The October 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 PALM.
- included the action ‘telling a lie’.
- broke the writing rule ‘avoid head-hopping’.
The competition drew 184 entries from authors in 15 countries around the world looking for a slice of the AU$2,000 prize money. That’s 87,776 words for our judges, Ed and Amanda, to read. For reference, that’s about the same number of words as ‘1984’ by George Orwell.
For more fascinating statistics about the competition, and to get behind-the-scenes details of the judging process, check out the Bonus: Longlist Announcement – October 2024 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 Bonus: Winner and Shortlist Announcement – July 2024 Not Quite Write Prize episode of the podcast at the link below.
WINNER
I TOLD YOU THIS WAS A POEM by Taurenelle
I told you this was a poem
when you asked why I was crying.
You sat on my lap,
counting the syllables on your fingers,
hoping to keep its rhythm with your palms.
You’ll read this again
when you’re older,
searching for a reason and finding no rhyme.
I told your mother this was a memoir,
but she didn’t know I was starting with the end.
Amanda was in the kitchen. Chopping and stirring and waiting for it all to bubble to the surface. She knew Isaac was taking it hard. He was the strong, silent type, growing less strong and more silent as the months went by. Now, he was weak and mute and refusing to move on.
The blade nicked the inner wall of her thumb. She bled onto the counter and on the carrots and all over her favorite apron. She quickly cleaned it up and got on with making dinner. That’s what she did. She got on with things.
‘A quarter less but a tenth as joyful,’ she mumbled to herself. Contemplating the strange recipe of broken homes.
‘Is that from a poem?’ Kayla asked, hoisting her little body onto a stool and stealing a piece of celery.
Amanda hadn’t written in nearly a year. Not for lack of emotion. Perhaps for the opposite. ‘Umm. Yes, dear.’
‘Does it rhyme?’ Kayla preferred limericks; her brother had liked haikus.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Then I don’t want to hear it.’ Kayla was growing sick of the sadness. What’s the fun of having writers as parents if they only write boring stuff? Her mother used to tell stories about basilisks and gnomes and castles under volcanoes. She even named one of the faeries Kayla. And Alex was the boy who lived forever. Now, she only turns the light off and says goodnight. Even the wishing of tight sleeps and the warding off of bed bugs were a thing of the past.
‘Not everything is fun all the time. How have you not learned that yet? After everything? You’re almost eight years old, for Christ’s sake.’ It was as if someone else had yelled at her daughter. Perhaps she was someone else. Or perhaps she wasn’t anyone at all. Whoever she was, she took a deep breath and got on with things. That’s what she did. She got on with things while Isaac sulked in his study.
I told your mother it was for safety,
and kept it with the deed and the will and my grandfather’s watch.
The year Longfellow published Evangeline.
I should have known he’d know.
I’d like to think this is poetic.
That what I’m about to do…
rhymes.
Maybe an elegiac couplet:
the father having six feet;
the son having five and a half.
Or maybe it’s just an elegy.
Or maybe I’m just a fool.
I told you this was a poem
when you asked why I was crying.
But I think you knew it wasn’t.
It’s just a reason without a rhyme.
Ed’s comments
This story floored me.
Each element converges towards a single effect. References to ‘rhyme and reason’ not only encapsulate the family’s search for understanding that is its primary theme, but this motif also extends to the structure of the story itself – poetry and prose – a structure which in turn reinforces the split-perspective narration, with ‘rhyme’ and ‘reason’ each reflecting the different way in which Amanda and Isaac deal with their loss.
The reveal is handled with incredible subtlety, but there are enough clues for the reader to piece together this deeply multilayered and tragic story.
Congratulations, Taurenelle, on a truly outstanding piece of writing.
Amanda’s comments
Once again, we’ve been foiled by a poet.
The word that first springs to mind is layers. While I marked this as a favourite from the very first read, it only grew on me once I peeled away those layers to discover the hidden gems within.
On its surface, it’s a melancholic story about a man (and family) in crisis, but it is the artful use of subtext which delivers more on each careful read.
There’s the ‘story within the story’ of parents who have lost a child and how they are each processing their grief. There’s the story of a daughter, full of childlike hope against all odds. And there’s the story of the power of the written word, and how a line like, ‘the year Longfellow published Evangeline,’ can send the uninformed among us (me) down a search engine rabbit hole so deep that we (I) emerge, sometime later, crying.
The lie, which forms the framework for this story, is simultaneously simple and complex, and the head-hopping, while jarring, offers a window through which readers might imagine the story that comes after The End.
Congratulations, Taurenelle, on delivering a powerful piece of art.
SECOND PLACE
NINE TIMES SEVEN IS SIXTY-THREE by Emily Rinkema
They know the drill, have done it almost monthly since starting school, but this is different. Ms Callahan’s voice is sharp when she tells them to move to the back of the room–now–under the whiteboard with Luke’s scrawled complex sentence example. He wishes he hadn’t used the name Tommy in his sentence because maybe it’s obvious that he likes him, that he’s written the name in his notebook hundreds of times. When they hear the pop pop pop, Kelly thinks she’s not going to fall for it this time, not like last time when she hid behind the historical fiction shelf in the library because there was a shooter, only it wasn’t a shooter, it was the community service club doing a balloon popping fundraiser, and everyone laughed at her, except Siobhan, who apologized when no one was looking, who recognized herself in Kelly, someone who was quick to hide, quick to stay out of the way of loud noises and breaking dishes and open palms. Balloons, Kelly thinks, just balloons, and Kevin breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, just like his mom taught him, just like they practiced at home, and he does his times tables in his head, also his mom’s suggestion, because numbers make sense to him, unlike people and words, and he’s on threes now–three times four is twelve, three times five is fifteen, three times six is eighteen–and pop pop pop, only louder, and Ms Callahan–Andrea–tries to picture her daughter, who is in art class in the blue wing right now, but she can’t remember what she was wearing when she ran out of the house this morning, and it’s so important that she remember, that she can bring up an accurate picture of her. Cameron taps his index finger on the floor next to Luke’s sneaker, tap, taptap, tap, tap, tap. He’s tapping out a song he’s singing in next week’s holiday concert, only he keeps messing it up, and he knows his dad will notice and will tell him he has to work harder if he wants to be someone, if he wants to matter–and six times four is twenty four and six times five is thirty and six times– pop pop pop pop –and Davis flinches, leans into Andrea, grabs her hand, and she whispers to him, to them, to herself, ‘We’re going to be okay. I promise, we’re going to be okay,’ and eight times six is forty-eight and eight times seven is fifty-six and eight times eight is sixty-four and it wasn’t the blue sweater, it was the green jacket, the one they bought her for her fifteenth birthday because she had asked for it, because she said it would make her so happy, and if Luke gets out of here he will tell Tommy, and yes, it was the green jacket, she’s pretty sure, and did she yell after her? Balloons, just balloons. Did she tell her to have a good day? She thinks so.
Ed’s comments
Stream-of-consciousness is a perfect response to this round’s anti-prompt, and Emily has executed this style with subtle precision. The hop from one character’s perspective to the next feels smooth and entirely natural, and the frenetic narration elevates the tense mood of this scene.
But what I find most impressive is how, through a string of carefully selected details, she manages to rapidly convey and develop half-a-dozen distinct characters. Moments like Ms Callahan dropping her title – signalling her powerlessness in that moment – help to ramp up the drama as the story drives towards its inevitable conclusion.
The choice to end the story before the anticipated moment ensures that the tension lingers on in the reader’s mind. This is truly a story that stays with you.
Amanda’s comments
When I first read this story, I commented that it gave me ‘literal chills.’ This wasn’t some kind of elder millennial hyperbole, I did in fact experience a physical reaction similar to goosebumps after reading this story, not just the first time, but on each repeated reading. I have them again now.
The subject matter is grim, but somehow, Emily has found the beauty in it, and the result is a master class in character. We spend only a fleeting moment with each of these characters, however, much like time might slow down preceding the moment of impact in a car crash, each fleeting moment here expands to suggest a whole life, giving us enough to form that crucial emotional connection and investment.
The single head-hopping paragraph builds breathless momentum as the story progresses, with the device of the times tables functioning as its ticking clock. The careful choice of first line combined with the cinematic ‘cut to black’ at the end gives us the opportunity to wonder, and guess, at the horrific meaning of that title.
THIRD PLACE
THE TIP OF THE TONGUE THE TEETH THE LIPS by Eilish Forwells
You’ve heard what they say about the salesman who trades in voices. You know he can’t be trusted, but at the chime of your bell, you creak open the door and usher him in. You crack him a smile, you tell him to sit, you serve hot tea and some shortbread and let him begin.
‘Palmer J. Calliope’s the name, trading voices is my game,’ he says between bites.
You raise your eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘I didn’t know you could do that,’ you lie. Your voice is brittle, like an aged tree collapsing in the howling wet winds of a winter.
‘It’s simple, really.’ He pauses, slurping his tea and preparing his pitch. ‘For a reasonable price, you can transform your voice into that of another—for a night, a lifetime, or even just an hour. I’ve got seven types of laughter. Perhaps a snort or a chuckle? Or something sultry and smooth? Or haunting, like a poet? Escape for a while—distract from your worries and lighten your woes.’
But the so-called ‘vocal exchange’ is no secret to you. He thumps his case on your table and snaps open the clasps. Melancholic whispers seep out as he raises the lid, he reveals rows of chattering vials that quiver and clink.
‘Purchase a vial, and the voice is yours—at least for a while. Trust me, it’s worth it.’ He smiles, raising his palms as if baring his soul.
Your hand trembles as you scan the labels. It must be in there.
‘What if I wanted,’ you ask, ‘a mellifluous voice?’
‘Ahh,’ he murmurs. ‘There is only one that would do. Pricey but the real deal, you would sing like an angel.’ He pulls out a small vial with a cool purple hue. ‘Here. Take a listen.’
For a moment, there’s silence. You lean in, holding your breath. Straining, you can hear the faintest of singing—beautiful rich flaming notes that nourish your heart. A melody from a lifetime ago.
You’d heard your voice once before, singing on a stage—in the mouth of a performer who boasted of fortune and glorious fame. You captured her, and blotted her with blood, you stole the tip of her tongue and she gave you his name: Calliope the salesman, the trickster, the villain.
You check your watch. It must be about time, poison hemlock works quick.
His mind is sluggish, like it’s wrapped in treacle, he can’t help but think, has he seen you before? He remembers the girl whose mother sold him a voice, it was the deal of a lifetime, a steal at that price.
You stare as his body slumps heavy in his chair. Death will devour him and flee with his soul. Your smile drips with venom and without hesitation, you snatch up the vial and swallow the contents whole.
I am complete once again. I am one with my mellifluous voice, and once more I can sing with the sweet innocence of summer and spring.
Ed’s comments
This entry is a story in the true sense of the word. We are taken on a journey that spans a lifetime, culminating in a satisfying and earned moment of revenge. Eilish weaves the backstory inconspicuously into the action, which remains dynamic and rooted in the present.
What impressed me most about this story is the way in which the setting is so effectively evoked. I can picture the room and the characters clearly in my mind, yet there is very little physical description!
Amanda’s comments
This story was an instant favourite of mine from the first read, and landed easily on the shortlist as the first contender Ed and I could agree on.
Eilish’s choice of intriguing title and second person POV, use of vivid imagery (‘rows of chattering vials that quiver and clink’), and masterful execution of voice combine to draw the reader into the scene.
What I loved most about this story was the strong sense of cohesion, with auditory details throughout supporting the story’s central premise (the buying and selling of voices).
I feel a stronger ending could have seen this story rise to first place, which just goes to show that the writing ‘rules’ do exist for a reason. Nevertheless, I applaud Eilish’s embracing of what was a very challenging anti-prompt.
FOURTH PLACE
LOVE STRUCK BY A LAMPPOST by J. Lewis-Edney
Sandra knew what she wanted in a man: tall, dependable, bright, and most importantly, someone who didn’t answer back.
The guys tonight had been dead weight—a who’s who of who’s not. Raggedy, rude, and relentless in their pursuits. She hated a try hard.
The sun was beginning to rise as she stumbled down the pavement, an unfortunate smell of alcohol induced vomit still clinging to her skin-coloured tights.
Most of the lampposts had turned off their lights for the sunrise, all except one. She stopped as she passed it.
In her drunken stupor, she looked up at the light.
‘See, you’re what I’m looking for, sweetheart,’ the last word was particularly slurred. She reached out and grabbed the lamppost with a clammy palm and began twirling around. ‘You wouldn’t disappoint me, staying alight while all the others just give up so easily,’ she said as she spun.
The lamppost did not respond; he also did not know why he was still on when all his brethren were asleep. Probably a wiring issue.
‘I’m Sandra, twenty-eight,’ the forty-year-old said. ‘An Aries, so fiery in the streets and commanding in the sheets, if you know what I mean!’
The lamppost stood stoic. He did not know what she meant; he had no concept of star signs.
‘I tried that line on some of the guys tonight, you know? Set expectations and all.’ Sandra swayed on her feet. ‘But the ones interested weren’t exactly Ryan Reynolds.’ She huffed, standing right in front of the lamppost now, chin tilted up.
The lamppost was not familiar with Ryan Reynolds; maybe he was another like him, filled with steel-wired cabling and a low-pressure sodium lamp.
Sandra’s head wobbled as her gaze travelled up and down the lamppost’s simple, sleek form, tracing its curves as her eyes roved. ‘Solid, reliable,’ she muttered. One hand still clung to the metal, and she pressed her cheek against its cool surface. ‘You’re so strong.’
In the sticky summer heat, the lamppost’s chill soothed her flushed face. Her hands slid lower, gripping him tighter. She sighed, imagining what it would be like to kiss him.
The lamppost could only watch on as she leant forward, her lips in a strange contortion as she went to press them against his base.
Thud.
Before her lips could make contact, her forehead beat her to it, the sound echoing down the street.
‘Holy fuck,’ she shouted, recoiling in pain.
‘What the hell am I doing!’ she screamed, desperately rubbing her forehead.
She balled her fist and took a swing at the lamppost, completely missing and falling flat on her face. She was splayed on the ground, her cheeks red, eyes wet and wondering how this was her life.
As Sandra lay there, defeated, the light above her flickered once. And then, with a soft click, it went out.
Ed’s comments
We’ve all been there.
Even those who can’t relate directly to operating under extreme levels of intoxication will surely find something universal in this humorous tale of frustrated soul mate searching. We’ve certainly all been there.
This was such a unique and surprising take on the anti-prompt, with the lamppost’s views on astrology elevating the absurdity of this romantic little scene.
Amanda’s comments
I fought for this story. It was a favourite from the get-go, almost certainly because it ventured into the ‘inanimate object romance’ genre I have so recently come to adore.
It’s challenging to deliver slapstick comedy in a non-visual medium, but J. pulls it off with flair. Lines like, ‘The lamppost was not familiar with Ryan Reynolds,’ and ‘He had no concept of star signs,’ position the lamppost as the (literal) ‘straight guy’ for our inebriated protagonist’s ‘funny guy’.
Much like the quintessential tragic clown, however, there’s an underlying sense of sadness peeking out from behind that mask. As humans, we all know what it’s like to feel lonely, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang of empathy for Sandra after that closing line.
So, while it’s undoubtedly a fun story, it’s that delicate walking of the line between light and shade – that poignancy – which, to me, truly set it apart.
HONOURABLE MENTION
SHARPENED STAKES by Sheridan Bell
I’m no gambler, but I’m always making bets with myself.
Okay, Sienna–hold your breath for forty seconds and you’ll make the squad.
Some people use clairvoyants to gain a sense of control over their lives. Me? I strike deals with God.
Don’t eat the last biscuit and when you wake up tomorrow that zit’ll be gone.
Mind you, if I believed in God I’d just ask Her directly.
Finish your essay by 8pm and tonight he’ll call.
At 7.57pm I type the final word. My cellphone buzzes.
Entering the diner, the air is hot, thick, and heavy with the smell of burnt grease, and indifference. I scan the room and, for a split second, think the slight, bearded man in a plaid shirt at the bar might be him. Then the real thing waves to me across the room–clean-shaven and sharp-featured like a young James Bond, or an old Peter Parker.
‘Hey, kiddo,’ he says, pulling me in for a hug. The scent of sunscreen and tobacco takes me back to the beach when I was eight and he was still my whole world.
‘Hi, Dad.’
He holds me a second too long. I pull away and slide into the booth. The cracked red leather–sticky with spilt soda and residual body heat–slaps my thighs.
‘I ordered you a pink panther. That still your favourite?’
‘Sure.’
He asks how school is going. I fabricate my sporting successes, exaggerate the size of my friend group, until our drinks arrive.
If the next song is from the eighties, you’ll apologise for taking so long to call.
The viscous liquid slides down my throat like half-frozen jelly with a sickly-sweet raspberry-bubblegum aftertaste.
You’ll promise to see me more often.
An inefficient fan whirrs above us, dispersing humidity about the room.
And you’ll mean it.
‘You said you have good news…’ I prompt.
He clears his throat and takes a swig of beer. Even the bottle is sweating. In the background, TLC trills about chasing waterfalls.
‘I’ve been promoted.’
‘Congrats.’
He raises his arm to wipe his brow, revealing the darkened stain of his underarm.
‘Miranda and I are moving to Queensland.’
If that guy makes eye contact, you’ll choke on your Heineken.
Plaid-shirt man glances up. I quickly look away.
My father claps his palms together in a prayer position, then lets them fall, pointing towards my crossed arms.
‘So…what do you think?’
If I tell the truth, you’ll surprise me.
‘Well, that sucks.’
He nods and leans back, studying me with keen eyes. He’s thinking my hair’s dirty, I’ve gained weight, and lost confidence–he’s ashamed of me.
‘You look more like your mother than ever.’
I slump further in my seat, clammy thighs slipping over the distressed fabric.
If I don’t cry, you’ll stay.
‘Hey, Sienna–it’s a compliment. She was gorgeous when we first met.’
I look at him and a single tear escapes.
So I’m right, but there’s no joy in my victory. Next time, I’ll up the ante.
Ed’s comments
Not feeling like you have any control over your life is a huge part of being a teenager. This story captures that feeling superbly through Sienna’s tendency to make little wagers with herself, and we share her disappointment when her fears are proven true.
I love the way Sheridan has painted this picture of an absent, disinterested father and a daughter who deeply craves his affection, purely through subtext. There is no backstory or exposition here – it’s a wonderful example of ‘showing’.
Amanda’s comments
This story opens with an elegant subterfuge – a subverting of the expectations set by just one line, ‘Finish your essay by 8pm and tonight he’ll call.’
We’re not told in so many words that Sienna is a teenager, yet it’s evident from the beginning, and so we naturally fall into the trap of assuming this line refers to a love interest.
Where some authors might be tempted to leave the rug-pull until the climax, Sheridan has wisely elected to reveal the truth right away. The result is that readers can enjoy that element of surprise while also fully investing in the emotion of the strained parent/child relationship.
This is one of those cases where I’d recommend ending a line or two sooner for greater impact, however Sheridan otherwise strikes the perfect balance between “showing” and “telling.” Readers are invited to connect the dots themselves, making for a deeply satisfying reading experience in this other relatable teen heartbreak story.
HONOURABLE MENTION
RIDE IT TO HEAVEN by W. J. Arthur
Caddy found it unsettling living in a street where the numbers started at thirteen. When the freeway went through, houses one to twelve disintegrated to make the great road of progress. Caddy’s house, once in the centre, now hovered on the edge overlooking the incessant traffic.
Mrs Harborne, queen of the Anzac biscuits, died in the kitchen of number eight. Her house had been at the centre of the left lane, where the expansion joints are now. As Caddy lay in bed at night, she listened to the cars grinding over the metal. The rubber tyres became Charon’s agents, chipping and carrying fragments of Mrs Harborne’s soul over the bridge and across the river.
The nature strip was the boneyard of Mr Mackie’s garden. It had been turned over when the house went down, but the banana passionfruit had self-seeded. After school, late on Wednesday afternoon, Caddy plucked some to make jam, stuffing them into the pockets of her hoodie. An honour drive of hippeastrums, defiant in red and pink, shamed the weeds and rubbish. Caddy looked in case something interesting had been tossed. Caddy had told her mother she was meeting Claire to do some photography on the bridge. Only, two elements weren’t quite true, and Stew might take a photo, if she asked.
Stew was lounging against the barrier that saved the path from crumbling recklessly into the rushing cars. Traffic dashed at 100 kph this time of day, or faster. Caddy knew Stew had once clocked an easy 160, as she clinched onto his back. Stew leaned over the fence, tangled hair dancing in the car’s currents. He flicked it back as Caddy approached, like a swimmer flicking off the wet. He was wearing the Green Day t-shirt that she had given him last Wednesday, the sleeves razor slit around his biceps, veins labouring beneath the tight sheath of his skin. Caddy’s eyes traced the maze of his tattoo.
‘Wake me when…’ Stew sung.
‘And a little package for the eye catcher,’ Stew threw his keys, his lucky rabbit’s foot slapping across Caddy’s palm.
Leaning nearby, Stew’s 1977 Triumph Bonneville in Jubilee red, white and blue, his open-faced helmet outstaring the ground. The hum of the freeway would mask the grunt and growl of the engine. If Caddy was quick, no one would call the cops. Caddy revved down the fence line, popping a wheelie until she reached the undercarriage footpath of the bridge. Caddy crouched low, lining up the path like a runway. She opened the throttle, quickly kicking through the gears, burning rubber.
#
Stew lay down, twisting his head sideways, hair splayed behind him. He watched Caddy as the shadows rose and retreated, the bike sometimes sparkling, sometimes dull and dark. He could feel the thrum of the motor reverberating through the concrete. It played in tune with the songs in his head, filling in the bass, whilst Stew played the air drums.
‘You ride it to heaven girl,’ he called.
‘Ride it to heaven.’
Ed’s comments
What makes this story special is what doesn’t happen.
The unlucky number thirteen in the opening sentence, the brief vignettes about lives that were paved over and forgotten, the references to Hades – all these elements place a suggestion in the mind of the reader, evoking a nihilistic atmosphere that vibes perfectly with punk rock and motorbikes and living dangerously, foreshadowing a conclusion that is never spelled out.
I feel this ending is more powerful, somehow serving to amplify the emptiness and futility embodied by these characters.
Amanda’s comments
This piece was all about the vibes, and what better band to choose to represent Gen X nostalgia than Green Day?
W. J. drops us straight into this scene with a selection of (not sepia… but perhaps mid-noughties ‘low saturation aesthetic’) details, before delivering both an expert setup and payoff of the ‘lie’.
I would have loved to have seen a full narrative arc play out against this beautiful backdrop, yet there’s an implied end to this tale which carries the reader beyond the page. W. J. leaves us alone to reflect on what it means to grow old, what it means to die, and how only one of those things ever seems possible when we’re young.
A fact some Not Quite Write Prize entrants may find interesting is that this story was originally submitted with several typos (the main character’s name flipping between ‘Caddy’ and ‘Caddie’ spellings). As competition entrants ourselves, we know how easy it is for these kinds of errors to slip through the net at the final hour. In this case, although we’ve corrected the typos for this published version, they did not limit our enjoyment of what is otherwise a technically sound and emotionally vivid piece of prose.
LONGLISTED
The following list represents the remaining members of the top 22% of entries, in no particular order:
- TABITHA PALMER WAS A PART OF ME FOR A SHORT TIME by Nikki Crutchley *WILDCARD WINNER*
- PRETENDER by A.C. Stewart
- A CONTINGENCY by Kelli Johnson
- THE FUTURE(S) SHE LEFT BEHIND by Tiffany Harris
- OH, TANNENBAUM! by Tabbie Hunt
- PERFECTION IN PAIN by Jordan Kemp
- LENS by Genevieve Flintham
- MIND THE GAP by Carla Connolly
- NEIGHBOURLY LOVE by Bob Topping
- AM FIBBING THINGS by Michelle Oliver
- THE EMBODIMENT OF DECEPTION by Paul Miller
- HeadHOPA by Anthea Jones
- BEAUTY SLEEP by Liv Hibbitt
- DEATH WAS WAITING by Chloee Thornhill
- TALKING HEADS: THE TALE OF JOHNSON & JOHNSON by Holly Sadowski *DISHONOURABLE MENTION*
- GRANNY THEFT AUTO by Ruth Lord
- RISK AND ROMANCE FOR THE REGIONAL SALES MANAGER by Eloise Wajon
- FORGET JACOB DAVIS by Jaime Gill
- NURSE FRAN PROMISES SHE WILL NOT CHOP YOU INTO PIECES AND PUT YOU IN A PIE by Lorena Otes
- YOU’RE SOAKING IN IT. by Kerry Goldsworthy
- TO CARVE by Emma Graham
- LICE-FREE by Louise Walton
- DEAD GIRLS DON’T FEEL by M. Lea Gray
- WHAT CASSANDRA SAW by Elysia Rourke
- IN PIECES by Joanna Potenza
- WE’LL JUST CALL IT A DRIVE-BY by Roses Price
- I SEE YOU by Averil Robertson
- WHEN CRACKS BECOME CHASMS by Jaden Christopher
- NEVER TRUST AN ENGLISHMAN (ESPECIALLY NOT A REDHEAD) by Raphaela Power
- IT’S BLOODY MONKEY, NOT BLOODY MARY by N. M. Fadzli
- BOYS WILL BE BOYS by Lauren Dougherty
- SHUT THE F*** UP by Jo Skinner
- EVERY FIVE YEARS, I PULL A HAT TRICK by Chad Frame
- THE EXECUTIONER’S LAMENT by Greg Schmidt
The following story did not make the longlist but won a wildcard prize:
- SHINING BLADE by Bia Ohtani *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!