Welcome to February’s creative showcase – and our SEVENTH birthday! (Help yourself to some cake.) Since 2018, we’ve been challenging you to give us your best 500-words-or-fewer stories, and we want to say thank you, whether you’ve been with us for years or are a recent arrival. Let’s revisit what the prompts for this month were:

1. Each story had to feature SEVEN of something.
2. Each story had to include a character who opens a box.
3. Each story had to include the words LADDER, BLANK and CHILL
   (Longer variations were acceptable.)

With more than 600 submissions, there were bound to be a few similarities in the pack. And the combination of ladders and boxes did see many climbing up into the attic to discover a dusty secret! Other boxes included that famous one belonging to Pandora, boxes of chocolates, lunchboxes, pizza boxes and plenty of small satin-lined boxes containing rings.

LUCKY NUMBER SEVEN

The main prompt this month was giving us SEVEN of something. As you may have quickly discovered, it’s a versatile number.

• Seven dwarves featured heavily in all manner of ways, from fairytale retellings to horror and espionage!
• Seven deadly sins also proved popular – after all, bringing together the likes of greed, lust, wrath and envy is sure to make for an interesting story.
• Time featured a lot, such as seven minutes or hours. But by far the most common was seven days of the week – many stories structured to show each day passing (with modern and Biblical takes, as you’ll see below!).
• Seven dollars. Seven colours. Seven brides. Seven rules. Seven miles. There were SO many other inventive takes on SEVEN and a wide variety of genres. Well done all you creative people!

And a special congratulations to this month’s Top Pick story from GG Maklov. You can read it below, along with other shortlisted stories and our longlist at the end. Enjoy!

FEBRUARY TOP PICK:

GOD’S LAZY SUNDAY by GG Maklov, WA

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the Earth. It was a big job—light, water, animals, humans, and all that jazz. By the time he finished, six whole days had passed, and He was exhausted.

So on the seventh day, He kicked back in His divine recliner, threw on some celestial shades, and said, “Alright, I’m done. Time to chill.”

The angels, always eager to please, rushed over.
Michael: “Lord, shall we prepare a grand symphony in your honour?”
Gabriel: “Would you like us to polish the pearly gates?”
Raphael: “I could make you a heavenly feast?”

God waved a hand. “Nah, fellas, today’s about rest. I’m just gonna sit here and vibe.”

He opened a box containing a cosmic TV and flipped it on. The humans were already up to mischief—Eve was trying to get Adam to eat something new, the dinosaurs were picking fights with each other, and one guy was already figuring out how to make wine (God made a mental note to keep an eye on that one).

“Eh,” God muttered, taking a sip from a divine coconut with a tiny umbrella in it. “They’ll figure it out.”

Then, just as He was about to doze off, an angel burst in.
“Lord! Someone built a giant tower to reach you!”
God sighed. “Seriously? It’s Sunday.” He peeked down. Yep, some folks in Babel were halfway to space with their big ol’ ladder to heaven.

With a lazy flick of his wrist, God scrambled their languages. Instantly, the workers were yelling at each other in gibberish. One guy screamed for more bricks, but his friend thought he was asking for a goat. The humans stood there with blank expressions before chaos ensued.

God chuckled and leaned back again. “They’ll be fine.”

After a while, He decided to check on Earth one more time before napping. Somewhere, a man named Noah was building a boat in his backyard, much to the confusion of his neighbours.

God smirked. “I like this guy.”

Then He stretched, yawned, and let the warm glow of the celestial sunset wash over Him. “Yeah, this was a good idea. Sundays are officially for chilling.”

And that’s how the Sabbath was born.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We had a lot of humorous retellings of things this month, but somehow it felt blasphemous NOT to award this the Top Pick nod! The narrative voice instantly lets you know what you’re in for – and all that jazz. What follows is a fun take on God’s well-earned rest day (sitting and vibing), complete with a host of adoring angels and plenty of human dramas unfolding on the TV. We particularly enjoyed how simply by putting the word ‘divine’, ‘celestial’ or ‘cosmic’ in front of ordinary items, they are transformed into God-level items. Silly, but also surprisingly packed with fun details. What can we say – sometimes, humour stands out!

---

CHILD LABOUR by Philippa Freegard, WA

As the seventh son of a seventh son, a lot seemed to fall on Sheridan’s young shoulders. His psychic abilities had been lauded all his short life, and from the age of ten, whenever anyone in the village needed palms read or tealeaves interpreted, Sheridan was expected to sit in his mother’s kitchen and do the honours. Sheridan wished that he had been born sooner, that he could be known as the sporty brother like Tom, the clever one like Malachy, the funny one like Sean or the handsome one like Dermot. Even being the accident-prone one like Callum, or the loud one like Oliver would surely have been better than being the seventh son, seemingly on-call for the whole community’s psychic needs. Here he was in his mother’s kitchen with the Ouija board out again, when he would far rather have been playing Snakes and Ladders.

‘Are you there?’ he asked into mid-air, one finger on the glass while attempting to wobble his voice mysteriously, just as his mother had shown him. ‘Reveal yourself!’ He tried to remember which relative old Mrs Orinoco was trying to contact, and which prediction his mother had whispered that he should try to spell out once he was ‘through’. Money would change hands later, he knew, and the quality of his answers (and spelling) would have a directly proportionate effect on the total involved.

Today, though, his mind went blank, and the glass stayed resolutely still. ‘We’ll try the cards instead,’ he announced, and his mother frowned and took the ornate wooden box down from the shelf. Sheridan removed the lid with a flourish, gave the long, slippery cards a cursory shuffle and handed them to Mrs Orinoco, who sniffed and tucked a damp tissue up her sleeve. Oh that’s right, remembered Sheridan, her husband died last month. ‘Mix them all up until they feel ready, Mrs Orinoco.’

Sheridan spread the cards in the pattern his mother always suggested, so that he could talk about the past, the present and the future while gesturing to different parts of the layout. And then he rested his chin on his hands and concentrated deeply for a minute or so, imagining his mind opening a silvery tunnel for his thoughts to flow through, like at the aquarium. From the corner of his eye he saw his mother casually twist the aircon dial. A convincing chill was what she liked to provide at this point.

‘Oh, Mrs Orinoco’, Sheridan said, grasping the older woman’s hand and gazing deep into her eyes, ‘There is a dark-haired man here, who seems to be worried that you are being taken advantage of. He says, don’t be so trusting of people around you, otherwise in the near future you could end up losing money. Please be careful!’

‘Your Sheridan is amazing!’ he heard Mrs Orinoco say gratefully, handing over a wad of notes as his mother showed her out. ‘Such a comfort. I’ll be sure to take that advice!’

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Poor Sheridan. All he wants to do is go outside and kick a football around, or fall off a ladder like his brother Callum. But no – he’s fated to join the family business in deceiving the townsfolk out of their hard-earned cash. We enjoyed the scene-setting here and the theatrics that Sheridan employs in this well-rehearsed act (his mother nearby, ready to switch on the air-conditioning and collect the money). Whether Sheridan has any actual special abilities is left hanging, but it’s clear that this seventh son would rather sabotage the reading and expose the scam. However, the delightful way it backfires ensures Sheridan isn’t playing footy any time soon…

---

THE FAIREST BID OF ALL by Jeffrey Chung, QLD

Snow White stood at the back of the auction room, clutching her paddle like it was a lifeline. The air smelled of designer cologne that is forty dollars too cheap and a mix of misplaced confidence, paper wealth and debt-fuelled delusions. The auctioneer, a man whose teeth were whiter than his conscience, flashed a smile so polished it could sell a shoebox for a couple of million dollars.

“Ladies and gentlemen! A rare gem in Surry Hills – studio with one bathroom opportunity. Who will start us off?”

Snow inhaled sharply. This was it. Her shot at escaping the rental grind, the eccentric share-house mates, the landlords who “just needed to pop by” every other week. She could see it now—her own home, her own rules, no passive-aggressive notes on the fridge. A step on the property ladder.

“1.3 million.” She looked left to see who opened the bid. It’s Grumpy.

Shit. She is already close to her limit.

“1.5.” Doc chimed in, adjusting his glasses like he had done the math and decided annoying Grumpy had a much better ROI.

The chill of reality set in – she is way out of her league. Did she think she could outbid a family that owns a mining operation? But she had spent years skipping the avocado toast, saving every cent and sacrificing holidays. This was meant to be her heritage-charm fixer-upper.

She swallowed hard. She couldn’t borrow more than $1.4 million, but she didn’t care. She had to win. She raised her paddle. “1.8.”

The room fell silent, eyes swivelling toward her like she had just declared she could fly. A ripple of murmurs spread.

Then, from the back – slick, self-assured, smug – “2 million.”

Snow felt her stomach drop.

Prince Charming. Of course. The man who collected homes like trophies, who had never learned the rules of life because he had the cheat codes. He strolled in late, tailored suit impeccable, like he was here to grace them with his presence rather than actually compete.

Snow’s throat tightened.

“2.5.” she called, even as a small voice in her head yelled, And you will paying in Japanese yen?

“Three million,” Prince Charming said, not even looking up from his phone.

The auctioneer’s gavel came down with an air of inevitability.

“Sold! To Prince Charming, for three million!”

Polite applause. A handshake. A done deal.

Snow White blinked. Her mind went blank when it was supposed to be angry and swearing. Just like that, the dream was gone. Her nose tickled and her eyes were damp.

Outside, the Sydney sun blazed down as she stepped onto the pavement. Behind her, Prince Charming laughed, already discussing his “passive income stream” on Instagram.

The real estate agent sidled up to her, his too-white teeth gleaming. “Tough luck,” he said, voice seeping with slimy sympathy. “Young people nowadays can’t compete with miners and royals. Property is not the only way to secure your future honey. Have you considered crypto?”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Part fairytale unravelled, part social commentary, we enjoyed Snow’s inner thoughts throughout this fun piece. With a title that tips its hat to the original tale, this story of generational property woe feels very ‘now’. Sprinkling the auction action with a few dwarves was a fun touch (flush with cash from their FIFO HIHO mining operation) – the little guys now rivals rather than loving housemates, and the surprise appearance of Prince Charming is hilarious. Subverting everything we expect from these characters is fun and even the final crypto suggestion is a suitably slimy slap in the face for our unfortunate Snowy protagonist!

---

AT LEAST YOU CAN HAVE A GLASS OF WINE by Anna Bhantana, NSW

In January, the pink line appeared.

Faye stared at it blankly. The world seemed to have stopped still. The tap dripping in the sink, had frozen in time. The clock’s ticking had suddenly gone silent.

In January, a pink line appeared. Julie screamed and hugged Brian! They danced around the kitchen.

“We’re pregnant!” they screamed into the camera. Julie hit the record button again, ending the video, “I’m going to message Faye, she’s going to be so excited. We can dress the babies in matching outfits, it’s going to be so cute!”

“Hmmm” Brian hesitated. “Maybe just chill with the texts for now, Faye doesn’t even know how to contact the guy.”

In February, morning sickness kicked in. Faye was barely able to hold down sips of water. She opened another box of heartburn tablets as she sighed and grabbed her work bag on the way out the door.

In February, Julie had cravings for sausages for breakfast. Brian also made her pancakes and brought her freshly squeezed juice. He put a little flower on the tray.

In March, Faye and Julie met for brunch.

“I’m just going to get some plain toast,” Faye exhaled. “Do you feel as wretched as me?”

Julie laughed and ordered a fruit bowl and a strawberry smoothie,

“Actually I feel great. I swear my skin is already glowing. And don’t worry, it’ll all be worth it! Plus, we’re going through this together. Besties for life! And our babies will be besties too.” She said, raising her eyebrows.

“Whether they like it or not.” Faye giggled.

In April, Faye quietly told her boss that she was pregnant and would need to take maternity leave from September. She knew this meant that her plans for moving up the corporate ladder would be put on hold.

In April, Julie began telling family and friends. She bought little booties so that she and Brian could make a cute announcement on social media.

In May, Faye went for an ultrasound – it's a boy! She was starting to feel a nervous excitement as it all became real. Thinking about names and little socks and little outfits and chubby little fingers.

In May, Faye texted Julie, but got no reply.

In June, Faye felt the baby moving and kicking for the first time.

In June, Faye texted Brian who said that Julie was not ready for visitors yet. He also told Faye that he’d packed away all the baby things they’d bought, and that when Julie was ready they would try again.

In July, Faye had a small baby shower. Julie didn’t come.

In July, Julie and Brian moved away. They didn’t say goodbye. They simply made a short announcement on social media stating they were looking forward to starting afresh in a new location.

In July, Faye wondered how she would do this alone.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We shift gears here, away from the satire and fun to a more serious take on the prompts. Using seven months to play out two parallel pregnancy journeys is very effective – not signposted but clear from the beginning. You can immediately read between the lines that Faye and Julie are in two different places with this news and as the months go by, we can see the differences but also similarities. And then comes May. From here, the two paths diverge and we’re left with what remains after the rug is pulled out from a shared future. Sadly, many can relate to this subject matter and by never changing from its initial format of short paragraphs, it creates a powerful picture – capped off with a title that reeks of a typical tone-deaf reaction.

---

SEVEN THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU by Alfindy Agyputri, WA

I hate the way you made us laugh after I mixed up the cashews with peanuts.
I hate how you were so chill after that ladder almost fell on you.
I hate it that you opened the chocolate box I gave you but never ate it.
I hate the way you stared blankly at the car that just missed you.
I hate it when you spat out the coffee I made you because it was bitter.
I hate it when you found out your EpiPen was filled up with something else.
And the seventh thing I hate the most that you do…
You just refuse to die!

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

Barely over 100 words in length, many will be throwing their hands up now in confusion at how such a short story can make the showcase. And trust us when we say that it’s pretty rare. But this month’s SEVEN prompt made this particular repetition possible, and this story found a way to make the prompts work without feeling shoehorned – with the seven things the format of the story itself. Would it work in another month? Probably not! Would we want to KNOW why they wish this person dead? Yes, most likely! But this kind of creative risk paid off this time around. 

---

SEVEN FIGURES IN THREE EASY STEPS by Karen Peradon, WA

Bernardo Dolarado jumped off the bottom rung of his ladder with a flourish. Another day another dollar, another town another crown. He looked up at the poster he had just nailed to the noticeboard outside the town hall.

‘Make Seven Figures in Three Easy Steps!’

Greed, the second of the seven deadly sins, was a dead cert weakness of nearly every adult he had encountered. And these seven words reeled them in every time.

That evening he took $50 off the one hundred plus participants. When the excited crowd settled, he stood on the stage in his tailored suit, crisp white shirt and subtle tie. He kept his hair medium length and not slicked back. Bernardo must never look like a salesman or the second part of his scheme wouldn’t work. He had practiced authenticity until he truly believed in himself. His audience connected with him, liked him and ultimately, trusted him.

“You’re here to find out how to make seven figures in three easy steps,” he opened with. “Who wants that?”

The crowd clapped and shouted ‘yes’!

“Well, I’m happy to announce you’ve already completed the first step by showing up here this evening.”

He applauded his audience who responded with more cheers.

“The second step is to join my program which I’ll tell you about now. And the final step is to follow the instructions in the kit you’ll receive in the post within the week.”

His talk consisted of half an hour of jargon, (including some made up terms), a graph that was as explanatory as a cartwheeling albatross and some answers to questions that would make a word wizard proud.

The crowd left nodding heads and paying their week’s salary for his guaranteed ‘make seven figures program’.

A few months later, Bernardo rubbed his hands together in the chill winter. One more show and he was on a plane to Costa Rica with a suitcase of Hawaiian shirts and an offshore account with several seven figures securely stockpiled.

His smile dropped when he went backstage to change into his suit. Three men waited for him.

“Hello fellas, the seminar starts in about an hour,” he said, trying not to let his Adam’s apple bob up and down.

One man nodded towards a table which had a box on it. “What do you call this?” he said.

“Ah,” Bernardo managed, swallowing hard and eyeing the exit.

“Not so fast Bernardo. Or should I say Barry.”

“Um,” Bernardo stuttered. “You see…”

“Open it,” the second man instructed.

Bernardo knew what was inside. He had packed the box himself.

The third man lifted his hoodie to reveal a gun in his waistband. Bernardo placed shaking hands on the box and lifted the lid. Inside was a brick of clay wrapped in plastic and a leaflet on how to carve seven figurines.

“I never specified…” was all he got out before the gun cracked across the side of his head and he blanked out.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Oh, that Bernardo Dolarado – up to his sneaky semantic tricks again! And what a ride he takes us on, from the prep-work for the show, to the presentation itself and then his comeuppance months later. Through it all, we are treated to a slick salesman and a small mystery of sorts – revealed in the final act. (Personally, we think it seems legit – those attendees really should have asked more questions!) A fun character study with some hoodwinking thrown in for good measure – nicely done!

---

THIS WEEK by Cheryl Lockwood, QLD

Monday, the box arrived. Delivered in a company van. I signed for it and thanked the driver, though my gratitude was merely politeness. The card attached was as flowery as an English garden. The sender’s message on the inside; the back was blank. The box was weightier than I expected, but I felt no urgency to tear off the copious amount of tape wrapped like a network of overlapping roads around it. It could wait. I put on the kettle.

Tuesday, the box sat exactly where I’d left it, smack bang in the middle of the kitchen table. Not ideal, unless I wanted to brave the chill of the verandah to eat my breakfast. I moved it to the bench. For now, I thought. I’d think about it after I’ve eaten. After the dishes. After I got dressed. After a walk. I slipped my coat over my pyjamas, slamming the door on my way out.

Wednesday, the box was in my way as I reached up to the shelf for a coffee mug, causing me to drop it. An expletive as it shattered. I brushed the shards aside and took the mug next to it. It was Bill’s favourite, but I knew he wouldn’t mind. I cradled its smoothness, tracing the fine cracks that ran like crooked ladders across its surface.

Thursday, I shifted the box to the lounge room. On the coffee table. I rested my feet next to it while I watched TV and considered the stale odour of my pyjamas.

Friday, Jean called. Yes, it arrived, I responded to her query. No, I hadn’t decided. We talked about everything and nothing for a long time as sisters often do. Take care, she ended our call. The box sat, as if patiently waiting my attention.

Saturday, Bill’s mug left circular stains on the box. I drew dots and lines on the cardboard, turning the circles into happy, little faces, which made me smile. Laura on the phone. I suspected Jean had called her. Of course, I’m alright. My response snappy to her gentle question. My apology immediate.

Sunday, Laura on my doorstep, bright and bubbly, hiding her daughterly concern. We sat on the sofa, the box in front of us, like an eavesdropper to our conversation.

“What about the beach?” she said. “Dad would like that.”

“He would have,” I agreed. My emphasis on the past tense obvious.

“I mean, when you’re ready, of course. We could all come down.” She went on. “Maybe have a picnic, if the weather is right.”

“Yes,” I murmured, wondering if I’d ever be ready. Wondering if there were rules and protocol for spreading ashes.

“Yes,” I said more firmly. “He would like that.”

I fetched a pair of scissors and ran the blade down the tape on the box.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Another mystery, but this one isn’t comedic as our narrator documents her week with a package that she cannot bring herself to open. As each day goes by, we get more and more insights into her life (the pajamas, Bill’s favourite mug, the stale odour). It becomes clear that this is a week in the life of someone who is grieving, and even before the dialogue kicks in at the end, we sense what must be in this box criss-crossed with tape. There is no dramatic twist or reveal – simply a decision that is made by mother and daughter that brings this week-long vigil to an end. There is also no need to tell us what is inside the box – it has been shown through the simple but effective storytelling.

---

THE SEVENTH DAY by Liz Maclean, NSW

Be fruitful, we were told.

Have dominion over all fish, fowl, fruit and foliage, we were told.

It’s been a busy week creating the heavens and earth and I’m off to chill now, we were told.

What happened next on that inaugural day of rest is still infuriating me. I’ve turned it over in my mind for eons and one fact remains puzzling. I can’t figure it out. I’ve drawn a blank.

You’ve probably been taught that I was to blame, that I was the reason we were expelled from paradise, that it was me that cursed womanhood from that day on to the injustice of subservience and the pain of childbirth. Like Pandora, that poor little girl fated by Zeus to open her box and smite sorrow upon her fellow humans, history has sourced us for the frailty and wickedness of women.

But I maintain I was framed. I say it’s a stitch up. From the very beginning, someone wanted to make sure us ladies were held back. The fact that my husband also ate the plucked fruit has been glossed over as an inconsequential detail.

So, in my defense, consider the fact that it was physically impossible for me to reach the forbidden fruit unaided. To my accusers I say, where in God’s earth did that ladder come from?

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We bookend our showcase with yet another Biblical take. This time, it’s a concise story from Eve’s point of view, as she grapples with the events that led to her infamous kleptomanic orchard event. (“Be fruitful, we were told” – clearly a set up!) And really, when you see it from this new perspective, Eve has a point. In this age of conspiracy theories, there is something to be said for the patriarchy being at work right from the start. All that aside, it was possibly one of the best appearances of a ladder (and a great sentence to accompany it) this month!

---

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we include an extra LONGLIST (approx top 10%) of stories that stood out from the submitted hundreds, were considered for the showcase (some were very close) and deserve an ‘honourable mention’. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, take a moment to celebrate! 

THIS MONTH’S LONGLIST (in no particular order):

• SOAP AND WATER by Emily Kirkpatrick, NS
• SNOW BLACK by TJ Pender, WA
• FRIDAY THE 14TH by Barbara Sanford, USA
• TOMATOES by Kate Romey, NSW
• SEVEN DAYS by Candice Tan, NSW
• TWO BARGAINS FOR THE PRICE OF ONE SOUL by Bruno Lowagie, Belgium
• YOU BET by Jennifer Moore, UK
• EVERY GIRL NEEDS A HOBBY by Shelby Kisgen, USA
• THE TREASURE by John Walker, NSW
• MY FINAL INTERVIEW by Tim Law, SA
• NOSE JOB by Barbara Braun, VIC
• WORK-A-HOLIC by Jess Lawrence, USA
• SIXES AND SEVENS by Peter Jordan, WA
• SIEBEN by Greg Eccleston, NSW
• FIFTY’S GIFT OF FREEDOM by Pamela Reid, VIC
• THE SEVENTH BRIDE by Nin Estelle, VIC
• SEVEN DEADLY FRIENDS by Tanner Goldberg, USA
• HELL OF A MEETING by Sarah Fisher, QLD
• THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO MARTHA by Tiffany Harris, USA
• THE SEVENTH HORSESHOE by H.E.Ryland, UK
• SEVEN MINUTES IN HEAVEN by Ariana Sim, NSW
• GRANDMA’S SECRET by Menuchimzi Orlu, Nigeria
• COLORS YOU MIGHT SEE AFTER GETTING PUNCHED IN THE FACE by Deidra Lovegren, USA
• SEVEN YEARS by Samantha Jeffree, SA
• WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE VON TRAPP KIDS? by Erica Sharlette, UK
• LOCKDOWN: ANTOINETTE JOURNALS AT DAY’S END by Kristof Mikes-Liu, NSW
• BURTON’S WILL by Michał Przywara, Canada
• THE BOX AND THE SEVEN SOULS by Noor, Pakistan
• SEVEN STARS by Andrew Harrison, NSW
• THE MARKET STALL by Ellen Townsend, UK
• BAD INFLUENCE by Heidi Couvee, ACT
• SEVEN ROSES FOR A LOVELY LADY by S L Jones, NSW
• EIGHT by Andrea Moscrop, VIC
• REGRETS: HE HAD A FEW by Diane Lee, SA
• THE PAST WEEK by Aleena Flack, WA
• THE CAROUSEL by Jess Tunnage, NSW
• THE WHISPER by Jenny O’Hara, WA
• SATURDAY NIGHT IS MURDER NIGHT by Simon Shergold, USA
• THE SEVENTH PAIR by Alison Clark, QLD
• THE 8TH SIN by Ryan Butta, NSW
• FREEDOM WILL WAIT by Jo Senecal, USA
• INSIGHT by James Bird, NSW
• IT’S THE LITTLE THINGS by Courtney Larson, WA
• NEIGHBOURS FROM HELL by Paul Dunn, NZ
• HOW TO BE HAPPY by Helen Auld, NSW
• THE KINGDOM OF DWARVES by S.L. Stratton, NSW
• A MARATHON AND A SPRINT by Katie Kessler, USA
• FUTILE TRUTH by Laura Summerfield, Canada
• THE RAPTURE by Isla Fisher, NSW
• MULTIPLE FACTORS by Annie B. Fulton, USA
• MOURNING WEEK by Pat Saunders, WA
• THE POWER OF SEVEN by Rosemary Baldry, NSW
• COUNTING TO TEN by Skeetsie, VIC
• HARPOONED by Sophie Holmick, QLD
• THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS by Robert Fairhead, NSW
• THIS WEEK by Cheryl Lockwood, QLD
• INCY GETS A LADDER by Romany Jane, ACT
• FAVOURITES by James Maley, WA
• SEVEN TYPES OF FRIENDS by David Klotzkin, USA
• TABLE SEVEN by Maddison Scott, VIC
• I SEE DAFT PEOPLE by KE Fleming, NSW