The January 2025 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 RING.
- included the action of ‘opening a door’.
- broke the writing rule ‘write what you know’.
The competition drew 346 entries from authors in 19 countries around the world looking for a slice of the AU$4,000 prize money. That’s 167,170 words for our judges, Ed and Amanda, to read. For reference, that’s about the same number of words as ‘The Shining’ by Stephen King.
For more fascinating statistics about the competition, and to get behind-the-scenes details of the judging process, check out the Longlist Announcement – January 2025 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 2025 Not Quite Write Prize episode of the podcast at the link below.
WINNER
YOU’LL NEVER SEE THIS COMING by Isabelle Berns
The last face Paul saw was that of his daughter.
Smiling.
Glowing.
Broken.
Within arm’s reach.
Still no telling where his attention went.
Where it had been?
Probably nowhere.
Everywhere.
Funnelled.
Scattered around the globe.
Calendars.
Inboxes.
Stocks.
Breaking news.
Rage-bait.
Repeating reels.
Doom scrolling first thing on a Monday morning, last thing on a Monday evening, and on every day ending in “y”.
Where his attention went?
Probably nowhere.
More so by the second.
Certainly not the sodden street, or the press of commuters, backpacked and coffeed up.
In Paul’s final moments, the world might have revealed itself anew. No longer boxed into those empty morsels of replayed novelty curated to his taste.
Starved from the feed that saturated but could never satiate, his ravenous eyes might have found something of substance, had he just looked up.
Something tangible.
Something solid.
Something four-wheeled and roaring into a green phase.
He hadn’t. That was the crux of the matter.
Paul might have recognized the woman sketching portraits outside his usual cafe. The busker eager to catch his attention. He might have seen the skyscrapers around Hamilius Station, staring from windowed heights, clouds swiping by overhead. He might have heard the chorus of klaxons trumpeting in the newest casualty. Screeching brakes heralding his demise as he stepped into the road.
Even now, he might have noticed oily rainbows shimmering past, carrying the dust of the city off the edges of the world, through a whorly grate, and into the unknown.
Paul might have known his friends unedited.
His ex’s mind unfiltered.
His own opinions unsponsored.
He might have witnessed Katie’s first steps unlooped.
Unique.
Precious.
Never to be repeated by the tip of a finger.
Could he register the bus doors opening? The figures swooping in around him? See the checkmarked messengers composing short-form testaments? Recording his end from behind the murky, pearly-fogged glass of the 11 bus to Walfer?
Did he notice thousands of black eyes witnessing his incomplete crossing for the world abroad? Carrying his broken body cloudward post-haste, hastily posted via the very medium he had followed into this mess?
Had he lived, he might have crossed himself on a stranger’s screen. Recognized himself among the real-time chaos of rush hour. A man at a junction. Between could and should, want and have. A forced perspective. A mind rammed back into a body of flesh and hair, windshield-studded, limbs splayed. Spreading a feathered red halo on the wet street with each slowing breath.
His phone holding him warmly by the hand – its gaze never faltering, barely even flickering – the last face Paul saw, was that of his daughter. Smiling, cracked, from behind a screen she shared with a clock that would run on without him. His Katie. On the very distant fringes of his frayed consciousness. Where he must have kept her far too often. Hundreds of miles away. The image of her right there at his fingertips, with 5% to go on the battery.
SECOND PLACE
THE TASTE OF PI by Alexandria Bellani
The first time I hear her laugh of golden Fibonacci spirals, I know I have to meet her. Big parties are too much colour, noise, and flavour, but I’ll brave this one a few minutes longer just to learn her name.
Anna.
It doesn’t suit her, I blurt, with her plaid miniskirt and starless midnight eyes. “Anna” tastes like cold canned peas.
Her friends are outraged, but she throws her head back and laughs in golden ratio, and I forget that any other algorithm has ever existed. She says her full name is Anastasia—what does that taste like?
I roll the syllables on my tongue, testing every letter. The salty “A’s” and sweet “S’s”. The savoury “N” and spiced “T”. “I” is my least favourite vowel—so tart and overbearing—but in her name, it softens like butter.
Brown sugar, I answer, and pi. I don’t clarify “the number” because at least “pie” is a flavour normal people can imagine.
She leads me ‘round the room, introducing me to everyone and asking what each name tastes like. I don’t mind performing party tricks, with her hand in mine.
Over hours, I tell her “Caroline” tastes of old lemonade, “Chase” of plums, and “Sasha” of ice scraped off the inside of a freezer. She tells me she’s a jazz musician and that she loves artists. She winks, saying I must be one, to have an imagination like this.
I don’t know how to say “I’m not” and “I don’t”. That, even now, I’m running the numbers on our chances, and she’s too beautiful, and I’m too weird. This doesn’t end with “happily ever after”. I spare my heart and slip out while she’s getting us drinks.
She finds me at work a week later. I startle when she slams open my office door with a victorious “ah-ha!” cracking the air with gold lightning.
Coffee flies out of my “freak in the spreadsheets” mug as I throw my arms wide to cover the whiteboard of partial derivatives at my back. As if I can stop her from seeing how poorly suited we are, as if it matters after I ran away.
She doesn’t look at the whiteboard, though, when she calls me an asshole. The word is a platform-booted kick to the sternum. She says she’s never been ditched before and needs to know what happened.
She wants answers.
The only kind I’m good at is numbers.
So, I write up the odds of two people finding each other. Falling in love. Staying in love. Especially someone like me. Someone who knows the numbers on the whiteboard are written in blue marker but sees rainbows. Someone who approached the girl with the golden laugh and told her that her name tasted like peas.
Blue marker squeaks out lavender threes, navy eights, and crimson zeroes before her hand halts mine.
“Run these numbers,” she whispers.
Then she kisses me, and it’s music, and sugar, and pi, and gold—
And flawless Fibonacci spirals.
THIRD PLACE
RULE OF THUMB by Elise Scott
Nothing swells a man’s ribs with hope like the sight of a shiny brass doorknob and a deed that says it’s his. There’s no elation to match that first time he pushes his key into the waiting lock and feels the slow, sure yielding of its tumblers.
Mine was a real beauty, made in the French style by craftsmen up in Ames. Perfect for the door Grampa carved when he was my age. He worked these acres his whole life. Now it was my turn.
I scooped Elodie up in my arms and shouldered open the door. The hinges sang of squealing children, of calling sooey into the sunrise, of the whistle and hoot of Monday night football.
“Welcome home.” I let the words fall into her hair as I lay her down on the bare floor.
The good honest smell of paint and sweat and pine varnish muted her lilac perfume. Here began my new life as head of the family. Here, I’d be happy.
“Travis, I–”
I put a finger over her peach-sweet lips. “Hush.”
This was a moment to savor. I unwrapped her slowly, marveling at how fragile she was. I would protect her. Cherish her. I would not be like my father.
And Elodie wouldn’t be like Ma. She wouldn’t flash a fuchsia lipstick grin and show my cum-stained sheets to my friends as they devoured her cinnamon rolls. She wouldn’t rub herself like a cat in heat while she gazed at her community college students. She wouldn’t cheat. Wouldn’t leave.
As I moved over Elodie, she flushed pretty as a berry dipped in cream, her elegance mussed but undiminished by my hungry touch. I tried to think of other things, to slow myself down, but it was over too soon and I wasn’t gentle.
Her porcelain hand pushed at my chest, her dainty golden ring vanishing into my thick bear’s pelt. Like my father, always the coarse and massive beast.
Until I found him in a room empty as this one, cloaked in the smells of paint and sweat and pine varnish. The crags of his silhouette had been freshly broken by the avalanche of his grief.
“You heed your Grampa’s Rule of Thumb, son. Someday, you’ll find yourself a sweet young wife. You be sure and scuff her up a bit. If you let ‘em stay too shiny, eventually they’ll leave.”
His hollow eyes fixed on Ma’s newlywed smile behind cracked glass. He curled his paw closed around her. “I didn’t listen. Don’t be like me.”
So when Elodie cupped my face, dark eyes vulnerable as a winter doe, I pushed her away.
I pushed hard.
Afterward, of course, I apologized. I always apologized. “Don’t know my own strength.” I’d spoon cherry pie between her trembling lips. Or Maker’s Mark.
Truth is, I always knew the way my hands would wear the brass off that gleaming French doorknob little by little, revealing the chipped and bitter nickel underneath.
That’s what made it mine.
FOURTH PLACE
CHATROOM_523 by E.C. Heath
Margo’s quilt muzzles the notification’s whine.
user9837213, 1:21 a.m.
u rly have a dick?
ttgxrl444, 1:25 a.m.
Yeah
user9837213, 1:25 a.m.
hard to believe. ur so beautiful
She considers telling him it isn’t so far-fetched for a beautiful girl to have a dick. Decides against it.
user9837213, 1:27 a.m.
i’ve got one too
attachment: IMG.9330.jpeg
It’s no work of art. An imagined Seba conducts critique, dissecting its composition (“the subject’s asymmetric curve”), rapping on her square glasses as if to refocus the picture, frizzy hair bobbing like an independent body. She dubbed Margo’s last piece unruly. Recalcitrant. Margo supposes her teacher might label the grainy image dusting her headboard with blue light evocative, but of what she can’t verbalize.
What did Seba say two classes ago about Ezra’s work, the one of condom wrappers? Unbeautiful. Yes, that’s it.
user9837213, 1:29 a.m.
u wanna come over n have some fun?
The cat sitting on the stoop is statue-still, collarless. She hopes it isn’t his, or at least, if it is, he’ll keep it outside. Climbing the steps, sweeping right, steering clear. Yellow eyes tracking.
user9837213’s place is a shadowy thing sprouting from the snow-guttered sidewalk. No moon out tonight, what kind of omen is that? Such superstitious-speak reminds her of yesterday’s horoscope: your big transition will soon end. She laughs all over again, her real laugh, sort of husky, not the affected bleat donned around classmates. Around Ezra.
Margo finds the doorbell and a note (she looks closer, it’s the reverse of an envelope) crudely taped to the adjacent siding. DO NOT RING, it reads, in blocky, fat-tipped Sharpie. She obeys, knocks thrice. Unzips her coat. An owl cries.
The door opens, unexpectedly quiet. From what Margo can make out, he isn’t unattractive. She typically enjoys guys like this. Tolerates them, at least, these used-car men, stubbled, scruffy, with decent mileage despite the dented doors. But she can tell now. The cat is his. He has that same look in his eyes, even worse when he smiles. Like he knows something she doesn’t.
user9837213, 3:42 a.m.
had fun 2nite. we shld do it again sometime
Margo opens three different social media apps despite not consciously wanting to. Muscle memory. She’s training herself to stop clicking on them, she read an article about it — or, okay, watched a video — but the impulse is always irresistible during these stretches, this yet-to-feel-whole-again stage. She switches to the camera instead, a practice the article (video) recommended. Self-reconnection, or something.
Her reflection is murky, a mosaic of pixels the color of beer bottles. Smudged mascara, purpling neck. A voice crowing in the back of her mind: poor thing. She snaps a picture, not exactly knowing why. Maybe she can use it for something, submit it to Seba for critique. What would Ezra think?
Unbeautiful, she remembers, repeating it to herself, letting the word erode a smooth canyon through her memory, one she can traverse until she’s through the dormitory doors.
ttgxrl444, 8:51 a.m.
Sure.
FIFTH PLACE
LOVE IN THE TIME OF FLATULENCE by Greg Schmidt
I slump into my car and fart—a ripping release from another day of moronic managers and meandering meetings. And another day I didn’t bloody talk to him. For weeks I have been trying to find the courage to ask Jason out, to woo him with some perfect piece of conversation.
In the lunchroom today, I had my chance.
‘Hi Ellie,’ he said to me, stirring his tea.
Our eyes met, and my confidence evaporated. My voice went with it and all I could manage was a mumbled, ‘Hey.’
An awkward pause followed, punctuated by the ting-ting of his spoon against the cup. Unable to fill the void, I just left.
Now, I start the car to leave this day behind, when there’s a tap at the window. It’s Jason, making a motion for me to wind it down. I do so; nervous and excited.
It’s exactly then that the results of my earlier gaseous emission arise, and a horrid stench hits my nostrils. Jason leans in closer and opens his mouth to speak. I’m mortified and quickly try to raise the window, but I’m too late. His lips curl, and his face twists, as the odious odour wafts through the half-open window to greet him head-on. He coughs and holds the back of his hand to his mouth.
‘Oh, God,’ I sputter. ‘I’m sorry,’
‘It’s—’ he begins, but I panic and close the window, sealing me in with my dread creation. I speed out of there, leaving him just a vision in the rear-view.
The next day passes and I manage to avoid Jason at work. What would I say to him, anyway? Any mystery—any allure—will have dissipated with the lingering foulness of a fart to the face.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I enter the lift to leave. But as the doors close, someone darts between them to join me; Jason, as fate would have it. I shuffle my feet and stare down at my phone. The awkwardness from the lunchroom yesterday surrounds us again and we do not speak as the lift descends.
Suddenly the silence is shattered by the unmistakable trumpeting of a fart. It ends with an upturned squeak, as if posing a question. When I look to the source, Jason is grinning at me.
‘So Ellie,’ he says, as if nothing had escaped his arse a few seconds prior. ‘You wanna grab a drink after work sometime?’
I’m equal parts embarrassed and dumbfounded. ‘Did…did you just ask me out by farting on me?’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘You started it.’
It’s a fair point, and I can’t stifle a chuckle that comes from within.
‘Is that a yes?’ he asks.
I’d been so worried about the perfect way to ask him out, but perhaps it never needed to be perfect. In response, I cock my hip and let out the tiniest toot. We laugh, and when the lift doors open, we step out into the fresh air together.
SIXTH PLACE
VISITING YOU, ONE YEAR LATER by Kris Schnebelen
I imagine your alarm waking you, a shrill buzz rattling your walls and clawing your eardrums. Or maybe you’ve changed it to something more serene, like birds tweeting against a gentle river’s flow. Or maybe there is no alarm anymore.
You’re sitting up, arms stretching to the sky, every vertebra in your spine popping up your back, taking turns. You’re grabbing your phone, checking your email, mostly filled with spam from all the online stores you’ve shopped. Maybe you’ve unsubscribed from those emails. Maybe you don’t grab your phone. Maybe you don’t get out of bed.
You’re moving into the kitchen, a fresh cup of dark roast coffee with a pinch of sugar the way you start your day. Maybe you started using cream. Maybe you drink blonde roast, black. Maybe you drink tea now. Maybe you don’t go to the kitchen first at all, instead starting your morning with a shower. Maybe you don’t have a ritual anymore. Maybe you’re still in bed.
It’s your day off, so you’re wearing something casual. An oversized Coldplay t-shirt—your favorite band. Maybe you wear tank-tops now, or oversized sweaters. Maybe your favorite band is something different. The Strokes, Gorillaz, Poolside. Maybe you listen to country now. Pop. Electronica. Maybe it isn’t your day off. Maybe you have a different job. Maybe you have no job. Maybe you’re still in bed.
You’re fingering through your jewelry. You choose the ring I proposed to you with, the one white-gold band set with a fourteen-karat diamond. Maybe it’s the ruby one your grandmother gave you. Maybe it’s a different one I don’t know of. Maybe you have more rings than I remember. Maybe you sold them all. Maybe you’re still in bed.
You’re doing that thing you’ve always done, where you stare in the mirror and squish your unruly hair, draw your hand around your waist, stare at the length of your neck. There is no one there to tell you that you look beautiful. Maybe there is, and they’re holding you now as they whisper what I used to into your ear. Maybe there isn’t, and you dwell on the little things that never mattered. Maybe you’re still in bed.
You’re hearing the doorbell ring. You’re considering what to do. Is it your mom? Jehovah’s witness? Me? Is it worth answering? Should you pretend you’re not home? Maybe you’re not home. Maybe you’re still in bed.
I’m ringing your doorbell. I’ve been standing for an hour, wondering if I should even be there. I’ve bitten my cuticles clean off, the edges of my nails red and raw. My ears are burning. No matter how much I focus on my breathing, the air can’t keep in my lungs. I’ve memorized every smudge and every piece of scuff on your welcome mat. It’s the only thing I’m sure about you anymore.
I’m hoping you’re still in bed.
You’re not.
You’re opening the door.
LONGLISTED
- THE SELKIE WIFE by Tabbie Hunt
- TEMPORAL THRESHOLDS by MM Schreier
- DOVE COTTAGE by Chloe Paige
- YOU DO THE MATH by Deidra Lovegren
- SHELDON THE SNAIL BLAZED A TRAIL by Erin Brandt Filliter
- TO THE DJ WHO INSISTS ON PLAYING *OUR HOUSE* EVERY MORNING AT 9:00 A.M. by Sally Reiser Simon
- A SLOW PASSAGE by Luke Melvin
- MYSTERY by Emily Rinkema
- 547.5 DAYS by Sophie Thompson
- GOING UNDER by Christina Wilson
- IBS – INTENSE BATHROOM SCENE by Jack Lewis-Edney
- SUNRISE BABY by Holly Brandon
- THE GROCERY LIST by Phoebe Robertson
- WINTON WEIJIN LAI GOES FOR A BEER OR TWO AFTER LECTURES by Kristof Mikes-Liu
- ANSWER THE DOOR by Kelli Johnson
- SELFIESH by Fiona Stoffer
- LUCKY ME by Christy Hartman
- CHURCH ON SATURDAY by Thom Brodkin
- I KNOW THAT I KNOW NOTHING by Romany Jane
- HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW? By Sheridan Bell
- A FRIEND IN NEED by Sarah Jordan
- TRUE STRIPES by Sam James
- THE MYSTICAL ORIGINS OF SHAUN THE SHARTER’S NICKNAME by Trevor Flanagan
- PARADISE LOST by Athena Law
- THROUGH ANOTHER’S EYES by Jordan Kemp
- MY BRILLIANT CAREER (AND BOSOM) by Averil Robertson
- EXHIBIT F IN THE CASE 616 OF SMITH VS AMAIZON: DELIVERATRON3000™ FOOTAGE ANNOTATED BY DELIVERY INSTRUCTIONS by Ross Champion
- PERSEPHONE OF THE WATERS by Lindalou
- JULIA CHILD’S LOBSTER AMERICAINE by Becca Wang
- HOW TO FIX A CAR ON PLANET LUCTUS by GH Gallagher
- MR CLARENCE’S SECRET GARDEN by Philippa Freegard *WILDCARD WINNER*
- SKIN DEEP by Nikki Crutchley
- LOCKED IN WITH NO WAY OUT by Kerry Goldsworthy
- RED DOOR by KT Downs
The following story did not make the longlist but won a wildcard prize:
- MOUSEFUCKER by R.C.Barajas *WILDCARD WINNER*
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!