The January 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 PUNCH.
- included the action “spilling something.”
- broke the writing rule “avoid clichés.”
The competition drew 257 entries from authors in 23 countries around the world looking for a slice of the AU$2,000 prize money. That’s 125,778 words for our judges, Ed and Amanda, to read. For reference, that’s about the same number of words as a Jane Austen novel.
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
IT NEVER RAINS BUT IT POURS by Athena Law
Moist. Just wanted to get that one out of the way, but I know you’ve probably curled your lip and flared your nostrils after reading it. Me, I love the word and the feeling, the very idea of it, but what I love most is rain. Heavy, pounding, relentless rain.
Here in the humid tropics, amongst the palm trees, the rain spills from the skies for weeks. I don’t let it dampen my spirits, quite the opposite – I rejoice – it doesn’t take long before everything is moist. Ceilings, walls, clothes, skin. The tourists battle against the wet, but I don’t need to anymore. I shower in my clothes then lie on the bed under my ceiling fan, relishing the whap-whap-whap of the blades sluicing through heavy air.
I’m the person who stands too close behind you in the supermarket queue. Nobody notices the short lady in the straw hat and red sunglasses, just a harmless local. But whenever I spot a bare, tanned back in the middle of summer I sidle near enough to touch it.
Sometimes I think my heart bangs so loud in my chest that you’ll hear it. My palms are damp with need, fingers itching to draw a trail through the fine drops of sweat beading across the oily slick of your shoulder blade.
And you? You can be anybody, I’m not fussy.
Where else can I find you? It goes without saying it must be somewhere private, just for us. The idea arrives with blinding simplicity, and I prepare with care.
I relish the overnight wait, deep in the rainforest, car windows open. I hear the final flurries of birds settling in before the nocturnal creatures come out to play. All around, the lush drip-drip-drip of wetness sliding off vines and leaves, down to the pungent forest floor.
It’s early when I hear you coming. I slide from the car, peeling my thighs from the sweaty seat, and step onto the track. What do you see emerging from the trees, in the pale dawn light? Only a short lady in a straw hat, harmless. But it’s what I see that makes my heart thud, and my palms damp. There’s two of you.
We’re told to look after tourists, that they’re the lifeblood of our isolated town. Am I not simply upholding my civic duty to warn backpackers of the predatory crocodile which took a fisherman at this very spot yesterday? Am I not caring enough to ferry you back to the safety of my own home?
I pour you both glasses of sweet iced tea, for the shock. The old ceiling fan punches through the humidity, causing darling goosebumps across your golden, youthful skin. It’s a mere moment before you slump in your chairs, staring at me in mute bewilderment.
‘Cat got your tongues?’ I ask caringly, as I drag you into your new bedroom.
And now, we’re all going to live happily ever after.
Ed’s comments
Congratulations, Athena, for winning the Not Quite Write Prize!
Our winning entry is positively dripping with tension. The moisture is palpable, seeping from every pore, crack and crevice. It feels as though slimy, sweaty fingers are drawing the reader towards the story’s chilling climax: a twisted take on a classic fairy-tale ending (and a gratifying use of the anti-prompt).
Beware the short lady in the straw hat!
Amanda’s comments
This story displayed originality of concept, and an incredibly strong sense of character which had me hooked from the very first word.
What I found most satisfying was how it ramped up, using evocative snapshots to enhance that sense of disquiet such as, “I shower in my clothes then lie on the bed under my ceiling fan,” and “whenever I spot a bare, tanned back in the middle of summer I sidle near enough to touch it,” and “darling goosebumps across your golden, youthful skin.” It’s an excellent exemplification of Poe’s “single effect” theory, in which every part of the story – including that first word – is being used to evoke a single, unified emotion in the reader.
The word and action prompts are seamlessly woven into the prose, and the anti-prompt is evidenced in the title forming the inspiration for the entire narrative.
This story is anything but cliché. Congratulations to our winner!
SECOND PLACE
BLESS THIS MESS by Chad Frame
Dawn breaks like a dropped jar of marmalade
over night’s black marble counter. And yet—
it really happened. I’m standing here, half-
lit in the kitchen, half-asleep, dumbstruck
by strewn, sticky shards of everything
that once made sense. Then I remember why
it no longer does. You’ve been gone three years,
and every morning in the small space
between night and day, sleep and wakefulness,
fragile glass jar and unyielding surface,
I almost forget. *Ignorance is Bliss,*
the cliché printed on the stretched canvas
once hung in the hall with all your garish
mass-market home store decor. All gone, now.
Sometimes I forget. But I remember
how we met—the personal you posted,
*Looking for someone to swap secrets with,*
two strangers in a padded booth sharing
greasy spoon breakfast and the absolute
worst thing we’d ever done. It was easy
to confide in someone who didn’t know
anyone I knew, whose lips were studded
with toast crumbs glued on by smeared marmalade.
I told you about the time I ignored
a stray dog whining for food, its old eyes
rheumy as fogged headlights, how the next day
I drove by its crushed body in the road,
those same eyes still open. You wiped your mouth
with a cheap napkin, looked me in the eyes,
and told me you’d hit something with your car
one night when you’d glanced away from the road
to check your phone. We asked for the check, left,
decided your apartment was closer,
and an hour later, we took turns on top
of one another while an *I’d Rather
Be Knitting* throw pillow watched from the chair
in the corner. “Would you really?” I asked
in the afterglow, nodding to the throw.
“Do you want the truth?” you smirked, lying there
curled in the circle of my arms. “Always,”
I murmured, kissing the top of your head.
But this morning, I’m alone with my mess
of a life, what once was a half-full jar
now a crushed wreck on the floor and counter,
streaks and gobs of orange everywhere.
By habit, I reach for the *Bless This Mess*
tea towel tucked through the door of the stove,
but it’s gone. You’re gone. I have a secret
I haven’t told—I knew you’d be driving
when I texted *I love you,* knew you might
not resist looking and answering back.
You punched the brakes too late. They’d wheeled you off
by the time I arrived. There was still glass
everywhere. There was blood, sticky-sweet
as streaks of jam. *Everything happens
for a reason,* yes, I know. A woman
appears behind me with paper towels.
“My husband says if he catches you here
one more time he’ll call the cops.” Finger held
to my lips, I open the sliding door,
quiet as a roadside body, slip out
the way I came into secretless dawn,
and leave the house I lost when I lost you.
Ed’s comments
We are as surprised as you are to see a poem take the number two spot! Well done, Chad, for challenging and obliterating our preconceptions.
I love how effortlessly the narrative twists its serpentine course through past and present, infused with unnerving little details and half-cloaked motifs which hint at a deeper meaning.
We are not permitted everything we desire to know about this relationship, but shouldn’t a good poem evoke more than it explains?
Amanda’s comments
Once again, poetry has woven its way into my heart… and into second place!
Now, I’m no poet, so “decasyllabic tercets” are foreign territory to me, but this story reads equally well (if not more so) as prose. It sings with vivid details that paint a picture of an entire relationship in fewer than 500 words – no mean feat!
The use of cliché in the form of home décor was an original and fitting take on the anti-prompt, and the specific choice of cliché phrases adds a layer of meaning just under the surface.
If I had to critique anything, I would have liked to better understand the protagonist’s motivation for causing their loved one’s death. However, this perceived weakness is offset by a satisfying circularity to the story, with each thread weaving its way through to find its place in the resolution. Well done.
THIRD PLACE
AS FAR AS THE EYE CAN SEE by Tess Allen
Five seconds. Maybe 10. That was all it took. I’d closed my eyes. After another sleep disturbed night. When I’d looked up, she was gone.
Now, my throat tightens as if compressed by invisible hands. Sand flies as I leap from my towel. Blue sky has been replaced by grey. White-tipped waves crash as my eyes dart down the shoreline. To my left there’s the lighthouse, to my right it’s just beach as far as the eye can see. The few other families dotted along the sand seem unmoved by, or unaware of, my panic. Kids with sand-covered legs donning wide-brimmed hats play.
I race to a family nearby. ‘My daughter! I can’t find her. Have you seen her?’ I shriek.
The woman stands. Behind dark sunglasses her expression is a mix of confusion and concern. ‘No, sorry. What’s she wearing?’
What was she wearing? Her favourite rainbow bathers? Her flamingo hat? My thoughts, like a maelstrom, swirl. I shake my head, lost for words.
Instead, I sprint to the water’s edge. ‘Lucy!! Lucy, where are you?’
I try to swallow, mouth parched. ‘Lucy!’ I croak. Feeling a warm hand on my bare shoulder, I turn to see the woman beside me.
‘What’s she wearing? How old is she?’ she asks.
I close my eyes and exhale, pushing the words out. ‘A flamingo hat. Blue bathers.’ I say. ‘She’s only four!’ Hot tears spill down my cheeks.
‘I’ll get help.’ she says rushing back to her kids. The youngest wraps chubby arms around her mother’s legs.
I double over holding my stomach as if I’ve been punched. This can’t be happening. I look back towards our towels. Laid out side by side. Lucy’s sand toys beside them. A pink shovel protruding from the yellow bucket.
I rack my brain, recalling the morning. We’d walked from our beach house. Along the row of peppermint trees, their bare, brown trunks lining the path, then past the ice-cream kiosk. Flipflops flicking sand as Lucy ran, giggling, along the track bucket in hand. There was no breeze then. The ocean flat, an inviting aquamarine.
Seagulls squawk bringing me back to the present. I stare at the lighthouse. A beacon. With its red and white stripes, Lucy had said it looked like a candy cane. Standing, I run. My forearms tingle as the sun beats down. Piles of seaweed line the beach, matted brown tangles rotting. I run until my lungs force me to stop. Chest heaving, I pause.
‘Candice!’ I turn to see my husband, Paul, rushing towards me.
‘You found her?’, I ask. When he reaches me, he won’t meet my eyes. Silent as he pulls me into his arms. I push back. ‘Where is she?’
‘Honey, let’s get you home.’ Fingernails dig in as he grasps my shoulders, guiding me up the path. Past the ice-cream kiosk, along the row of peppermint trees, brown trunks lined with posters. I see the photograph. Read the words.
Missing.
Reward offered.
Lucy Morgan Age 4.
Ed’s comments
The narrator’s abrupt sentences emphasise the urgency and desperation of this highly fraught scenario. The feeling of rising panic is contagious, while the narrative eye twitches from detail to fleeting detail before finally settling on one that throws the entire story into a new light.
Tess has written a highly memorable story, and one that packs an emotional ‘punch’.
Amanda’s comments
What stood out to me about this story was its emotional pull. From the first read and with each reread, I am gripped by this mother’s distress over the loss of her child. A trail of breadcrumbs leads us to the final twist, evoking that satisfying “aha” moment when the truth is finally revealed.
The author draws the reader into the scene with vivid details, such as, “The youngest wraps chubby arms around her mother’s legs,” and “With its red and white stripes, Lucy had said it looked like a candy cane.”
As far as the prompts are concerned, this story shows how keeping it simple can sometimes be the best solution.
FOURTH PLACE
A FUNNY STORY by Dean Koorey
Line dancing night at the Laughing Fox and all the usual lines were in attendance.
Jaw, Plunging Neck and Visible Panty were busy taking selfies at the bar as Receding Hair looked on forlornly. In a corner booth, Land and On were having their usual high pitched screaming match, while Bathroom banged on the door for Coke to come out. A typical evening.
At table four, Pickup returned to his friends, trio of drinks in hand. “No luck with ‘Jamaican me crazy’” he reported above the country music.
“There must be an easier way,” pondered Stream, taking two of the glasses, and handing one to Punch.
“Anyone know any good jokes?” Punch asked.
The other two groaned.
“We’re not setting you up anymore!” barked Pickup, spilling some of his drink. “You always ruin them! Remember Rabbi?… Kiwi?… Knock Knock?”
“Hey, she was a stalker! Kept turning up at my door.”
“Okay, maybe not her. But what about that cute Irish joke?”
“Look, we just weren’t compatible. Although her Dad liked me…”
“Of course he liked you, he’s a Dad Joke and you’re a lame punchline!”
Punch flinched. “I’m just old-fashioned. Besides, what’s wrong with ‘Why the long face?’”
Pickup and Stream exchanged glances just as Tag appeared, all sweat and smiles, boot scooting off the dance floor.
“I’m lovin’ it!” she announced, flopping into a chair. “Got milk?”
Plot also emerged from the throng.
“Is this night going anywhere or what?” she asked the folk of table four.
They shrugged.
“Ugh, okay I’m going to hang out with Clothes and Pipe – he always has plans. Picket’s already waiting out front. Who’s in?”
Pickup and Stream literally jumped at the chance, waving their goodbyes.
“You sure you don’t wanna go with them?” Punch asked his friend.
“Think different,” Tag replied and they sipped in Shania-Twain-tinged silence.
A blonde appeared collecting empties, tray in hand.
“Why the long face?” Punch offered.
“I’m not that kind of joke!” she scowled and marched off.
Punch sighed. “Maybe I do need to change my ways…”
“Eat fresh?”
“Yeah Tag, maybe. I always thought I’d find the right Joke, we’d have a few laughs, nothing serious…”
“Because you’re worth it,” Tag nodded sagely.
And that’s when Punch saw her.
Across the crowded dance floor.
Swaying to the music near the door.
All jokes aside, could this be the one?
“Holy shit” Punch ventriloquised. “I think I have to go…”
“Just do it!” Tag squealed.
He leapt up, just as the line-dancers moved in right-angled unison – creating an instant wall of denim and tassels. Trapped, Punch lost sight of her.
“Go around, honey!” called Bee from the line.
But by the time he reached the door, she was gone.
Punch scanned the bar. Nothing.
*
Outside, Punch stared out at the dark street, defeated, to a muffled twangy soundtrack.
It began to rain.
Perfect.
A boot scraped against the pavement behind him.
He turned.
She smiled. Then she spoke.
“A horse walks into a bar…”
Ed’s comments
This is a superbly executed concept, brimming with clever wordplay, which continues to reveal additional layers upon repeated reading.
Despite the entire cast being comprised of a collection of anthropomorphised, abstract concepts, Dean manages not only to imbue each with a distinct (and appropriate) personality, but also delivers a satisfying plot, complete with happy ending.
Amanda’s comments
What can I say? I love a pun! This story had me laughing out loud from the first read, and still gets me every time.
What this story does better than some other comedies, is find a way to go beyond the surface level humour to tell a human story too. In this case, we have a romance, with a protagonist we can’t help but feel for, so we can only cheer when he finally gets his girl (joke?) in the end!
HONOURABLE MENTION
THE WAY OF THE BINS by Bob Topping
It was my dull idea to clobber and bag the cat, and the odour is foul. My wife tells me to go. She won’t use our wheelie bin, or the neighbours, so by default, it’s the beach.
The wobbly bag smacks my thigh as I fast-pace it down Coleman’s Lane, along its dark and lonely length. Twelve steps, and I sneak past the last house to reach the first set of bins. Clustered in pairs, their prominent red lids nestle under a pole offering lemony light. They’re clamped to deter the likes of me but I sausage-shape the bag and squeeze it through the circular cutout on the lid. It feels like jelly and the smell lingers as I retreat a step or two into a fearful stillness, like the watching shadows are all alone and trapped in heavy sleep.
I didn’t notice the old man by the other set of bins. A shabby figure, scarcely distinct, shaking scrappy shopping bags where the walkways seemed to disappear. My wife says he is half-human and does have teeth. She sees him while jogging with the girls in the afternoons, his grey hair all but hidden under an obscure and shapeless hat. The bins provide sustenance and cans and he raises his hat as they pass, and it’s head lice, she says, by the funny manner he scratches his scalp.
“They say he whistles at the trees and barks at the dogs. Don’t stare or he’ll hiss. His sore eyes suck you in, I’ve been told. We give him a wide berth.” Her shoulders shivered as she spoke.
He hasn’t heard my approach, or if he had, there’s no sudden twist or turn or drop of his soiled bags. He is leaning over a bin, like a single-minded slug, one pale arm punching like a piston through the hole in the lid. Probably, I shouldn’t look but he is a good distance away and I slink back behind my bins.
Something is there, spilling from his bin, and the something I see is raw skin and torn, a feathered frame. The shape loosens and flaps and struggles in his clenched hand. It stretches a wing and he releases a leg. There is a garbled burst of words. Not a language I recognise.
The bird looks like a magpie. It opens its beak wide, and preens. The old man rubs his hand along the bird’s back, and jerks its timid head from side to side in motion to his own, and he grunts and it tweets.
And then the bird is gone, and I feel afraid if I move he’ll turn and come by me, but he clasps a grubby bag and tilts his head in my direction. Beach walkers say he stuffs the bags with feathers from dead gulls and he disappears in the sea mists at night.
I watch the old man start up the walkway, head down like he was crying and wonder how could they all be so sure?
Ed’s comments
An unsettling mix of the familiar and the creepy, this story achieves its nightmarish quality by casting a shadow over the line between the real and imagined.
It elevates each mildly grotesque detail. Feathers. Teeth. Things that squish and squawk and ooze.
This story left me with an overwhelming desire to wash my hands.
Amanda’s comments
It’s so rewarding to see stories in which the author clearly took inspiration from one or more of the prompts to create something unique. In this case, we start with our cliché of “letting the cat out of the bag,” and things quickly get weird.
What I loved most about this piece was how it grabbed my attention and pulled me deep into the scene. There’s something so frighteningly relatable about this character trying to destroy the evidence of his worst behaviour. I couldn’t look away.
What I felt this story perhaps lacked was a plot in which the beginning, middle and end weave together into a cohesive whole. Nevertheless, it’s a lesson in how evocative and original details can lift a story out of the pack.
HONOURABLE MENTION
THE EARLY BIRD CATCHES THE WORM Anne Wilkins
Nana collects sayings. She’s got one for every kinda situation. This morning, she’s trying to wake Daisy and I, and she’s at the end of our bed, pullin’ our covers off, telling us the early bird catches the worm. Daisy and I just want to sleep, and we don’t want to catch worms, but there’s no stopping Nana.
“C’mon. Get a move on, sleepyheads.”
We tumble out of bed to the bathroom, while Nana makes our bed. She doesn’t stop talking, even though Daisy and I have stopped listening. Mama used to say that Nana could talk the hind legs off a donkey when she got goin’, and she’s definitely goin’ this morning.
Nana’s got lots of nice things in her bathroom. Trinkets, she calls them. There’s a little white clamshell that holds soap, a coloured fish, and fluffy towels. The soap smells like you can eat it. Daisy picks it up, but it’s stuck to the clamshell and the next thing you know, the clamshell falls to the floor and breaks into two halves. Daisy bursts into tears, and Nana comes in, all in a flutter.
“Let’s see. What’s the problem, sweetheart?” She picks up the broken clamshell. “Why, this old thing? I’d been meaning to replace that. In fact, you’ve done me a favour, Daisy.”
Nana wipes Daisy’s tears and gives her a hug. I’m sorta feeling left out, just standing there, watching their two halves hugging, like a mend. I’m almost wishing it had been me that had broken something when Nana sees my face.
“Oh, come on in, pet.” She pulls me into her arms for one of her great bear hugs. And I get to crying too. Not about the clamshell, but about the other broken things.
After breakfast, Daisy and I ask about the worms we’re meant to be catching. Nana laughs and tells us it’s a saying, but that we can help in the garden. Nana’s garden is just like her bathroom. All fancy. She’s even got a butterfly shed where she takes all the caterpillars and gives them a good, safe home till they’re hatched from their cocoons and can fly away. Nana’s good at looking after things, keeping them safe.
Mama comes back from the hospital early the next morning. Her right eye is all black and blue from the punch that slipped from Daddy.
Mama spills out her tears and Nana’s doling out one of her bear hugs.
“Keep them safe, just a bit longer,’ Mama whispers. “Till I get things sorted.”
“It’ll be all right, dove,” says
Nana. “Tomorrow’s a new day.”
After Mama’s gone, Daisy and I curl up like caterpillars on Nana’s couch, not ready to fly. Nana tells us a whole can of worms has been opened up, and that the worm has turned. Daisy and I don’t know what any of that means, but I heard Nana call Mama a dove before, and I’m hoping the early bird is finally going to catch that worm.
Ed’s comments
Anne has whisked up the anti-prompt and baked it right into the core of her story, like one of Nana’s homemade pies.
The recurring clichés and references to doves, caterpillars and broken things take on a metaphorical significance, adding depth and resonance to the child narrator’s story – a story that she, thanks to Nana, is fortunately still too innocent to understand.
Amanda’s comments
It’s the voice that makes this story special. It’s the kind of story you can “hear” as you read it, with dialogue that feels authentic and, ironically, not so cliché when viewed from the perspective of a child.
This story was one in which a straightforward approach to the anti-prompt worked well. We see the cliché phrases being attributed to Nana, and worms and caterpillars featuring throughout to tie the narrative together.
LONGLISTED
The following list represents the remaining top 15% of entries, in no particular order.
- WORDS LEFT UNSAID by Liv Hibbitt
- STICK IT TO THE MAN by Carla Connolly *WILDCARD WINNER*
- ALL IN A DAY’S WORK by Katelyn Phillips
- ANNABELLE IRVING by Lara Cain Gray
- TGIF by Courtney Brown
- REBEL REBEL by Ella Micallef *WILDCARD WINNER*
- THE FLOWER DUET by Fleassy Malay
- TO THE ENDS OF THE WORLD by Anna Hughes
- A BONE OF CONTENTION by Sandra Thom-Jones
- A HAUNTING by Clio Davidson-Lynch
- SENSELESS TRAGEDY by Rachael Crane
- IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING by Madeline Howard
- THE ATTRACTION by Philippa Freegard
- A LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT by Jaden Christopher
- OLD POISONS by Franky Seymour
- PARADISE by Ajay Sabhaney
- MEMORY LANE by Shannon Mackie
- ASHES TO ASHES, DUST TO DUST by Marissa Hanley
- SPHERICAL REFRACTION by Jacqueline Koshorst
- THE WEATHER IN ERIE, PENNSYLVANIA by Mathew Peters
- EXPOSURE by Anneloes Barth
- EVERYTHING IN AUSTRALIA IS TRYING TO KILL YOU by Timothy Hayes
- THE CIRCLE OF LIFE by The Wayward Scribe
- THE HARICOT CALICO, OR CAT GOT YOUR TONGUE by Sam James
- FLOAT LIKE A BUTTERFLY by Katie Challis
- A BUN IN THE OVEN by Zelda C. Thorne
- MAGIC by Melissa Stigall
- TETHERED by Kat Habermann
- WHISPERS by Trey Dowell
- FIVE DAYS LATE IS BETTER THAN FOREVER by Sarah Hurd
- LIKE A MOTH TO A FLAME by Camsyn Clair
- TWO BUCKETS AND A ROPE by Thom Brodkin
- FUNERAL RITES by Patrick Moon
- SALT OF THE EARTH by Karen Mitani
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!