The April 2024 Not Quite Write Prize for Flash Fiction challenged writers to create an original piece of fiction of no more than 500 words, which:
- included the word DATE.
- included the action “picking a winner.”
- broke the writing rule “always use said.”
The competition drew 212 entries from authors in 20 countries around the world looking for a slice of the AU$2,000 prize money. That’s 100,497 words for our judges, Ed and Amanda, to read. For reference, that’s about the same number of words as “To Kill a Mockingbird” by Harper Lee.
For more fascinating statistics about the competition, and to get behind-the-scenes details of the judging process, check out the Bonus: Not Quite Write Prize Longlist Announcement episode of the podcast at the link below.
To hear the winning and shortlisted entries read aloud by Ed and Amanda, check out the Bonus: Not Quite Write Prize Winner and Shortlist Announcement episode of the podcast at the link below.
WINNER
UNSAY ANYTHING by Chad Frame
“Maybe I will,” I unsaid, and felt my hand again on your cheek, smoothing the red welt I’d just left. My arm pulled back.
“So why don’t you take it all back, then?” you unsaid.
“I wish I’d never chosen you,” I unsaid, and backed away from you into the doorway, tears snaking back up my face to vanish into the corners of my eyes.
“You swore for better or worse,” you unsaid, and the picture frame lifted off the bedroom floor and back into your hand, the fractal glass shards fitting back into place like a seamless puzzle.
In the frame, behind the glass, we were embracing. Young, newlywed, naïve. Your face, unshadowed by stubble, undaunted by drink. My eyes, uncircled by darkness.
“We never fucking were,” I unsaid.
“We’re not those people anymore,” you unsaid, and set the picture frame down on the bedside table.
“Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you,” I unsaid. I disappeared from the doorway.
Five years rewound like old film reel.
I unstormed out to my parents’ house. You unbecame an alcoholic, your mouth like a Jim Beam factory, filling bottle after bottle with woodcharred bogwater.
I uncaught you. You unfucked your secretary when you thought I was still out at therapy.
You unsaid it was a great idea. I unsaid I was falling apart and needed to talk to a professional.
You unhit the bottle. We unmourned the loss.
I sucked the screams back into my mouth, fell asleep in a pool of clotted blood.
You unwore me down. “It’s a name that works for any gender,” you uninsisted.
You wanted Robin.
We unposted the announcement—caption unwritten, photo untaken. A rattle, a positive test, a tiny pair of shoes, a chalkboard with “Coming Soon” scrawled in careful cursive. At the corner of each word, the letter tails looped into hearts.
The chalk traced back over the words, unscratched them from the slate. Unetched the hearts. Tabula rasa.
We unmoved into the house. Packed lives back into boxes, loaded them onto the truck, drove them back to our separate apartments where we unSharpied them “dishes,” “towels,” “books.”
We retreated from the altar.
You pulled the ring from my finger. Rose from one knee on a windswept beach.
We vomited dinners back onto plates. Every date unhappened, one by one, undone.
“I choose you,” I untold you, lying in your arms.
I unended things with my college boyfriend.
“I’m sorry,” I untold Adam, tears snaking back up his handsome face to vanish into the corners of his bright eyes. “I met someone else.”
Adam was the same in both directions. Consistent, loving, stable.
You were unpredictable, exciting, dangerous.
At a party, you unhit on me, dark eyes full of mystery and promise. “I’m Jake,” you unintroduced yourself, cheeks undimpling as your grin disappeared.
Everything stopped.
Everything moves forward again. “Fuck off,” I yell over the music when you approach. You don’t even get a word out. “I’m happy with my boyfriend.”
Ed’s comments
Our winner has truly embraced the spirit of the anti-prompt with a clever concept that doesn’t just tick the boxes.
Every pivotal moment in the implosion of this relationship has been selected for maximum impact, and the arrow drawn from each emotionally-charged exchange back to its causes invokes a feeling of tragic inevitability, like watching a car crash in slow motion.
Congratulations, Chad, on another outstanding result!
Amanda’s comments
This story burst out of the gate with a bold take on the anti-prompt and did not let up until its breathless conclusion.
While we often advise writers to simplify their writing to create a more satisfying reading experience, this story manages to deliver just the right amount of challenge – offering questions and answers to both spark and satisfy curiosity.
Domestic violence is a theme we see come up a lot in flash fiction, and this story highlights why. This dramatic slice of life conjures up a whole host of emotions and a chilling insight into lies lived in secret.
Fans might remember Chad from his second-placing in the January 2024 round of the competition (Read his entry ‘Bless this Mess’ here). It seems Chad is determined to drag us over to the dark side of non-traditional narrative structures and, once again, I am more than happy to be proven wrong!
SECOND PLACE
EVERYONE’S A WINNER by Sam James
I’ve got bogeys for days. Picking my nose is a bit like hook-a-duck: everyone’s a winner.
I really can’t stress that enough. I could poke around in there for hours on end and still there would be treasures to find.
My particular penchant used to be to ‘go mining’ whenever the news was on. You might not remember, but the news used to be so bleak (The energy crisis continues… Food shortages across the world worsen… There’s not enough to go around…), and I found that picking my nose was a comfort to me.
The women I’ve dated over the years have found it variously nauseating, repulsive and revolting. The whole gamut of disgust really. But where others saw a gross habit, Lucy saw potential.
“Where does it all come from?” she asked one day. She was pushing the tip of my nose up and staring directly into the depths of my nostrils. “It’s got to come from somewhere. It just doesn’t make sense! We should measure it.”
And so, I began to collect the stuff and weigh it. Once, I pulled out more than a kilogram of mucus over the course of a day; there was still more up there when I gave up and went to bed. After that, Lucy’s fascination turned to concern, and she took me to see some specialists.
“I’m at a loss to explain your… overabundance,” the ENT doctor admitted, “but I don’t think it’s a health risk.”
“I’m similarly stumped,” the biologist added. “There’s simply no anatomical mechanism that could account for that much snot.”
“The laws of thermodynamics suggest this shouldn’t be possible. But… I wonder…” wondered the physicist, “I suppose it might be—we’d have to run some tests.”
So we ran some tests. Endoscopes, MRIs, Geiger counters; there wasn’t an instrument available to science that didn’t get aimed at my schnoz.
“Do you realise what this means?” Lucy practically bounced when we got the test results back, “this is going to change the world!” And she was right.
I have a wormhole up my nose.
Why do I have a wormhole up my nose? Where does the other end of the wormhole come out? And why does the other end of the wormhole appear to contain an infinite supply of bogeys? I don’t have any of the answers.
But as a result of Lucy’s insight, the news is much nicer nowadays. The energy crisis is solved, because we have enough fuel to burn (in the form of dried bogeys). And food shortages are a thing of the past, because we have enough to eat (in the form of ‘don’t think about it’).
For the first time in human history, there’s snot enough to go around.
Ed’s comments
Most people are aware of the more vulgar definition of “picking a winner”, but only one writer was bold enough to go knuckle-deep into the concept.
I didn’t have “wormhole up the nose” on my April 2024 Not Quite Write Prize bingo card, but here we are. Sometimes it’s nice to take a break from all the dark and tragic stories and simply enjoy something truly absurd.
Amanda’s comments
It’s no secret I’m a big fan of stories that take a ridiculous concept and go hard. To me, this is where fiction shines – where the absurd can be our reality, even if only for a few moments.
But what really sold me was that this story went beyond its funny premise to deliver something deeper. In my mind, it offers a moment of hope in a world consumed by doom and gloom. Let’s be real: we’re all looking for a ray of sunshine to reassure us it’s all going to be okay. This story offers just that.
Snot bad.
THIRD PLACE
A GUIDE TO JUDGING THE PIE ENTRIES AT THE WOMENS’ AUXILIARY CLUB ANNUAL FAIR FROM LAST YEAR’S JUDGE WHO SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER by Sally Simon
Look like you’re taking notes. Lots of notes. Preferably in a small notebook that closes when you lay it down to pick up your fork, so that no one sees what you’re really writing is a list of places you’d rather be, because let’s face it, you already know which pie will come out on top and on whose chest you’ll be pinning that oversized red, I mean blue, ribbon.
Unless someone has hit an entirely unpleasant menopause or her husband has been cheating on her, these will likely be the four top pies.
Mrs. Henderson’s Blueberry Crumble
Nothing screams winner more than a brown sugar crumble over homegrown berries. Other women have tried, but this past champion has perfected the balance between sugar-coating and fruity goodness. If her tartness level is spot on, her pie will make you pucker.
Mrs. Murphy’s Classic Apple
Some people think apple pie is boring. I say just because something is old and familiar doesn’t mean it can’t satisfy your taste buds. Trust me, you’ll be pleasantly pleased.
Mrs. Humble’s Gooseberry Pie
Don’t make the joke. Not to her or anyone within earshot. It’s not funny anymore. Seriously though. Have you ever tasted a gooseberry pie? Sometimes you don’t know what you’re missing until you know. Then, there’s no going back.
Ms. Pryne’s Strawberry Rhubarb
(the reigning champion)
Opposites attract. The long, tart vegetable meets its match coupled with the soft, sweet fruit we know and love. It’s a risky combination. I used to be a fan, but everyone knows that already, don’t they?
After your last bite, savor the moment. Sigh. Then lumber to the judges table, where you’ll find a pitcher of water. Pour a glass and take a long swig. Try to not be overly dramatic. Hunch over your notebook while condensation builds on the glass.
Penelope Henderson, the past, present and future president of the Auxiliary will, at this point, nudge you and demand an update. “How much longer could you possibly need?” she’ll quip loudly before flirtatiously adding in a hushed tone, “Your tongue must be so overly excited, with all that citrus.” She’ll wink.
Make an effort to blow her off, enough for people to notice. “He can’t be bought.” That’s what people will mutter and mumble amongst themselves.
Act like you’re adding up numbers in your notebook. Scratch your head like it’s long division.
I imagine there’ll be quite a crowd this year. Last year, half of the contestants were on the other side of the midway watching a retired carnie bend himself into a pretzel when I proclaimed the winner. Not to worry, I’ll be close at hand, sitting in the front row next to Penelope, (I’ve been forgiven). She’ll squeeze my hand and whisper in my ear, “He wouldn’t, would he?”
I’ll wonder too, but never admit it.
When a sizable puddle has formed below the glass, it’s time to pick the winner. Stand. Ask yourself one last time if she’s worth it.
Decide.
Ed’s comments
Sally’s story made me feel like Special Agent Fox Mulder, stapling pictures to the wall and connecting them with thumb tacks and coloured twine, trying to get to the bottom of who was behind this whole damn conspiracy.
I’m fairly certain that the narrator (the titular judge) is Penelope’s husband, but what precisely transpired between him and the charming Ms. Pryne? And who is that strange man smoking a cigarette at the back of the room?
Amanda’s comments
This was a standout for Ed from the get-go, but it was one that took its time (read: Ed’s time) winning me over. Having said that, of all the bake-off entries that we received this round, this was the strongest.
What is immediately evident is that there is another story evolving just under the surface. I confess that I struggled at times to unpack exactly what was going on, yet it felt satisfying in the same way as an overheard conversation might – with enough snippets of juicy detail to keep me hooked.
Bake-off writers take note! This is how you deliver mouth-watering drama in less than 500 words.
FOURTH PLACE
HOT GIRL SUMMER by Laura J. Rayne
Sheri pulled over into the first parking lot she saw, tires crunching the broken pavement. Grabbing the crumpled brown paper, she pulled the dripping burger out of the bag before she had come to a full stop. The urge had itched at her for hours, even as she completed her food journal, ounces and calories meticulously recorded in perfect rows—red pen for fats, blue pen for carbs, green pen for fruits and vegetables.
There was never enough green pen.
“It’s not your fault, Sheri.” They would mewl from their plastic-backed chairs, the condescending edge of their own victories cutting through the false staccato of their supportive words.
The grease from the burger dripped down her chin as she stared, eyes glazed and unfeeling, out the windshield at the dilapidated red bricks of the building.
“Just look at your food journal, hun.” The bottle-blonde would drawl as she pushed her fake tits so close that a person could do nothing but notice. They entered a conversation before she did, thrust into your field of vision by her exaggerated posture and pinched shoulder blades.
Seven weeks into the fitness challenge, and Sheri had yet to lose an ounce. They would pick a winner in just three weeks, and the thought gnawed at her. Falsifying the journal had become a compulsion that haunted her every moment. Her refusal to admit her shame to the self-righteous fakes was at odds with any genuine desire to change.
Shoving the last of the fries through salt-crusted lips, Sheri scrawled Afternoon Snack: 2 ounces of almonds and fresh fruit onto the open page on the dashboard and closed the worn, leather-bound notebook. Its gold-lettered enthusiasm glared back at her from the cover.
No food tastes as good as skinny feels.
Tearing her eyes away from the mantra, she crumpled the papered remnants of her afternoon snack and put the car in reverse, already calculating whether she would have enough time to throw up before her family got home.
Ed’s comments
The experience of having our long term goals sabotaged by short term desires is certainly universal, and this story captures the resulting cognitive dissonance perfectly.
I loved the mature, intelligent and highly visual style that Laura chose to tell her story, presenting Sheri’s actions truthfully and without moral judgement. If you are ever unsure of what is meant by “Show, Don’t Tell”, read this story.
Amanda’s comments
This story sailed into the shortlist easier than most. What stood out to me was a strong emphasis on character. It’s fair to say that very little happens, however we’re left with a strong sense of the implications for our main character. There is subtext aplenty as we watch Sheri battle with her own reality.
A standout for me was the comedic line, “They entered a conversation before she did, thrust into your field of vision by her exaggerated posture and pinched shoulder blades.”
Although this isn’t a story to which I can closely relate, I do love a good carpark cheeseburger. In my circles, we call this a “sneaky cheese,” and we enjoy it with no fucks given.
5 stars.
HONOURABLE MENTION
ADVENTURE AWAITS by Terra Babcock
The human line snaked around the outside of the town hall and Ellie-May was smack dab in the middle of it with her momma. Normally Momma’s strictness was speckled with smiles, but these past two days she’d been all rigid like a dead stick.
“Mitsy got picked last year.”
“Mmmhmmm.” Momma had thin lips that almost disappeared when she made that noise.
“I never get picked for nothing.” Ellie-May had won the talent show last spring, but that didn’t count. She got that with work, and work wasn’t lucky like the box.
“Let’s hope it stays that way.”
“But Mitsy—”
“I don’t want to hear another word about Mitsy.”
The talk always went like this with Momma. Even when she’d cried her eyes out because Mitsy never came back to tell Ellie-May about her adventures. She only knew the stories because her big brother Milton told her so at night while Momma was sleeping.
The lacquer box was so shiny it looked wet, with poppies and daisies brightly painted around the lip of the lid. The slot in the top was so thin she couldn’t see inside. Paper slips and fountain pens sat in front of it.
Mr. Harper stood over the box and frowned when he saw her. His face had just about a thousand wrinkles but she wasn’t gonna count them all.
“Twelve already, girl?”
“Yessir.” She spread out her pale green skirt so he could see the careful embroidery around the hem.
“One slip.” He looked up at her momma. “Two for you.”
Momma nodded curtly and wrote her name in careful cursive twice. Ellie-May’s writing wasn’t as pretty, but she’d worked hard at her letters so her penmanship was the nicest in her whole class. It wasn’t fair that all the grown-ups got two papers and she only got one. They didn’t even like adventures.
Ellie-May went to put her slip in the box but her momma held up her hand. “You really couldn’t stop the children from entering? Not even after last year?”
“Town mandate, I’m afraid. Twelve and older.”
“You’re the magistrate. You write the mandates.”
“And the people approve them.”
While they argued Ellie-May scribbled her name two more times and stacked them carefully under the first slip. There. Now she’d have three. Anyone who liked adventures deserved to have three.
“Fine.” Momma’s last word was sharp but her hand shook.
Ellie-May slipped her papers in the box, careful to keep them in a neat little stack. Sneaking them in wasn’t too hard since Momma looked away as if the beautiful box were a spider or a June bug.
They waited in the green in front of the town hall until everyone had their turn. Mr. Harper came out with the box and lifted the lid. His thick, old hands swirled the papers around before he pulled out a slip.
“Ellie-May.”
A hush like midnight swept over the crowd.
Ellie-May clapped, her smile as wide as her momma’s eyes.
Ed’s comments
I loved the subtlety and craft of this piece: the way Ellie-May’s innocent intentions and naïve interpretations, so perfectly captured in the close third-person perspective, propel us to a tragic conclusion our protagonist doesn’t yet understand.
This kind of approach is extremely difficult to pull off effectively, and Terra has treated us to a masterclass.
Amanda’s comments
This story had big ‘Hunger Games’ energy, and I’m here for it. Above and beyond this idea was a deeply tragic sense of character, encapsulated by the paragraph, “While they argued Ellie-May scribbled her name two more times and stacked them carefully under the first slip. There. Now she’d have three. Anyone who liked adventures deserved to have three.”
We’re left desperately wishing Momma had been honest enough to spare this poor child from her unknowable fate!
Strong voice, evocative detail, and confidence in the reader’s ability to read between the lines are what made this story a standout.
HONOURABLE MENTION
SURVIVAL GUIDE TO STAYING SINGLE by M. Lea Gray
“Radiant,” you agree. The bride glows under the spotlights in the center of the dancefloor, but you don’t let yourself daydream about being her. You know, not everyone gets lucky. You know every girl lined up next to you thinks she deserves the next groom. Only one of you will survive catching the bouquet.
Blood runs down the bride’s elbows and colours her creamy gown. Men block your way off the dancefloor.
“Ready, set—” a DJ mumbles into a microphone. One girl doesn’t wait and she jams her finger into another girl’s eye. Wedding guests stomp, and you’re sure the whole building will crash down and bury everyone alive.
The bride fakes the first few throws, but those of you with a plan hang back. You can’t feel bad for the girls who fall first, not here, not now. As soon as they hit the floor, men grab onto their ankles and wrists—grab clumps of hair—and drag them into their new lives where their behaviour is corrected before they’re dressed up for their first date and displayed like trophies.
It’s you versus the bouquet, and when the bride pulls the ribbon loose, the groom’s heart falls out of the center and rolls across the floor. No one moves to grab it because you all know you’ll collide, hit the ground in pairs, get pulled apart, and tossed from man to man until there’s nothing left of you but jagged bone.
You’ve seen women, know women who think they’ve prayed hard enough for a groom of their own. None of them survive the dancefloor. All of them are dragged away. It’s to convince themselves because it doesn’t convince you when you hear those women repeat, “He’s a good man.”
The bouquet goes high into the air and splits into wads of flesh, whole kidneys, and severed toes—pieces you don’t recognize that the bride tore out of the groom with her bare hands. Teeth rain and scatter, so girls slip, and they’re lost to the pack of men at the edge of the dancefloor.
Every move you make is life and death. When you see the groom’s severed hand, you know you won’t get another chance, so you dive for it. Ten women lost to one man kept is a ratio you refuse to accept. Behind your back, everyone whispers, “She’s difficult.”
The groom’s bloody palm almost slips out of your grip, but you lace your fingers through it. You knew from the start, it’s almost impossible to survive catching the bouquet. Even those men who’ll take any woman still want to break her themselves, so as girls pile on top of you, claw at you for the groom’s hand, you don’t fight back. You don’t even scream while they snap your arms and legs.
At least this way, you can put your pieces back together however you want instead of being forced into a shape you were never meant to be.
Ed’s comments
M. Lea has a talent for highly creative and evocative premises. Her work feels like a sort of fugue-induced Jungian channelling of unconscious primal energies, rather than a premeditated piece of flash fiction.
Dripping with metaphor (and bodily fluids), her resulting commentary on dating and relationships resists precise analysis, but we can all certainly empathise with the intense feeling of urgency and frustration this grisly scene invokes.
Amanda’s comments
After unpacking M. Lea Gray’s most recent story as a January 2024 daredevil (listen here), I was pleasantly unsurprised to find her latest effort on this round’s shortlist.
What I loved most about this story was the taking of an innocuous and almost universally familiar scene and twisting it almost beyond recognition to say something new. The benefit here is that the scene is immediately familiar (requiring few words to explain) yet evocative in an exciting new way.
I will be stealing this flash fiction method for myself as soon as I can!
I remain convinced that with just the slightest bit more clarity around the messaging/intent behind this story, we would have crowned it number one. Thanks for the wild ride, M. Lea.
LONGLISTED
The following list represents the remaining top 18% of entries, in no particular order.
- GRIEF by Leo Reese O Rinn *WILDCARD WINNER*
- PICK ME by Linda Atkins *WILDCARD WINNER*
- THIRD TIME’S A CHARM by Kate Groth
- BYTE-SIZED by Arabella Peterson
- THE TEST by Steven Huff
- THE REMATCH by Monique Edwards
- TEN by Sarah Percival
- I WOULD ALWAYS CHOOSE YOU by Melanie Mulrooney
- TRIFECTA by Mathew Peters
- A DATE IN THE SAND by Frederick Dios
- THE CHOICE by Daniel Clark-Mudge
- FIRST ROUND KNOCKOUT by Jenna Treloar
- RHONDDA VALLEY, WALES, 1922 by Nick Smith
- THE ARRIVAL by Jo Skinner
- SALAD DAYS by Sarah Hurd
- APRIL RAIN by Kallie Poppleton
- AT THE 2011 COMPANY ANNUAL FUNDRAISER SOME THINGS NEED NOT BE SAID by Victoria Harris
- ATTRITION by Emily Rinkema
- HAPPY HOUR by A.J Blackman
- WORDS UNSPOKEN by Anna Volbrecht
- OUT OF THE RUNNING by Joel Woodard
- MAMA’S GIRL by Jennifer Quail
- BLUE, NOT PINK by Deidra Lovegren
- THE ABYSS by Aaron Wright
- THE INFINITELY GRATEFUL EX-MRS. CARL FISHER by Alex Atkins
- OREGON’S ANNUAL SEA GLASS SCAVENGER HUNT — IN COLLABORATION WITH SILETZ BAY GLASS BLOWING AND THE TOURIST BOARD OF LINCOLN CITY by Autumn Bettinger
- SPEAK NO EVIL by Jaime Gill
- HUSH by Sandra Kempen
- I’M NOT SORRY by Madeline Howard
- CLICKS, TICKS, TAPS, AND TIME by Samantha Ryan
- DOWN THE GARDEN PATH by Tess Allen
- READER DISCRETION ADVISED: COURSE LANGUAGE AND A STRONG SEX SCENE by Athena Law *DISHONOURABLE MENTION – You know why ;-)*
- LATE FOR HIGH TIDE by Courtney Danielson
- FOR TWO STICKY BIRDS by Aeris Walker
Congratulations to our longlisted authors and many thanks to ALL entrants for sharing your creative talents with us.
We hope you stay tuned to the podcast and write on!