’d just performed for graduation, playing “Pomp and Circumstance.” I was supposed to drive us home, but she suggested a stop first. Next to a fence, near the airport.

“You wanted to talk.”

Her long ginger hair was splayed across the dark green metal, hiding her face. “Just wait, Leticia.” She giggled. “You’ll love this.” She tapped double paradiddles like a drumroll; not bad for a flautist.

“I don’t want the Major pissed at me.” We lived on the same cul-de-sac. My mom and hers were friends. Her parents trusted me to drive her home. I didn’t want to spoil that.

Renée growled. “I’m pissed at him.” A brief hesitation, then her excitement returned. “Here it comes!”

A droning in the background became a roar, coming from below. I tried to lift my head but she quickly pushed it back into place. Louder and louder. The car began to tremble. And then, between us and the moon, a jet flew past. I could almost reach out and touch it. The wind blasted us both, causing our hair to swirl together.

If she’d been vertical, Renée would have been jumping. “Wasn’t that awesome?”

I chuckled. “Yeah, it was.” I glanced again. Her face wasn’t hidden. She was laughing, pale skin turned crimson. I could reach over and touch her. I balled my hands into fists and pounded the car instead.

“That was so…” She squealed.

“Come on, we need to go.” I sat up and slid off, catching my breath.

She slapped the roof a few more times, then hopped to my side, landing with a bounce and a smile.

If I was any weaker, any less disciplined, I would have grabbed and kissed her then and there. I didn’t even have to close my eyes. I’d dreamed all year of us making out, swapping spit.

But that was then. Mom hid for years until retirement. Even after, she was afraid. That fear had passed on to me. In a school full of military brats and cowhands, conformity was key.

We climbed into the wagon. I focused on my breathing before starting the engine.

“Wait.” Her hand grabbed mine, pulling it off the ignition. “There’s something else.”

I froze. Bit my cheek. Turned to look into her eyes. Emitted a questioning hum.

“I…” She swallowed. “Dad’s been transferred. They only told me today.”

I exhaled. “What’s your new address?”

“Italy. Aviano. Near Venice.” Her free hand brushed her cheeks. “There’s something else.”

“No.” I pulled my hand away. Started the car. “There isn’t.”

“Leticia? We can be pen-pals.” Her laughter was flat.

I rolled my eyes. “Sure. We’ll write.”

At first, we did. A couple of international calls too, till Mom got the bill. Then… nothing.

Today, the algorithm showed me Renée’s picture. The first time in forty years. It’s her obituary.

We’ve run out of time for that first kiss.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

In a sea of apartment buildings and rooftop bars, this was such a simple yet inspired interpretation of the rooftop prompt. We enjoyed the vivid 1980s setting, the exhilaration of the low-flying jet (giving real purpose to being on the roof!) and the unspoken feelings simmering beneath the excitement. The relationship between Leticia and Renée feels beautifully authentic, with so much communicated through hesitation and small gestures. A tender, bittersweet story about the things we never say, the chances we never get back and single nights that stick in our memory for decades after.

AN IRISH WHISKEY AT THE END OF THE WORLD by Suzanne Wacker, QLD

The setting sun spreads golden light across the ravaged city. I’ve wanted to come to this rooftop bar for years, but the waitlist was always three months. The howling horde of undead banging on the stairwell door doesn’t seem to want to wait.

I scan the skyline. ‘How long did they say they’d be?’

Phil shrugs. ‘10 minutes.’

‘Let’s hope we have that long.’

The bar, tucked away in one corner of the roof, looks like it’s fully stocked. I’ve always wanted to treat myself to a proper Irish whiskey. The $100 a shot kind. I’d never been able to justify it.

The emergency evacuation message gives another blast over the clogged streets. ‘This is not a drill. You must leave immediately.’

I hold up my now useless phone. Its battery as dead as the zombies. ‘And you told them we were heading to the roof?’

Phil pouts, just like he did when we were kids. ‘I’m not useless, Mike. I gave them the address.’

‘You do realise the seriousness of the situation, Phil? This isn’t like the time you poured Mum’s laxative powder over our ice cream instead of Milo.’

The zombies howl again. Another bang and the door shudders in its frame. There must be thousands of them in the stairwell now.

Phil sucks in a breath. ‘I wish they wouldn’t do that.’

I grip his shoulders. ‘Focus, Phil. Did you tell the army we’re on the rooftop?’

‘Yes, of course I did. Stop asking me!’

I relax my hands. ‘Sorry, mate. I’m just a bit distracted. We don’t have any more options here.’

‘I know, Mike. But you can count on me.’

In the distance a tiny speck flies towards us. I laugh. ‘Thank God! We’re going to be okay, Phil.’

He nods. ‘I told you so.’

The helicopter flies across the rooftops and then veers to the right, hovering over a building further down the street.

I grip Phil’s shoulders. ‘Why are they going over there?’

His face is white. ‘I told them to come here.’

‘You gave them the right address?’

I know the answer but some stupid part of me still wants to survive. Still wants to hope.

‘Yes! 1425 Main Street.’

I slump to the ground. ‘You idiot. You swapped numbers. This is 4125.’

The zombies surge again and the door groans.

The bar beckons. I just need a few minutes. Open up a bottle of that expensive whiskey. Feel the burn as it slides down my throat.

I reach the bar as the door explodes inwards.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Zombies, sibling rivalry and a very expensive glass of whiskey – what's not to love here? We enjoyed the escalating tension as two brothers casually await rescue on a rooftop, with the undead quite literally knocking at their door. The dialogue is lively, the childhood anecdote adds a lovely touch, and the disastrous address mix-up (not the only one in this showcase!) delivers a perfectly timed punchline. But hey, it’s not the end of the world, right?

IF I HAD WINGS I’D FLY by Corey Picaro, QLD

On a night like every other, Joseph Mullman swayed atop his apartment roof and wished he could fly. Flight, he felt, would improve his chances with the girl next door, if she glanced out as he descended, heroically and photogenically, to save the man being mugged ten floors below.

“HELP ME! SOMEBODY! THEY’RE GOING TO BREAK MY ARM!”

Joseph leaned over the parapet. In the sickly yellow spill of the entrance light, three men had become a many-limbed thing, ten storeys below and, by distance’s arithmetic, somebody else’s problem.

“Lucky you’ve got another,” Joseph called, words slurring.

Alas, evolution had blessed Joseph with neither wings nor the courage to test whether he might improvise them on the way down. His eyesight, at least, might help police with a description in the morning.

“What would it take for you to do something, you selfish ass?”

Joseph suppressed the flinch and the urge to turn.

“Wings would be a start.”

“What would wings do that your legs cannot?”

“Get me down there before they break his arm. Though I suspect it’s too late.”

“YOU! ON THE ROOF! IT’S NOT TOO LATE!”

Joseph’s mouth tightened. Until then, the appeal had been addressed to somebody. It was unfortunate to discover that somebody had his face.

“Perhaps he means someone else.”

“You are the only person up here.”

“Well, you—”

“Don’t even.”

Below came the thud of a rug beaten over a railing, except rugs rarely screamed.

“Why do you only speak when I’m drunk?”

“Why do you only look for me when you are?”

Joseph searched the bottle for an answer.

“Blast you.”

Beyond the buildings, the river moved black through the city. Headlights crossed the bridge, their reflections drawn thin across the water like bright stitches in an old wound.

“I probably wouldn’t have reached you.”

Nothing.

“The current was strong. I was drunk. I’d probably have drowned too.” He tipped the bottle; a few drops gathered at its mouth and declined to fall. “The water would have been far too cold.”

Headlights crossed again.

“But I still regret not trying.”

“PLEASE!”

“Swap places with him.”

Joseph looked down. The men had forced their victim flat, one holding his shoulders while the other pulled his arm straight.

“I don’t know him. It could be drugs. Debts. He might have started it.”

“And if it were you?”

He opened his mouth to reply, eyes and mouth closing as the man screamed and Joseph fell.

For a moment there was only the drop. His stomach rose, the roof fell away and Joseph went with it, cutting through the dark while the bottle, parapet and years of looking backward remained above.

When he opened his eyes, his shoes were still on the roof.

“PLEASE!”

Joseph turned, he’d run out of excuses and was ready with something bitter. But there was nobody there, only the empty roof and the stairwell door.

Though flying would have been quicker, he supposed the stairs would have to do.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This deftly-observed rooftop moment turns the often-mused “what if I could fly?” rhetoric into something more profound and immediate. Joseph’s conversation with his inner demons reveals a story of past apathy and guilt, his excuses piling up and slowly unravelling all at once. There’s some striking imagery here, interspersed with a block-capitals beating taking place below, and it’s the understated ending that really soars. Sometimes courage isn’t about taking a leap – it’s simply about taking the stairs.

UP ON THE ROOFTOP by Shawn L. Bird, Canada

The old man grabbed the chimney and stared down the slant of the roof. What was he doing up here at his age? He’d been stuck for over two hours since the ladder fell away. He was hungry. There was chocolate in the bag he’d brought with him; he’d recognized the box. He ripped it open with his teeth, and the box was soon empty. It was still daylight. He had hours yet. What to do?

He took a step and wobbled precariously. He gripped the chimney tighter. He definitely needed to put some spikes on the bottom of his boots if he was going to keep hanging out on rooftops. Maybe he’d put them on his Christmas list. His wife was always grumbling that he was impossible to buy for. She’d appreciate the tip. He’d appreciate the grip. He cautiously transferred his weight, thinking he might make it to the edge where there was a tree he could possibly climb down, but his feet slipped. He thudded onto his butt.

The roof shuddered.

“What was that?” shouted someone from inside the house.

He sat still, digging his heels into shingles. He just needed to hide until midnight to finish what he’d come to do.

There was a blast of black smoke out the chimney and then he was coughing.

So much for hiding.

“What is that?” shouted the person in the house.

Someone else replied with murmuring assurances.

“I’m getting my gun!” shouted the loud person. “There’s someone out there! They can’t be up to any good!”

The reassuring voice murmured again, to no observable effect.

The door flew open.

“All right, you, up there by the chimney! I see you! Come down now, or I’m shooting!”

He had long since run out of self-respect, but this was a challenge he hadn’t foreseen. Finally, he called down, “I can’t come down. I’m stuck!” He wiggled a bit to demonstrate, then added, “Sorry.”

“Why did you go up there in the first place?”

He sighed. “I was hired.”

“For what?” the voice asked suspiciously.

He lowered his voice, and glanced around, hoping there were no children in hearing distance. “To drop presents down the chimney at midnight.”

“Right,” said the voice. “Sure you were.”

“I was!”

“There are no children here,” the voice said.

“They’re for someone called Mary-Ellen.”

There was a long silence.

“Can you please put the ladder back? It fell over there.”

“I think we’ll wait for the police,” said the voice. “There’s no Mary-Ellen here.”

“Isn’t this 500 Bellamy Street?” It hadn’t occurred to him he had the wrong address.

“What kind of gifts?” said the voice.

“There was really good chocolate.”

“Was?”

“I’ve been up here a long time,” he said. “I got hungry. I’ll swap something for it later.”

The ladder thumped against the side of the house as the police car rounded the corner.

A hand reached out to him, “Come on, Santa. You can tell it to the cops.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Ho ho… oh no. The season ‘tis coming up and we had plenty of Santa stories this month – but this one gets the showcase nod for its wonderfully offbeat take on the tradition. It comes complete with a stranded Santa, a suspicious homeowner and a rather unfortunate address mix-up. The gradual reveal is nicely handled (putting something on his Christmas list means something different!), with plenty of amusing details along the way – especially Santa’s very relatable penchant for chocolate. A red-suitably charming piece that reminds us that every job has its occupational hazards!

TUESDAY, QUITTING TIME by Jason Kurylo, Canada

Officer Terrance Kotter flicked his cigarette off the roof and promised to quit smoking. He shivered. The sunset was pretty, but the wind had teeth up here.

“I know life is kicking you in the balls. I wouldn’t swap places with you for a million bucks.” He addressed the young accountant balanced on the parapet and tried to remember his name. Jody. No, Joey. Justin? Whatever. Terrance made a show of looking at his wrist. “But kid, it’s almost 6:30, and we’ve been here for hours already.”

The cop and the kid both surveyed the street below. Two police cars waggled their lights. An ambulance sat dark half a block away. The fire engine had long since left to attend a blaze uptown. A few pedestrians looked up for a second, but for the most part people just kept moving.

“I thought there’d be more,” the young man mumbled.

“That’s just in the movies, kid.” Terrance sagged. It was Tuesday, and this was his third jumper already this week. “People in this city have got their own troubles. They don’t need yours, too.”

A street preacher spoke in tongues and blasted an extended guitar solo. An elevated train squeaked and groaned the next block over.

“I meant, I thought there’d be more to life.” The kid looked Terrance in the eye for the first time. “You know?”

“We’ve been through this, kid.” Terrance shrugged. He shoved his hands into his pockets as he spoke. The wind rustled the seams of his trenchcoat. “Your job sucks. Your girlfriend left. All the usual shit. And… I’ll be honest, I’m out of fucks to give.”

The kid stared. “Wh—what?”

“You know what? For you this is life and death. But let’s call a spade a fucking shovel already. For me this is just another workday.” Terrance pulled his lighter out of his pocket and cupped his hands against the wind to light a smoke. “My paycheque will clear either way, so how’s about you get a move on?”

“You want me to—” The kid’s eyes lost focus.

“I’m old, and I’m tired, and I hate fucking heights. And besides, every Tuesday, Mrs Kotter sets me up with three fingers of scotch and a plate of spicy meatloaf. Sometimes, there’s pie.”

The kid gawped. Terrance turned and angled away from the edge.

As he reached the door to exit the rooftop, he heard a crunch on the gravel behind him. The kid stood two feet away, all puffy eyes and wild hair.

“Meatloaf, you said?”

They shook hands.

At that moment, Terrance Kotter remembered the kid’s name.

“Absolutely there’s meatloaf, Jerome.” The older man threw his cigarette into the wind. He promised to quit. “And sometimes, there’s pie.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This is a great piece of character-driven storytelling, made more impressive by its familiar scenario. We particularly enjoyed Officer Kotter’s apparent indifference gradually giving way to something far more compassionate, without ever losing his wonderfully gruff voice. The dialogue is sharp, the rooftop encounter feels refreshingly unpredictable (considering there were a lot of ‘jumpy’ stories this month!), and the repeated promises to quit smoking provide a clever structural touch. Best of all, the ending finds hope in the most ordinary of things: a plate of meatloaf, a little kindness and hey, maybe even pie for dessert.

MISSIONARY IMPOSSIBLE by Lisa Knight, NSW

On the rooftop terrace, Ophelia Cox’s burnished curls whipped behind her. Below, Prague shone with midnight gold. Her stilettos struck the limestone tiles in a crisp, dangerous rhythm, red gown billowing to reveal her shapely legs.

Without warning, a tuxedo-clad arm wrapped around her from behind. Solid biceps caged her in. The cool barrel of Agent Pierce Armstrong’s pistol pressed against her temple.

“Where’s the bomb?” he whispered, breath hot against her cheek.

“Too late, Arm… strong.” She arched back, her buttocks settling firmly against the unmistakable hardness at his hips. “You’ll feel the blast before you see it.”

He spun her around and holstered his weapon, ashy hair flopping over his forehead. His gaze burnt black beneath the inky sky, hips pushed firmly to hers. “It’s at this address, isn’t it?”

Cox’s eyebrow rose as she glanced down. “Is that a gun in your pocket—”

A ticking began from the penthouse beneath them.

“Let’s swap.” Armstrong grasped the nape of Cox’s neck. “You disarm it. I won’t arrest you.”

Cox twisted free and snatched the gun. She levelled it between his eyes.

“Pity. You won’t get to see if I live up to my name.”

She sprinted through the rooftop door. Behind her, Armstrong’s footsteps followed.

Cox burst into the penthouse. The plastic device clicked beside the bed, its bright yellow face absurdly cheerful, red hand inching towards zero.

Armstrong caught Cox from behind and drove her onto the mattress.

She rolled on top and pinned him between her thighs.

He flipped Cox onto her back. The gun skidded across the suite.

His chest rose and fell against her breasts. “You’re out of time.”

The kiss was hard and immediate. She opened her mouth to him. His tongue grazed hers. One hand stroked her hair while the other slid into his pocket.

Metal snapped shut, pinning her wrists together.

She looked at the handcuffs, wrapped in worn pink fluff, rusted around the locks.

“Phil!” Her spy voice died. “These are the cuffs we lost the keys to!”

He wriggled to his knees, trousers buckling at the ankles. The buttons of his wedding tux strained to stay closed. “Harriet, you said—”

The ticking stopped, replaced by a shrill alarm, then by a robotic rendition of Old McDonald Had a Farm. The smiley face on the Fisher-Price clock lit up, resurrected from the storage tub of their children’s old toys.

Prague’s skyline flattened into suburban Sydney lights. Wind became ducted air-conditioning. The penthouse rooftop dissolved into their weathered balcony, where the sliding door had been left open for atmosphere.

Harriet rattled the cuffs. “This is the last time we do your stupid Bond fantasy while the kids are out!”

“Sorry!” Phil loosened her Spanx, and Harriet sighed with relief. He stared at the clock, the cuffs, and the green water pistol abandoned on the floor. Picking up his phone, he dialled. “Dad, do you still have those pliers? I need to borrow them… again.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

From fake-Prague with love… and a fun way to end this showcase. This gloriously over-the-top spy spoof grabbed our attention from the first appearance of Agents Cox and Armstrong. We loved the breathless action, ridiculous double entendres and deliberately excessive Bond-style descriptions, all setting us up for a reveal that somehow makes the entire scene even funnier. The transition from international espionage to suburban domestic disaster is beautifully timed. And those handcuffs? Clearly a licence to thrill comes with its own complications.

Oop–there goes our own Fisher-Price alarm. We’re out of 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 your story made the list this month, take a moment to celebrate!

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

• LEAP OF FAITH by Berni Aquilini, NSW
• THE OFFERING by Carl Newby, QLD
• GHOSTS OF SUMMERS PAST by Paris Rosemont, NSW
• THE RIGHT PLACE by Simon Krischer, USA
• THE WATCHFUL GARGOYLES by Alison Elizabeth, NSW
• NIGHT NOCTURNE by Oleksandr Serdyuk, Germany
• THE NAMES by A.R. McHugh, NSW
• STICK IT by Madeleine Armstrong, UK
• THE ROOFTOP by Eva Foster, VIC
• WHAT REMAINS by Rowan MacDonald, TAS
• CATCH A FALLING STAR by Kenneth Mann, UK
• POLISHED MAHOGANY by Lisa Zeltzer, Canada
• A CHICKEN BUCKET MIDNIGHT MISSION by More Story Bits, Canada
• A MURDER IN MOURNING by Taryn Kennedy, NSW
• THE WRONG ADDRESS by Andrew J. West, USA
• MY SURPRISE FOR WENDY by Robert Fairhead, NSW
• THE SUNFLOWERS ARE WAITING by Grainne Armstrong, Ireland
• SANTA’S LITTLE HELPER by Chris Waterson, UK
• LADYBIRD by Sarah Muller, NSW
• TWO THINGS CAN BE TRUE by Amanda Todisco, USA
• A HOT TIN ROOF by Simone Bowers, VIC
• AGAINST HER by Melanie Hawkes, WA
• LAST NIGHT by Chloë Nguyen-Drury, Canada
• TWELVE FLOORS by Debbie Cox, VIC
• MISSING THE BOAT by Paul Freeman, Mauritania
• THE PEOPLE NEXT DOOR by Jeff Taylor, NZ
• THE OBSOLETE by Catherine McGraffin, NSW
• AN AMERICAN IN MELBOURNE by Nathan Furtado, VIC
• POMPOM by John Allison, UK
• THE BEST VIEW by Marania Kingston, QLD
• TIME ON THE ROOF by Leah Eichner, QLD
• (NOT MUCH OF A) JOY RIDE by Uzi Landsmann, Sweden
• ALL THAT JAZZ by jajoda, QLD
• THE ECLIPSE by Nico Mara, Ireland
• WHO WILL BE LEFT TO WATCH US BURN? by Sarah Thomson, VIC
• THE ROOFTOP IS SHARED by Isidora Luna, Spain
• ROOF OF PROOF by Donna Painter, UK
• NOT A KITTEN ON THE ROOF by Laura Testa-Reyes, USA
• 17 WILLOW STREET by S L Jones, NSW
• GOBBLEDYGOOK by Dorothy Lawless-Siskin, USA
• ANGELIC ENVY by Cee Ford, WA
• THE LAST JOB by Katherine Todd, USA
• SANTA KNOWS BEST by Jane E Sullivan, VIC
• WAYS OF WORKING by Jennifer Lindner, USA
• EYES WIDE OPEN by Ryan Klemek, USA
• UNDER THE MILKY WAY by Pam Makin, SA
• THE BATTLE FOR POWER by Haley Jackson, QLD
• LIFE INTERRUPTED by Susan Prause, USA
• THE PROBLEM WITH GRAND GESTURES by Immy Mohr, NSW
• THE ROOF by Jen Hacker, NSW
• A FLOOD OF EMOTION by Kim Hoey, USA
• THE CLOCK IS TICKING by Elizabeth g. Arthur, QLD
• NEW PLANET by Natasha Brough, VIC
• STUCK ON THE ROOF by Paul Bargon, NSW
• THE RESCUE by Susan Batten, Spain
• STARFALL ON ROOF 108 by TC Were, VIC
• ALWAYS HER by Rick B, Canada