The January 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 (OUTLAW):
- Word: QUICK
- Action: PLANTING
- Kicker: Your Story must feature a FLAWED PROTAGONIST.
TEAM AMANDA (LAW):
- Word: DRAW
- Action: CHASING
- Kicker: Your story must prominently feature a “LAW“.
The competition drew 323 entries from around the world looking for a slice of the AU$4,000 prize money. That’s 156,415 words for our judges, Ed, Amanda and Dean, to read. For reference, that’s about the same number of words as ‘Lord of the Rings – The Two Towers’ by J.R.R Tolkien.
For more fascinating statistics about the competition, and to get behind-the-scenes details of the judging process, check out the Longlist Announcement – Janury 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 – January 2026 Not Quite Write Prize episode of the podcast at the link below.
WINNER
WATCHING JUDE LAW’S CRITICALLY ACCLAIMED PERFORMANCE IN THE MOVIE GATTACA AT FOUR-SEVENTEEN A.M. ON A THURSDAY by Elise Scott
Jude Law tells Ethan Hawke that he used to be destined for greatness. “But now…” He gestures to his legs, canted to the side in his wheelchair.
I want to show him how to adjust the leg rests. His back would feel so much better. But I can’t, so I stare at his drawn-up knees, knobby and awkward as a pile of all-you-can-eat crab legs. I think of the fisherman’s fist as he rips twitching limbs from a frantic creature desperate for the sea. The kritch of it, felt but not heard. “Pain isn’t just a sensation,” I tell Jude Law. “It’s the unmade sound scrabbling at the cage of your ribs. The one you can’t hear unless your own flesh and chitins are coming apart at the seams.” I want him to understand Ethan Hawke can’t see him. “He only wants the parts of you he can use,” I say.
Ethan Hawke says Jude Law should be the one going into space, “because up there, your legs wouldn’t matter.”
I shake my head. The motion sends a cascade of electric violence scurrying down my spine on claw-tipped feet so brutally beige I can taste the bitter hue of hospital in the back of my throat. “Your legs would matter more than ever,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “What are you if not your story?” I want him to see that he could glide through the infinite blue, if only he could let his story unfurl. But he can’t see himself at all. He’s chased the truth of himself away with sarcasm and booze.
Jude Law flings himself onto the floor and pulls himself up the stairs, anadromous, choking on sweet water after a lifetime of salt. Convincing the world he’s not disabled is his only “noble” moment. All the value he has.
I press my lips together. I have to pee, so I pause him mid-journey and fling myself out of the bed. Halfway there, my pain softens to a blurry hum. Bad sign. My vision tunnels and loses color. I dim and brighten with the beat of my skittering heart and crawl the rest of the way on hands and knees. “This is how my body works,” I tell Jude Law. “It’s not heroic or tragic. Sometimes I’m other things, but right now, I’m this. Do you see?”
Jude Law, caught on my chipped screen like a half-frozen river, sees nothing. Outside, a chickadee sings his aubade.
I pull myself back into bed. The world is backlit black against deep blue promise. My pillows and my pain-points line up like syzygy. All at once I’m floating in a sea of stars. Sometimes, it’s like this. Sometimes, my breath is unfettered.
“No,” I tell Jude Law. I refuse to watch him roll himself into a crematorium and sear himself to char. Instead, I’ll remember him like this, his curving spine eloquent with promise. “We, too, are creatures of sea and sky. We deserve better stories than this.”
SECOND PLACE
PATRICK by Michael Stone
in the dim of december when the pines kowtow to the weight of snow, claire takes john from chem class turkey shooting in saunders’ farm. she knew he’d come ’cause god knows he’s always wanted to fuck her. and hadn’t she been warned of that? the boys’ll chase ya.
john says, “why didn’t we do this in november. thanksgiving an’ all that.”
in november she didn’t need to build a gut is why. “it’s my gun,” claire says. “i decide when.”
“your dad’s gun.”
“step-dad.”
prick keeps the beretta in the unlocked shed. never knew it went missing. never knew she hid it beneath her pillow the whole fucking time.
“how much it hold?” john asks.
“thirteen rounds,” claire lies. it’s fifteen, but she means to save two.
the wild turkeys thrust forward their lithe necks, tugging the fat of their bodies after ’em. they slip over the snow-smothered field between the stubble of corn stalks. claire hates stubble. the grit against her shoulder.
high with fury, she plants her feet, taking aim. “third from the front. see it?”
“yup.”
“’fore you shoot a turkey, y’gotta name it.”
“why?” john asks.
“makes it real.”
“what’s his—?”
“Patrick.”
“Patrick?”
first shot staggers Patrick, second shot slumps it. the others lurch into the sky with a frantic batter and fly. third shot punches meat. but no jet of blood, no burst of feathers, no splendid display. and up close she don’t like its look. the bleary unwavering eyes don’t flinch at her pistol. it’s like a toy in her hand.
john whistles over the hole in the breast, the blood weeping into the matted barbs of parted feathers. “Patrick,” he says appreciatively.
claire says, “put your finger in the hole.”
john laughs.
“i’m serious.”
boy’s face goes limp. “i’m— i’m not—”
claire points the gun at him and he stumbles on his ass with a “jesus don’t don’t.” in her mind she fastens his horror over her step-dad’s face. “put your finger in the hole,” she says.
john crawls nose-down to the turkey with a snot-popping sob. while he trembles his finger towards the hole, claire puts in her mind her step-dad as he left the bathroom, the pudge of his belly lipping over the towel, the weight that crushed her breath solid, the burn of five o’clock shadow, and that vile tickle of pleasure, that betrayal from her own fucking body. soon as john’s finger slips in she imagines everything differently. pulling the beretta from under the pillow. horror curdling his face. and soft, regretful resignation.
she pops two quick bullets into Patrick and john yelps up flicking blood in the snow and she fires again again again watching the punch and ripple of the flesh and again again again ’til the beretta’s slide locks back and click click click.
john’s crying from fear. claire from fury, and righteous elation. from the peace and worry of holding a toy in her hand.
“take me home,” she pleads. “just take me home.”
THIRD PLACE
GENDER CONCEAL by Claire Sandys
Molly knew she was going to do it again. Even though she’d promised herself she wouldn’t.
The couple in her last appointment hadn’t really done anything wrong, as such (not like the guy who had questioned her ability as a sonographer and requested a ‘higher ranking male’), she just hadn’t warmed to them. Maybe it was his obvious preference for a son, maybe it was her obsession with questions about when she’d lose the baby weight; either way, as Molly moved the ultrasound probe to trace the outline of their baby boy, she knew what was about to come out of her mouth. Again.
‘Congratulations, you’re having a girl.’
The very slight droop of the father’s shoulders, despite the mother’s delight, was reward enough for the vindictive streak in Molly to feel justified. There. She had fed the beast. She would get a few days’ respite now.
Alone in the consultation room, Molly snapped off her gloves and flung them in the bin. The inevitable guilt, tangled with her grief, crept inside the familiar hollow she carried. She tried to reason it out. It wasn’t like she did it to everyone; for example, she’d never do it to a single mother. She just resented people’s need to know everything nowadays. Why wasn’t a healthy baby sufficient? Why did parents need to know which gender they were getting with such certainty?
She hoisted herself up onto the bed next to the ultrasound, lifted her scrub top to reveal her stomach, and applied gel before running the probe over her lower abdomen. The screen attempted to show her what her mind was failing to comprehend. Hazy, grey and white flecks highlighted the absence of what she’d lost, in an almost apologetic way. Maybe that’s why she felt so hollow? The surgery had left a void – she no longer held a uterus that was patiently waiting to have life planted within it. It had been removed, cast aside, reduced to a problem to be sorted, before it had even been allowed to fulfil its purpose.
Yet that small ‘if’ still lingered in her thoughts, months after it was impossible.
‘If I get pregnant…’
The ‘if’ had to be removed too.
‘I will never be pregnant,’ she whispered.
The cruel realisation hit her again. Experiencing the joy of a baby’s quickening was something she would be denied. She placed the probe back in its holder, wiped away the gel, and with it, the fragile hope of sharing what so many of her patients had known.
Her grief slowly morphed back to anger, snaking through her and strangling any remnants of hope fighting to survive. And then Molly knew one thing for sure.
She was probably going to do it again.
Later that afternoon, an obnoxious husband in a tweed jacket (who completely ignored Molly during his wife’s appointment) turned to her and said, ‘Well? What’s the sex?!’
Molly smiled, drew in a breath, met his eyes without blinking, and said, ‘It’s a boy.’
FOURTH PLACE
NEWTON’S LAWS – THE PHYSICS OF MARRIAGE by Julia Knoef
Inertia:
A marriage remains at rest, or in steady motion, unless acted upon by a force.
When people ask Rob and Linda how they met, one of them will recount that first quiz—Linda’s clever answer to the Newton’s Laws question, Rob’s sketch of Linda catching an apple in her mouth—and it feels like they’re talking about other people.
That Rob and Linda were hot for each other.
Rob noticed Linda’s quick-witted confidence, then her laugh. Linda spotted Rob’s drawing on the quiz booklet and introduced herself. Drinks led to a shared taxi, drunken sex in a hallway, a hungover breakfast in bed, sex in the kitchen, and plans to do it all again the next weekend.
Twenty-three years later, after buying a house, marrying, and raising two children, this Rob gets hard over the sketches of nudes in an art magazine. This Linda prefers early nights and the sex she finds in novels.
Force and Acceleration:
Change occurs within a marriage when a force is applied. The greater the force, the greater the change.
Inspired by his art magazine, Rob signs up for an evening class in life art. Linda thinks it’ll do him good. She misses his sketches.
Later, after his first class, Linda asks Rob about the model and he can’t keep the excitement from his voice as he says “She’s gorgeous! Reminds me of you when we met, before the kids.”
Linda cries in the bathroom with the tap running into the sink.
Next week she sweats through her first CrossFit class as—across town—Rob sketches, drawing more from memory than sight.
Action and Reaction:
For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
As Rob rekindles his love of sketching, Linda rediscovers her hipbones, then her libido. She enjoys long post-workout showers at the gym, relearning her body.
He loses himself in paint, capturing the fullness of a curve, the stepping stones of a spine, the shade of an armpit. Both are satisfied in old ways that feel newly earned.
Linda is flattered by the attention of her CrossFit instructor. A homemade kale smoothie, free private coaching, then an invitation to an out-of-town competition. She says yes, knowing he has designs on her newly toned body.
Rob makes the most of their weekend apart. He finishes his first painting, then checks out study options.
Linda is relieved when her instructor finally makes his move in the hotel spa. Drawn to the uncomplicated want of it, she follows him to the lift, then stops.
Rob opens the application form, fills in his details, and pauses. He leaves the tab open, revisiting it several times over the weekend.
By the time Linda arrives home, Rob has still not submitted the application. This course is full time. There will be others. He closes the laptop and tidies it away.
He fetches his painting and presents it to Linda. It’s beautiful. Linda: nude, laughing, biting an apple. Not young. Not perfect. Not static. An object in motion.
FIFTH PLACE
PURPLE, PROSE by Liv Stenhouse
You don’t know me, J. But I know all about you.
I’ve spent many days choosing these words I’m now reading by your hospital bed, J-Dawg. My therapist said I should write down my feelings, what I’d want to say to you. A hypothetical exercise, though, I guess. I don’t think she imagined I’d actually be sitting here with comatose you.
Good to finally meet you, though. I’d love to say I’m a fan of your work, but I’m not. You probably wouldn’t be a fan of mine either. It’s not my fault though. You took my spot.
You probably first saw my handiwork when the love-life rumours hit the socials, Lil J. You wouldn’t be the first musician to have such a secret. I heard you’d started avoiding the public after the fiftieth time someone asked if you’re a “friend of Dorothy”.
And then there was the drug goss. I really outdid myself there. The leaks to the press that you carried more gear than a roadie, that you had more dirty habits than a nun’s laundry. A planted baggie here, some footage with a dealer there. I’m surprised that last one worked, by the way, but hey – we all look the same don’t we. Besides, did you really make it that hard for people to accept you’re nodding out half the time?
And who could forget the assault arc. When Greg got that black eye on the ski trip. After all the cocaine whispers the public were deliciously quick to believe the story I put out there. That you’d king hit him for asking you if there was any “powder on the slope”. I’m not sorry I took that to a racist place, though – it’s about time one of us got some use out of whitey’s slurs. Ain’t irony a thing.
They say fate loves irony too, Dr J – and I reckon it was crushing pretty hard when it took you out. Asleep at the wheel, the police said. Drifted into oncoming traffic. But truth be told, I could’ve told you years ago that you had trouble getting out of other peoples’ lanes. The biz only had room for one of us and you… Took. My. Fucking. Spot.
I can’t take credit for the crash, I admit. That was all you. But I’d like to think my efforts contributed to the fatigue that left you broken, when that little black car smashed into your big red one. So broken that the paramedics were surprised you were alive. But I wasn’t. You’ve always been a cockroach, impossible to squash.
But don’t worry, J-Man. The accident gave me time to get up to more mischief. I’ve put some things on your computer that are really going to make your agent sweat, one children’s entertainer to another. I can’t wait to see the look on your face.
One of these days you’ll open those eyes. Give those toes a wiggle.
Any day now. Go on.
Wake up, Jeff.
SIXTH PLACE
OLLY OLLY OXEN FREE by Emily Rinkema
So Joe and I definitely counted slowly, and I’ll own that. We stretched our 30-second countdown into lonnnnnng minutes, plenty of time for the kids to hide and for us to finish our drinks. And I’ll also own that we didn’t look too hard at first, just the normal places: the front closet, beneath the kitchen sink, under our bed, in the laundry hamper. They’d never been the most imaginative of children. Once we’d checked those places, we met back in the living room.
“Maybe they’re gone for good,” Joe said, and we laughed. We even made a few jokes about how much easier it would be without kids, how much money we’d save and how much sex we would have and how we’d never again have to watch TV shows we didn’t want to watch. We sat down and waited. We had another drink. We looked at the clock.
And then we tore the fucking house apart looking for them.
When they still hadn’t emerged from hiding the next morning, we had to face up to the possibility that our offspring had outsmarted us, that they had found the mother of all hiding places.
To buy time for searching, we publicly bemoaned the return of COVID in our household and planted seeds on social media about the possibility of homeschooling. We fielded a few get well soon messages and texts at first, a few well-meaning challenges to our educational plan, but our kids were too young to have friendships independent of adults, and so for the people in our lives, they quickly went from front-of-mind to back-of-mind to out-of-mind.
And we kept searching. I swear we looked everywhere.
But after a few weeks, we stopped listening for their laughter. After a month, we stopped looking for their little bodies in the shadows. After a year, honestly, and I’m not proud of this, we had to keep reminding each other that the game was still on, that we weren’t going to quit, that we needed to look behind the couch once more, just in case. Because you never knew.
Yesterday, a decade since we started counting down from 30, I asked Joe if he thinks we’ll ever see the kids again. We were in the living room, our feet up on the coffee table, enjoying a post-sex glass of wine and a Netflix show about a guy with great hair and a gun.
“Kids?” he asked, pausing the show. He looked genuinely surprised by my question.
I tried to picture them then, to remember what they looked like, what they smelled like, but I got nothing. Not even a fuzzy image or a faint odor, as if they had never even existed.
“Never mind,” I said. “It was a stupid question.”
He put his hand on my leg and squeezed. He poured us each another glass of expensive wine and unpaused the show.
LONGLISTED
- NATURAL by Ben Daggers *WILDCARD WINNER*
- LAST (NICE) GUY ON THE PLANET by Josh Lowe
- KEEP YOUR FRIENDS CLOSE by Tess Allen
- CLAUSE 7.5 by Fiona Stoffer
- YOU AND ME AND MY FRIEND STEVE by Holly Sadowski
- GRACE by Nicola Bell
- A DAISY FLOATING ON THE PASIG RIVER by A.A. Long *WILDCARD WINNER*
- (E)NOKI-NOKI by Romany Jane
- YOUR HEART IS A SNOWFLAKE by Maria-Grace Delle Donne
- THE ONLY RELIGION by Chloe Paige
- EVERYTHING I CHASE by Georgina Maxine
- UNTIL DEATH by Thomas Brodkin
- THE GOD OF SMALL IRRITATIONS by Sarah Hirons
- FRESHLY GROWN by Jessica Sedgewick
- DEADHEAD / ˈdɛdˌhɛd / (VERB) – TO CUT LOOSE A WITHERED FLOWER TO ENCOURAGE FURTHER BLOOMING by Maddie Logemann
- SILENT NIGHT by Christina Wilson
- THE SIX LAWS FOR SECURING A MAN FROM THE FIRST DATE by Madeline Dawn
- THE GIFT by Caro McCartney
- FESTIVAL PISS (A CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE) by Athena Law
- THE DURIAN SCAM AND OTHER FOUL-SMELLING THINGS by Lincoln Hayes
- CLICHÉ by Caro Robson
- FRANKENSTEIN IS MY BIBLE by W.J. Arthur
- THE DEATH OF GREG MARSHALL by Steven Huff
- HOW DO I LOVE THEE? LET ME COUNT THY FLAWS. by Jo Binns
- WAR AIN’T THE ONLY HELL by Chris Doty-Dunn
- THE QUICK BROWN DOG SLUMPED OVER THE JOYLESS BIZARRE FOX by Jennifer Lyons-Bell
- ROADTRIP by Jess Grimes *WILDCARD WINNER*
- HUNGRY? by J.I. Locatelli
- MARCUS WILKINS’ PSYCHIATRIC INTERVIEW TO DETERMINE FITNESS TO STAND TRIAL, QUESTION ONE: DO YOU KNOW WHY YOU’RE HERE? by Sally Reiser Simon
- RED LINES ON A CANVAS by Brandon Woo
- THE SECRETS WE KEEP by Brielle Bates
- YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT, MY DEAR. by Paige Bowden
- HEARTSTRINGS by K.A. Vargas
- DREAM LOVER by Lucy Mac
- ATHENA’S LAW by Taurenelle *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!