The April 2026 Not Quite Write Prize for Flash Fiction challenged writers to create an original piece of fiction of no more than 500 words.
Entrants chose a team and three prompts to address in their story.:
TEAM ED (DISCO):
- Word: DISCO
- Action: FREAKING OUT
- Kicker: Your story must feature a DISCO DANCE MOVE.
TEAM AMANDA (STREET):
- Word: STREET
- Action: BREAKING OUT
- Kicker: Your story must feature a BREAKDANCING MOVE.
The competition drew 293 entries from around the world looking for a slice of the AU$4,000 prize money. That’s 141,511 words for our judges, Ed, Amanda, Elise and Dean, to read. For reference, that’s about the same number of words as ‘The Da Vinci Code’ by Dan Brown.
For more fascinating statistics about the competition, and to get behind-the-scenes details of the judging process, check out the Longlist Announcement – April 2026 Not Quite Write Prize episode of the podcast at the link below.
To hear the winning and shortlisted entries read aloud by Ed and Amanda, check out the Winner and Shortlist Announcement – April 2026 Not Quite Write Prize episode of the podcast at the link below.
WINNER – TEAM AMANDA
WAITING by Athena Law
I’m waiting to feel happy, you tell me,
swinging your chair violently in our small
shared cubicle—corporate prison! according to you—
taking up all the space. I press forward into my desk,
hard plastic meeting flesh softened by office life
and keep typing my report. I can’t breathe here,
you say, and I know you’ll be looking out the
window again, staring at life in the streets below.
Or up into the sky, watching for the planes that
are heading to the places
you talk about, dream about, have posters
of them tacked in a halo around your computer.
Once you’re living elsewhere, you tell me, I’ll forget
you were ever really here at all
You aren’t really here now, not when
your days are spent wishing for otherness,
not when every hour you say that true untethering
from corporate prison would be cutting your
headphone cord with a knife then hitting
send on the email waiting in your Drafts folder.
You let me read it once, but made me sit on my
hands in case I pressed send even though I promised
I wouldn’t. It was the grenade-throw resignation that
others joked about writing but never ever would,
even though the Kahlil Gibran quote about money
was nice. You’ve been saving up for years to get out,
but between orphans, rhinos and water pumps,
you can’t decide where you should go first
Choosing where to go first keeps you tethered.
Keeps you caught in the cords and calls and computers,
up here behind glass, above the life but below the planes.
I’ve sent you deals for flights, articles I’ve read on villages
that need hands, children who need help.
I stopped sending you things once your posters
broke their halo and spread to my walls,
how could I explain to you again I wasn’t
dreaming your dream.
I was waiting to become a mother but
every time I mentioned IVF you’d say
hashtag tradwife and welcome to Gilead,
so I stopped telling you stuff
about my life, and just waited
I’ve been waiting for you to cut that cord
and break out of our too-small cubicle, so
we can both begin to breathe.
This morning you weren’t here, and
all day I’ve wondered if your email was
being read by our bosses—capitalist overlords! you said—
and if you were sitting on every plane I saw,
managing to share a space in calm silence.
But they just told me you were found
last night, on the train, at the end of the line
sleeping but not sleeping. Someone from HR
has been to take your posters down, I have
so much room to swing my own chair now.
I’m waiting to feel happy.
SECOND PLACE – TEAM AMANDA
THE BOGAN by Liv Stenhouse
It was a yokel–kinda–local—
where he who orders rum and coke’ll
receive a swift and very vocal: ‘Lah–di–dah.’
‘Where’s the albino known as Deano?’
I asked the barman, who said ‘Keno,’
while pointing out a dim casino, past the bar.
And from that blotto punter’s grotto,
there came the blaring of the lotto,
and in a voce not–so–sotto: ‘Yeah, nah.’
Amongst square metres of wife–beaters
in worn blue singlets, all three–sheeters
was one who’d best them by five litres at the bar.
Some furtive hustle and a–bustle
beset his stocky arm of muscle—
the type with which I’d never tussle, inshallah
His hand went hither, then went thither,
as though he plucked some redneck zither,
exclaiming loudly as he’d dither: ‘Yeah, nah.’
Thus he selected and corrected
his numbers while my pluck collected,
and soon I softly interjected with an ‘Ah!’
‘So I’m the courter of your daughter,
and have a question that I thought a
ma–man like me re–really oughta ask her Pa.’
His hands abandoned their meander;
his blue eyes gave an icy gander;
then came the unexpected candour: ‘Yeah, nah.’
That he was proving disapproving,
in such a manner unbehoving,
had me aghast and barely moving, mouth ajar.
A born persister, I said ‘Mister,
you’ve blessed the beau of every sister—
why tell me nein? I must insist upon a ja!’
My failed impressing had me stressing,
as he returned to number guessing,
with nothing but a soul–depressing: ‘Yeah, nah.’
‘I know you’ve stricture in ya picture
of maleness,’ I then croaked through ricture,
‘but your own daughters don’t depict ya as a star.’
‘As “each new missy and the piss he
would drink until he’d chuck a hissy”
is why they see you just at Chrissy, nicht wahr?’
No more submissive and permissive
of my belaboured verbal missive,
he stood and spat me his dismissive: ‘Yeah, nah.’
I coaxed: ‘I’m puny—and a loony
to study languages at uni—
but your idea of class is goonie Coolabah.’
Then leant I, duckin’, arms–a–tuckin’
And leg all set for frontal buckin’—
I posed liked Raygun for this fuckin’ bête–noire
‘Why don’t ya suckle on some knuckle?
I’ll get some hits in ’fore I buckle!’
I broke out; then he gave a chuckle: ‘Yeah, nah.’
My heart a–thumpin’–and–a–bumpin’,
with mongrel blood now set a–pumpin’,
I said: ‘I’ll take a backstreet jumpin’, you galah!’
‘And bring ya hurly–fuckin’–burly —
I hope it’s not too bloody early,’
I said, ‘to give a runty girly–man a spar!’
But ’stead of closin’ he was frozen;
his eyes were wetted, and unclosin’;
as gently said he, unimposin’: ‘Yeah, nah.’
What seemed once really rather steely
was now more surely touchy–feely.
I twigged: he loved his daughter dearly, and with care.
‘You act all nettle and gunmetal,
coz ya don’t want ya girls to settle
for spineless blokes who’ve got no mettle—c’est claire.’
So I orated, now elated:
‘About the okay I’ve awaited?’
and, with a hug, he simply stated:
‘Nah yeah.’
THIRD PLACE – TEAM ED
THE POINT by Kailum Graves
When the aliens asked humanity to explain its purpose, we sent them seventeen seconds of John Travolta pointing at the ceiling.
This was not, technically, my fault.
I was Junior Cultural Attaché to the United Nations Committee for Interstellar Tone, a department created because nobody trusted the military, the poets, or Sweden to speak first.
Our official greeting contained Bach, prime numbers, a child laughing, and a diagram explaining that we were mostly water but trying. It was dignified. It was moving. It had been approved by six governments, four religions, and one billionaire who wanted his signature hidden in the hydrogen line.
Then Dave from Transmission leaned on the wrong console while eating a falafel.
The message that crossed twelve light-years was a corrupted DISCO archive from a seventies-themed morale night: Travolta, white suit, black shirt, hips loaded with legal confidence, one finger spearing heaven.
For nine months, nothing replied.
Then the sky blinked.
Every screen on Earth filled with a creature like a chandelier trying to remember a nightmare. It spoke through every speaker at once. “We have received your declaration.”
The Secretary-General made a noise normally produced by kettles.
“You understand,” the alien continued, “the Above.”
In Conference Room 4B, forty-seven diplomats began quietly freaking out. The French ambassador crossed himself. The American general whispered, “Weaponise the trousers.” Dave dropped another falafel.
I was pushed towards the microphone because my dissertation had been on “Human Gesture in Pre-Algorithmic Dance Forms” and because everyone senior had gone pale enough to be legally classified as stationery.
“Esteemed beings,” I said. “There may have been a small file-selection issue.”
The chandelier shimmered. “You point upward. You acknowledge that meaning resides beyond reach.”
“Well—”
“You place the other hand upon the hip. You confess the body as temporary equipment.”
“That is one interpretation.”
“You rotate the pelvis.”
I closed my eyes.
“A tribute,” it said, “to gravity, without which longing would drift away.”
Nobody breathed.
On the screen, a second alien appeared, wearing what looked horribly like a glittering waistcoat. It performed The Point: one arm up, one arm down, the entire civilisation evidently studying us with fatal seriousness.
“We have travelled the dark between suns,” said the first alien, “and found empires singing of conquest, machines reciting efficiency, dead worlds still broadcasting prayers for exemption. You sent us this: a creature trapped between dust and distance, indicating both, ashamed of neither.”
Behind me, someone sobbed. It might have been Sweden.
The alien inclined its thousand little lights. “We accept your philosophy.”
At the peace ceremony, I stood before delegates from two hundred nations and seven impossible geometries. The Bee Gees played softly, because history has no mercy.
When my turn came, I raised one finger to the stars and one towards Earth, with terror and both ankles already regretting it.
For once, humanity was not asking to be saved, admired, forgiven, or understood.
We were only admitting where we stood.
Between the impossible above and the ridiculous below, still pointing.
FOURTH PLACE – TEAM ED
WHERE DO I SEE MYSELF IN FIVE YEARS by Chad Frame
Curled in an overstuffed chair by the shade-drawn window, knees hugged to my chest, I’m acutely aware of hurtling through the void at thousands of miles an hour, relentlessly spinning like a heel-turning roller skater, and I can feel the full-tilt lurch of the earth in every atom of me, countless tiny particles I read somewhere are largely empty space, meaning nothing technically ever touches anything else, meaning the sensation we perceive as contact is just a series of fields commingling, meaning I never really sipped the tea I made from the ayahuasca I worked up the nerve to buy then brew then bring to my chapped lips so our respective fields touched, swallowing a sludge of muddy water or a bark and twig soup that tasted like tannic regret poured out of a floral-painted mug with The Horrors Persist But So Do I printed on the side, steam twisting out of it, braiding with lavender candle smoke from the Bath and Body Works three-wick burning on the end table next to my plate of untouched lunch with its funky chicken and its rank brussels sprouts and its hardening pile of dried mash I fork-sculpted into a rough approximation of an Easter Island moa then promptly ignored, coagulating gravy pouring like an untreated head wound, frozen mid-ooze down the side of its angular, off-white face.
Below me, the tufted leather cups my ass like the overeager hand of a sixties businessman, and below that, the hardwood with its nailed-down floorboards underfoot where the scattered crumbs from my morning muffin have attracted a hustling line of ants tap-tap-tapping their tiny feet, vomiting chemical trails to excitedly announce to the hive-mind the treasures they’ve discovered, communicating something to the effect of, Look, Anton!, or Over here, Antoinette!, followed by, Can you believe somebody actually left this incredible banana nut bounty behind?, and finally, Don’t let that motherfucker Bryant bogart all the good bits, and then below all the ass leather and banana-crazed ants and creaky boards I can sense the moist dark sponge of the earth, its green seeds and loamy secrets, wriggling worms and untold wonders, and below even that, its deep-chambered magma and its miracles, crust and mantle and worked-out core and the root cellar of its musty undercroft, where maybe mole men are sipping at their own mud-drug teas and dreaming of whatever they imagine lives above them.
“Miss Thompson,” an annoyed voice says, and I feel myself reeled back into my body so violently I’m surprised the chair doesn’t rock, and all I can answer is “Sorry,” and against the black background of a Zoom window on my laptop screen floats the star-pale face of a man who’s not really there, not really anywhere, just particles and fields, judgmental eyes and questioning mouth, bald pate and black-rimmed glasses, repeating his last interview question, “What would you say is your greatest weakness?”
“If anything,” I mumble, voice leaking through the seam of my lopsided grin, “I’m probably too reliable.”
FIFTH PLACE – TEAM AMANDA
THE PALE BLUE DOT by Ruth Lord
I’m strapped on top of 2.8 million litres of rocket fuel, hoping I’m not about to join the combustion process, when my mind stills. In the confines of my suit I catch the familiar scent of sweat and tobacco. That you, Dad? I think. It’s either that, or I’m having a stroke.
“Josie?” It’s Control. “Your heart rate’s elevated. Everything okay?”
“I’m fine,” I respond. The smell, your smell, lingers. I’m sure now you’re with me. A silent companion in these moments before.
Ignition
The force roars, pressing me back into my seat. It’s a thousand hands, a heaviness I’ve been trained to bear. The whole capsule vibrates. Hard to believe we’re flying, punching up through the sky.
I think of when you spun me in circles through the air in the backyard.
“Don’t let go,” I would scream-laugh.
You always answered, “Don’t worry.” And I knew you had me.
I wish I had the same faith in this rocket. I know we’re streets ahead of where aeronautics once was, but even so we’re still tool-making mammals riding a modified bomb.
You showed me all the old designs, of course. We debated our favourites. You admired the ingenuity of Apollo 13’s repairs. I liked the winged shape of the decommissioned shuttles.
“One day, kiddo,” you said. “One day you’ll leave us all in your dust.” And you’d point straight up to the stars and smile that eye-crinkling smile that made other people wonder if you might be joking, but I always knew you meant it.
The shaking slows.
Separation
Dull booms as we shed weight when it’s served its purpose. One section after another. Letting go. I thought I’d done this. The ache in my throat tells me otherwise.
There’s chatter from Control. Something’s wrong with a sensor outside. There’s nothing I can do. I steady my breathing. I remember talking you through a similar sequence at the end. The morphine in the drip helped. I wish I could have done more. The capsule judders again. Another part jettisoned.
We’re getting close now.
Orbit
We level out. An upwards tug pulls my body against my restraints. Weightlessness. It’s like being spun in the backyard, only my hands aren’t being held this time.
Out the window, Earth hangs below. It’s marbled in blue and shrinking. Vastness on all sides.
Everything, the entirety of humanity, is there beneath me. Almost everything.
My suit smells crisp again now, mission-ready.
You might be gone, Dad, but I carry you with me. Always.
SIXTH PLACE – TEAM AMANDA
ALMONDS by Philip McGann
Ezzie and I got hitched in 1990 and we split up in 1992. The funny part was we’d dated for four years before that. But there was something about being in the same space, where all the little invasive species kept creeping in between us: she didn’t like that I showered with soap, or that I liked having so many bottles of different sauces. It was always stuff like that.
But this morning I was killing time, crossing the street outside my place, stepping up as the little guy was blinking red. And there she was. I hadn’t seen her since all the court stuff, but I knew it was her, even without really looking at her. Of course, Ezzie wouldn’t have known that I lived here, or that I took this crossing sometimes. But she was reading this big book, WHERE I AM NOW or something, by the front window of the cafe, with her foot crossed over and tapping in a circle, the way she does. But I was there right in front of her, and I knew that she’d see me. I liked the way she looked—the little peek into who she was becoming, even back then. Her features were darker now, like she’d become part-Italian. And she didn’t like long dresses, even though this one was long and dark blue and almost black.
I clopped up the steps. She might’ve been surprised to see me. “Ezzie,” I said. “You look fine.”
“Bundy,” she said, almost laughing the word out.
“Ezzie,” I said again.
“You jackass,” she said, smiling.
“You’re still wearing our wedding ring.”
“Not for you,” she said, raising her hand an inch, and flopping it back on the table.
“Well.” There weren’t a whole lot of people there. “How you been?” I asked. A panel of frosted, bank teller glass seemed to close over her eyes.
“It’s been twenty years,” she said, like that was all there was to it. I was trying to think how to say it, that seeing her here and now, those two years, and the four years before that, felt more real than the past twenty years. But I noticed that a little girl was leaning in and smiling at us.
“Your oat piccolo and almond croissant?” she said, arranging them before Ezzie.
“Thanks, Ellen.” It was something about the arrangement, the way the plates were angled, like a barricade between us.
“Almonds give you hives,” I said.
“Not any more.” Ezzie picked up her knife. “Thanks for stopping by, Bundy.”
I wanted to say that thing that I’d been thinking about, but it didn’t feel right any more. So I just said, “twenty years,” just like she’d said, over the buzz of the coffee grinder. “How’d you find out about the almonds?”
“They got my order wrong and made my coffee on almond milk,” she smiled. “And I was fine.”
“Just like that,” I said, standing and not believing it. “You can eat almonds. And be fine.”
LONGLISTED
TEAM ED
- DIVORCED by Rachel Phoenix
- AFTER THE CYCLONE, ALICE SPRINGS by John Scholz
- REPEAT AFTER ME by Karen Mitani
- HONEYMOON SNAPS by Freya King
- COIN TOSS by Elizabeth Hoban
- DEATH, IN A NUTSHELL by Taurenelle
- MY BROTHER, THE ALIEN by Josh Lowe
- BACK OF HOUSE by Georgina Priest
- THE END WILL BE TELEVISED by Tatum Schad
- FIVE-FINGER DISCOUNT by Amanda Todisco *WILDCARD WINNER*
- THE STEEL SLIDE by Matthew P. Davis
- UNPACKING by Anastasia Andersen
- TINA IS A PUNK ROCKER NOW by R. C. Barajas
- ROSETTA STONE by Chloe Paige *WILDCARD WINNER*
- WE AREN’T FISHERMEN. by W.J. Arthur
- DANCING WITH DEATH by Douglas Bauman
- I AM MR BLOPEZ by Hannah Hellyer
TEAM AMANDA
- I’LL BE A KANGAROO by Pennie A. Nichols
- MORE THAN A WHISPER by Louise Walton
- ROUND TRIP by Sam James
- HOW I LEARNED MY DESK MATE WAS A BACKUP DANCER FOR THE BACKSTREET BOYS by Christy Hartman *WILDCARD WINNER*
- ON THE INTERSECTION OF PUBERTY AND WORLD DOMINATION by Romany Jane
- BABE, WOULD YOU STILL LOVE ME IF I WERE A WORM? by Michael Stone
- WHAT HIS CONGREGATION DOESN’T KNOW by Chris Doty-Dunn
- THE LAST DANCE by Lorena Otes
- HARDEN UP by Steve Huff
- WHEN YOUR DEAD BEST FRIEND COMMUNICATES VIA THE SPOTIFY PLAYLIST SO FRESH GREATEST HITS 90S & 2000S by J.D. Hoadley
- BE LIKE THE DANDELION by Jennifer Anne
- HOW TO DO THE ROBOT by Harry Humber
- THE YEAR OF HEMOPHILIA by Autumn Bettinger
- ANTHEM OF A NINETEEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL IN NOVEMBER, 1982 FOR WHOM ATLANTA IS THE ONLY MAJOR CITY WORTH RUNNING TOWARD by S. F. Means
- AND I’M STILL SILENT by Sarah Kennedy
- WAND PLAY by Ryan Nonome
- THE SPACE BETWEEN by Nicola Bell
ADDITIONAL AWARDS
- WASH YOUR MOUTH OUT by Malcolm McCabe *WILDCARD WINNER*
- WWAD by Laura J Rayne *DISHONOURABLE MENTION*
Congratulations to our longlisted and prize-winning 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!