Welcome to our first Furious Fiction Showcase for the year! This is the place where we recap this month’s creative challenge and let thousands of people enjoy our favourite 500-words-or-fewer stories. Let’s revisit what the prompts for this one were:

• Your story must take place at a beach.
• Your story must describe at least two smells, two sounds and two textures.
• Your story must include the words KISS, HABIT and SQUARE (Longer variations, e.g. “kissed” or “squaring” are acceptable.)

Yes, a beach. It’s summer here in the Southern Hemisphere and we get to call the shots. Of course, we welcomed wintery beach scenes too and received plenty in the 700+ submissions. As well as a big bucket (and spade) of romance and nostalgia, we also had bodies being found on the beach, wartime beach invasions, turtle migrations and more. 

As for the required words, let’s just say that if people weren’t being kissed, the sun certainly was. Old habits featured, along with nuns, while nerdy squares rubbed shoulders with town squares, pocket squares and even the square of 45 (which, yes, is 2025). Clever!

The biggest talking point this month however was the sensory overload we dumped upon you – requiring at least two SMELLS, TEXTURES and SOUNDS in your story. Of course, invoking the senses is always a solid storytelling technique, so we’re pleased to say that most stories were simply better for giving us these details. Doing so in an original way with such a familiar setting as a beach is always the challenge – so well done to those who sought out less obvious aromas, surfaces and noises!

In fact, well done to ALL those who entered this month’s challenge so early into the new year. Keep the habit going! And a special congratulations to this month’s Top Pick story from Madeleine Armstrong. You can read it below, along with other shortlisted stories and our longlist at the end. Enjoy!

JANUARY TOP PICK:

THE DEVIL’S WINDCHIMES by Madeleine Armstrong, UK

Mum hands me a square tupperware full of Dad’s ashes.

“We can’t take him in that.”

“It’s all I’ve got,” she shrugs. I won’t argue with her, today of all days, so we drive to the coast in silence.

On the prom by the castle the wind doubles us over, whooshing through the boats’ metal masts, setting off an eerie keening. The devil’s windchimes, Dad called that sound. He had a flair for the dramatic.

Mum hops onto the deserted beach, boots crunching across stones, the tupperware held out like an offering. Her tiny, bird-boned body is buffeted, in danger of being blown away. I follow, nuzzling into my borrowed scarf in an attempt to keep warm. The ghost of Dad’s favourite aftershave, Eau Sauvage, is embedded in the wool that prickles my cheek.

What are we doing here? Dad didn’t particularly like the sea; born and raised in landlocked Manchester, he could barely swim. He’d have laughed at this sad little procession, battered by the gale that’s kept any sane person inside.

Ahead, Mum opens the tupperware and starts throwing handfuls of Dad towards the ocean, only for them to blow back in our direction before swirling into the sky. I angle myself away, not wanting a mouthful of ash.

She thrusts the box into my hands. Out of habit, I smile, trying to reassure her. Then I plunge my bare fingers into the grains of him, more like grit than sand. I might be holding the remains of his heart or brain; or just an ankle or the Man City shirt he was cremated in.

I grab a fistful and aim at the white-tipped waves. The wind must have dropped because it finds its target, settles in a clump on the water, then sinks. The stench of seaweed and decay is overpowering, then the breeze whips up again, carrying it away.

Mum sobs, or it might be a seagull’s squawk. It’s hard to tell amid the racket of fluttering windcheaters and 40mph gusts. My eyes remain disappointingly dry, despite the weather’s best efforts.

We throw a few more handfuls but it’s getting unbearable, so I motion towards a café on the seafront. Mum nods. She launches one last bit of Dad into the surf, blows a kiss at the air, and inexplicably puts the lid back on the tupperware. I wonder what she’s going to do with the rest of him. Wouldn’t it be better just to leave him all here? But her hollow face holds a challenge, and it’s not like I can ask with this storm filling our ears, so we stagger to the café, falling inside like exhausted explorers returning from an Arctic expedition.

She puts the tupperware on a rickety table and sits down while I go to the counter, stamping life back into my feet, warmed by the reassuring familiarity: the smell of coffee, the hiss of steam, the clunk as the barista empties out the spent grounds.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Using the square prompt to give us a tupperware container is simple and effective here as we are immediately plunged into WHY these characters have found themselves at the beach. And through a gently humorous tone, we see the final wishes of a landlocked soul play out in rather comic fashion. Even the simple phrasing of “throwing handfuls of Dad towards the ocean” is dark genius – the imagery amid the head wind and seagulls about what most Aussies assume the British beach experience to be! Throughout, small details tug at something deeper (“my eyes remain disappointingly dry, despite the weather’s best efforts”) and that’s the beauty of this story – it just feels real. And if the fleeting nature of life hasn’t already been made clear, the final comparison chimes in with the spent coffee grounds as a lovely footnote. 

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DRIFT by Jason Schembri, VIC

Nadia came to this beach every Sunday. No one ever asked why. It was a habit, comforting and punishing all at once—like breathing, like forgetting to watch the kettle until it screamed, like leaving the mug to grow cold in her hands.

She walked the stretch of tired sand from the footpath all the way to the water’s edge, letting coarse grains cling to her bare feet. Her hand went instinctively to her pocket, and she forced herself to wrap her arms around her body instead, protecting herself from the biting wind, or perhaps just holding herself together.

Today, the air was thick with the tang of salt and something older, earthier—the decay of seaweed left to bake in the grey light. The tide was low, the surf reluctantly receding and leaving behind a graveyard of mementos: slick stones, forgotten shells, scraps of paper dissolved into pulp.

A gull shrieked, and for a moment Nadia mistook it for the heartfelt laugh of a man. The sound tugged at something deep in her, a place she wasn’t ready to visit just yet.

Her hand yet again found her pocket, and this time she allowed herself to reach in and touch its contents—a square of paper, creased and softened by time. She didn’t take it out, not yet. She let her fingers trace it, feeling the faint impressions of words written long ago. They had once felt urgent, important. Now, they were just faded lines of ink.

The tide inched closer, foam kissing the frayed hem of her jeans. She refused to move, didn’t flinch as the icy chill crawled up her ankles. Instead she looked out to the horizon, where the sky and the sea became one in a mediocre, smudged line. She pressed the paper between her fingertips.

He used to love this beach—everything about it, even the things she hated. He would marvel at the fighting gulls, trace the shapes of waves with his finger, dig in the sand until it fit them perfectly. And again the gull cried, and with it came his laugh, here for a moment and then whipped away by the wind. It wasn’t the memory that hurt, it was what came after. The awareness that he was only a memory. A silence, an empty chair, a mug that no one drank from anymore.

The note slipped from her hand before she even realised she’d let it go. It hesitated in the air for a moment, then, remembering the natural way of the world, fluttered down to the water, landing with a ripple too small to notice. Nadia watched it drift, dragged away by the tide until it was out of sight. The ocean knew how to take things, how to hold them.

The tide surged and lapped at her feet again, colder now. Nadia exhaled a slow, steady breath and turned away from the sea, not looking back. The waves would be there tomorrow. So would she.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

To say that we received a lot of stories this month about remembering lost souls while at the beach, well, that would be an understatement! There is clearly something about this location that lends itself to nostalgia and connection to loss. And here, we were drawn in by the powerful use of simple metaphor and personification. At the heart of the story we have a familiar scene – a woman grieving for a lost love. Yet through the smells, textures and sounds, we are transported there in an incredibly effective way – feeling each crash and silence as Nadia does. A masterclass in sensory storytelling.

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MUDLARKS by Charlotte Chidell, VIC

Small boys, barelegged and barefoot, clothed in squares of ragged cloth that barely cover their torsos, run towards the worn stone steps leading to the river. They avert their eyes from Execution Dock where two men were hanged the day before. As the hapless felons slowly died from asphyxiation, to loud jeers from the crowd, their limbs spasmed in a Marshall’s Dance. Two nuns in medieval black and white habits are praying for their souls, kissing and counting their rosary beads.

The boys jump over strands of green weed clinging to the lower steps, before landing on the gritty sand. One slips and lands awkwardly, involuntarily crying out before limping towards the river bed. They ignore a Lascar passed out from drink, a bottle still in his hand, his lower clothing wet.

The beach, a strip of shattered oyster shells, rock and grit, mixed in with rat and dog droppings and rotting fish heads that attract mewing gulls, disappears at high tide. Cuts from glass or shards of pottery are not uncommon and produce festering sores. The icy wind is blowing from the south west and carries the acrid stench from the Bermondsey abattoirs that discharge waste directly into the river. The dense, anaerobic mud, partly visible at low tide, is impregnated with human and animal dung and frequently a dead body or two. Black hulks of prison ships slowly emerge from the thick sea fog, their masts like beseeching hands, audible screams hinting at dire punishments.

Even at low tide, the water reaches mid-thigh, the claylike treacherous riverbed a clenched embrace. A boy drowned last week when he was unable to escape the incoming tide. The river rose by several feet in minutes, sweeping him off his feet before he disappeared. The smaller boys decide to try their luck on the beach further up river, hesitant to enter the freezing water.

Risk has to be balanced against reward. The pickings are better towards the centre of the river where the bigger ships pass at high tide. Each child is adept at feeling with his feet, so poor visibility due to the thick fogs, whilst disorienting, does not discourage them. Nails or iron or copper or rope dropped from ships can earn a few farthings and put a meal on the table. Sometimes a lump of coal is found and on rare fortunate occasions, a coin or two. Their treasure can be sold on the street or at the Rag Fair at the end of Cable Street, along the old Hoggestrete. Pickpocketing at the fair also brings rewards, but woe betide any boy that cannot run away fast enough if he is caught.

Today is a good day due to heavy river traffic and very large ships. Back on shore the boys compare their pickings. They have found several buttons, two silver thimbles and some glazed pottery. Three or four lumps of coal were discovered partially buried on the shoreline. They have earned their keep. Tonight, their family will not starve.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

For those unfamiliar with the place names and other clues, at first this visceral tale speaks of a truly fictional dystopia – a fetid hellscape where sores fester, rats thrive and prison ships scream in the fog. So, with that in mind, welcome to London! Yes indeed – this historical piece (although even low tide today might conjure some of the same sights and smells) places us at the edge of the Thames and all its gory glory. Mudlarking this river in modern times has whole Youtube channels devoted to it, but back in this time, it was indeed about keeping food on the table. We loved the vivid scene this evocative piece painted – amid the sand dunes and icecream cones of many stories this month, it provided an oddly ‘refreshing’ entry!

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THE SANDMAID’S TALE by Jay McKenzie, QLD

Underfoot, the sand cracks like donut glaze sugar. A gull screams to the clouds that you are seventeen with lips unkissed and skin untouched. You are shaped and shelved like old paper, fearing the best days are already back there, marked out in smaller footprints on an empty beach.

Here, nobody comes, because the cafes are too far, the waves too angry, the sweep too vast for casual dippers. Save for a habitual dog walker, you are always alone here.

You tramp another stormy path down to the wash, stick in hand. At the edge, you scrawl a rudimentary heart, but the sand there is too soft, too wet, and only a ghost-lip remains just moments after you put it there.

You start with fear. A few more steps and you write anxiety. Further on, you pause, take a moment to pull the salt-tang into your lungs, your nostrils, scratch the word loneliness onto the sand. The upright ls, the stretched melancholy of the o, the quiet hopefulness of the trailing esses. You wait for the lick, and it comes fast, taking fear and anxiety with the stealth of a swift assassin. But loneliness remains. The sea slipped around it, shied away from the putrid stench of being alone.

A forearm swiped across an eye. When will this break? This hunger for companionship? You stumble up the beach, away from the stain of the stubborn word and trip over her.

She has been hewn tenderly out of sand: a mermaid, a three-dimensional effigy of a half-woman washed ashore. Rough, yes, but there is beauty in the curve of her breast and the dip of her waist, the scales showing the active muscle of fish in motion.

Hello? you say. The wind snatches your voice, carrying it away on a sour southeasterly. Where did you come from?

You collect shells, sea pennies, evicted crab homes to bring her as gifts. You lay them squarely around the fins, encasing her in a box, marvelling as you press them into the sand that she – like your loneliness – has survived the curled lip of the spindrift.

When the sun hangs low as the pregnant belly of a whale, you lie beside her. Your cheek rests on her shoulder, sand gently crusting in the damp channels that stretch from your eyes to your chin.

In the whorl of her shell-ear, you whisper the rhythm of your dreams, sing a ballad of fear in a minor key, and she listens, rapt and silent. You trace a finger down her body, shiver as she responds in the gentle shift of something crumbling away.

Wait for me, you say. I’ll return tomorrow.

In the morning, only the glimmering altar in white, in pink, in grey remains. No trace of her pressed into the sand.

At the shoreline, loneliness endures, out of reach of the sea’s bitter tongue.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Many beach stories talk of connection, friendship, family and romance – but on the flipside, you also can’t find a more lonely place on earth than an empty beach. We thought this story conveyed that fact deftly – opening with a tangible comparison and making it mean something as we trace the footsteps of this lonely soul to the shore and explore their fear, anxiety and loneliness up close. Using the words in the sand provides a lovely callback later, as well as the introduction to an unlikely sandy companion who provides fleeting comfort. Ultimately however, it’s all about nature’s cruel and ethereal temperament – hopes washed away and loneliness left behind. Like an expertly crafted sand sculpture, you cannot help but stop and admire this story’s form.

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ROCK BY THE SEA by Naomi Livingston, NSW

They were obviously lovers, he thought. Both were young, lean, tanned. They lay on their towels, side by side. The one in the blue swimmers with little bows gently stroked the thigh of the one in the black one piece. Her fingertips only just grazed the smooth skin glistening from perhaps sunscreen, or having just returned from the water, he was not certain. His face scrunched to one side as he observed. Black one piece had her hand tucked under her head, eyes closed, a mass of red curls sitting in puddles around her face as she smiled the smallest of smiles. He could recognise that expression. Contentment. Ease. Peace.

Unconsciously, habitually, he fiddled with the seam of his shirt, running his thumb back and forward over the course stitching, letting his thumbnail pluck each thread. A father stood with his small son at the water’s edge. A pink hue blossomed over the father’s shoulders. It must be at least midday, he reasoned. The light on the water flooded across the waves, only sharpening on the peaks of the swells of water. Prime sunburn time. But the father didn’t react, he just held tight to his son, whose bare bottom peaked out from beneath his green floater vest, a smile as wide mirrored on his upturned face. So much intimacy in such a public place.

He shifted on the spot uncomfortably and his shoes gave a stiff squeak. Further along the shoreline, a large craggy boulder sat. He questioned its existence in the landscape. The way it lay tipped on the pale sand. It was an alien presence in an environment that otherwise made sense to him. So he wondered what its purpose may be. To give a sense of scale? A reminder of stillness amidst constant motion? The slowness of evolution against the daily fluctuations of the tide? Heaviness existing alongside lightness? How was he to know the answer? Frustration surged in his chest. But then he noticed something. The tiniest red square seemingly floating in mid-air. A book.

From out behind the edge of the boulder a red book hovered. No. He squinted. It was held. Its cover was flicked open and pages blurred as one hand held the spine while the other hand reached to calm the effects of the breeze. He breathed out. The purpose of the heavy dark monument was to shelter this unknown and unseen figure. This was his answer. Not the lovers, not the father and son. This figure was the answer. Alone but in the company of words. Invisible but the presence of granite and quartz as their shadow. Untouched, except by the kiss of the breeze, the embrace of the water and the companionship of stone.

A bell rang in the distance and the scent of coffee brewing brought him back to his body. He should be going, he thought. But he stepped forward, getting so close to the surface of the painted canvas he swore he could smell the sea.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Beaches are a great place for people watching (and for getting inspiration for stories!). And at first, that seems to be what’s happening here. Our main character watches on from a vantage point to take in the goings on down by the sand. The observations seem almost intrusive and as a reader, the intentions of the viewer are unclear. But then the first clue is perhaps with questioning the boulder – especially its existence for scale. By the time you step back and realise that this beach exists on canvas only, an entire new layer of the story opens up. To read back on the details of the unmoving father, the hues and even just musing on the stories for the people – it makes more sense when you realise they exist only through the imagination of whoever painted it. Cleverly done – an original take on the prompts!

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MY FINAL SUNSET by Kira B, ACT

I had lost count of the beach view sunsets over the years, the change of the seasons impacting the moods of the sea, lying within the sand dunes, entangled in vegetation. I envied the balmy days with no clouds stretching into long, hot nights filled with teen-aged parties on the beach. And hope filled me during the crashing storms which threatened to reveal me to the world.

I remembered my last night with a sharp clarity, that unseasonably warm night I fell in love. He took me to see the sun set over the sandstone cliffs and tessellated rock outcrops, their almost perfectly square formations reflecting the pinks and oranges of the setting sun. I remember the tiny box he gifted me, wrapped in tissue paper. I remember his laughter as he playfully reprimanded me as I shook it to hear if it jangled. I remember his intoxicating cologne as he kissed me after placing the shiny silver necklace around my neck.

He told me not to catch the bus home.

That same night, the man from the bus stop laid me in my grave amongst the spiky greenery on the sand dune, facing west to view the habitual fall of the sun for eternity. The dark dune soil engulfed me, the organic earthy smell mingling with the saltiness of the sand. He clapped his hands above me, ridding himself of the fine particles that stuck to his sweaty hands.

He told me I was joining my sisters now, and that I had played the final part. He stood there gazing into the distance, eyes pausing over multiple points of reference known only to himself, bidding his girls goodbye. Boots squeaking in the sand, he scooped up his few items with a clatter, and walked off through the dense dune scrub.

My family had searched for me that first winter, braving the stinging wind, cold days and icy nights. Community members combed past my resting place. I called out to them, but they didn’t hear. They had been so close. As the seasons came and went, they stopped searching, leaving me and my sisters in the lonely dune hills.

Yesterday a young couple found me. Escaping the beach party at the base of the dunes, they crawled up into a newly created clearing, likely caused by some recent bad weather uplifting some plant roots, disturbing my surroundings. My arm broke free from my grave and I reached out, embarrassed to have disrupted their amorous activities.

And today as the sun set on my final day of unrest, pockets of bright lights lit up the sand dunes parallel to the long winding beach with the discovery of my sisters. The detective had identified me by my necklace. My call had been answered.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

With a The Lovely Bones sense of narration from beyond the grave, this story starts innocent and sweet and full of promise for our character, but everything turns on the line “He told me not to catch the bus home”. At that moment, darkness floods in to fill the narrative void and the sense of anticipation building till that point is paid off in tragic fashion. What elevates this is how the narration does not falter – we continue to receive matter-of-fact updates as to our unnamed victim’s disposal, resting place and ultimate discovery. The result is a haunting piece with a ghost who continues to feel everything.

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ON THE ROCKS by Rosie Francis, Italy

I'm hiding under a hotel beach towel in the fetal position. The icing sugar sand has made a mold of my feverish body and every few minutes I groan involuntarily like a wounded animal. I am a wounded animal! Destroyed by daiquiris. Massacred by martinis. Poisoned by kissing a salt rim.

I'm in paradise but I want it all to end. The sun is probably dancing on the turquoise water and waves lapping the shore but I wouldn't know. I cling onto the towel which smells strongly of frangipani and bleach and isn't thick enough to block out the hot white.

Suddenly a wave of nausea hits me and I have to sit up. As I do, a champagne cork pops somewhere, a starter’s gun. I look over to see a group of women cheering like squawking birds in brightly coloured sarongs. They are toucans under the palm fronds of the tiki bar I spent too many hours at last night.

I am shocked to feel jealousy. Even in my tender state I can't deny how much I adore that giddy buzz of the first drink of the day, followed by the ‘I'm on holiday!' cocktails which taste like tropical fruits and irresponsibility, and smell like Lush bath bombs.

I smell bad. It must be the ouzo oozing out of my pores, its warm toxicity mixing with fake tan. I know I should try and make it into the water, but when I attempted to put suncream on my legs, it came out as thick as toothpaste and I gave up. I need a bottle of water. My tongue feels like a square of old leather. ‘Please let this pass soon,' I whisper, my voice sounding like a middle-aged man.

Just as I lower myself back down on the towel, she arrives, descending onto a sun lounge next to me. She points her chin towards the sky like a sunflower and smiles. Her hair is washed and shiny and her skin is glowing. She's been for a morning run and had an iced coffee by the pool, and as she kicks off her sandals, she takes out a new beach read which she'll enjoy between dips in the ocean. She radiates good choices, inspiring habits and discipline.

I pull the towel back over my head and start to cry. Huge tears roll over my cheeks like beads of oil on a hot pan. She is me who didn't party last night. She is me who went to bed before the world started to spin. She is me who will enjoy today on this beautiful beach. And she is me who won't do it all again tonight.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

This cheeky piece hits the sand running with its brilliant opening sentence. From here, aghast realisations (“I am a wounded animal!”) and alliterative culprits abound and we know we’re in for a fun ride. In particular, the usual joie de vivre that provides the colourful, vibrant backdrop of this tale is flipped on its sore head as our hungover, towel-hiding narrator is in no mood to repeat the previous day’s antics (yet will likely end up doing so anyway!). Whether it’s waves of nausea or squawking champagne popping women instead of seagulls, this is a hilarious romp of sun-kissed regret. The final comparison between her lounger neighbour is a hoot – the cherry on top of this delightful daiquiri of delinquency!

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CRACK OF DAWN by Kerry Cox, WA

There is the faintest glow of light as David unzips the tent. He stumbles out stubbing his toe on a jagged tree root, desperate not to miss it. Groaning, he gropes about, finds the deck chair and sinks into its coarse canvas embrace.

‘Still not a morning person,’ he croaks, closing his eyes, craving more sleep. But the world is waking up. Keepers of night, with their scratching sighs diminish, giving way to birdsong. Breakers crash onto the shoreline, habitually assured.

Despite his haste to see daybreak, David keeps his eyes closed; breathes in the fragrant bushland wildflowers; tastes the fresh salty kiss of the sea. He’d like to stay like this forever. Forget. What he missed; what he’d taken for granted. The countless early mornings when he’d refused to budge.

‘Come on David,’ she’d said, voice soft with patient expectation. ‘It’s still dark, but by the time we get there the sun will just be starting to come up. It’s so lovely. I want to show it to you.’

‘Take a picture’ he’d grumbled, turning over under the bedclothes.

And she had.

Mounting her bicycle each morning, eyes accustomed to the twilight, she’d ridden along the familiar lanes and paths that led to the sea, returning with the proof he’d chosen to ignore. Images of water foaming over pebbles; muted pink hues. Stark white sands and glowing shells. Pelicans; silhouetted on pylons or floating on the harbour, sunlight radiating from the horizon.

‘So many pelicans!’ David had laughed, ‘It’s your signature photograph. And those rays of sunshine. Is that God breaking through?’

‘I love pelicans,’ was all she’d replied.

“Why do you do it? Get up at the crack of dawn just to see the same thing?’

‘Because each day it’s different, even though it’s alike. Watching it makes me feel alive. Humble. Grateful.’

David didn’t listen. Her enchantment with the commonplace baffled him. Requests to accompany her grew fewer. One morning he rose, and she was the one still in bed: her camera sitting squarely on the kitchen table. He hadn’t noticed that she’d gradually ebbed, receding until her tide came no more.

Open your eyes, this is what you are here for, this is what you wanted to understand.

David catches his breath as he beholds the majesty of breaking day. A golden rosy arc emerges from the water, rays emanating purple into the cloudy sky. Effervescent surf continues to roll onto the beach, sucking back over smooth bleached sand, tiny creatures dancing in the wake. A lone star twinkles its goodbye.

Realisation dawns. No picture could ever do it justice. ‘Thank you, Mum,’ whispers David, tears choking his voice.

He stands, picks up the box that’s been waiting by his chair; walks down to the water and tips out the contents; a small amount ascends into the wind and is carried out over the waves. Further along the beach, a solitary pelican stretches its wings, and rises aloft on the breeze.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Two stories about spreading ashes in one showcase? Surely not! But we simply couldn’t go past this heartbreaking vignette – fashioned with a flashback at its core. Some lovely morning details abound, with the diminished scratching giving way to birdsong, before we’re plunged unannounced into the past. And it's here that a love letter to sunrises plays out, initially ambiguous as an important woman in David’s life – eventually revealed to be his mother. By the time he understands the humble, grateful truth, it’s a ritual that he’s too late to share – but he can still enjoy this special ‘dawn of realisation’ all the same. For anyone who has lost someone, we think this story provides a lovely reminder to appreciate the small beauty in nature every day.

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THROUGH WATCHFUL EYES by Jeannae Bierstedt, NSW

Bodies stretched out on towels, slick with sweat, their golden skin kissed by the warmth of the afternoon sun. The air hung heavy, thick with the greasy scent of sunscreen and the sulphuric tang of seaweed that lingers when the tide is low.

The beach hummed with the rhythmic chatter of people too comfortable in their worlds, unaware of the dangers lurking, patient and close, on the periphery. These tourists, so predictable, wrapped up in their distractions, blind to the eyes that never leave them. They think they’re safe. But I’m watching. I’ve been watching for a long time.

There’s one, in particular, who has caught my attention. A stout woman, square sunglasses perched on her nose, lounging beneath an oversized beach umbrella. She pouts for a selfie, then returns to scrolling on her phone, mindlessly picking at a bag of hot chips beside her.

I’ve seen her kind before. Absorbed in their tiny world, thinking they’re invincible, failing to recognise the risks of their frivolity. It’s tedious, really. But I know better. I’ve learned their habits. I know what to do when they stop appreciating what they have, when they take it all for granted- leaving their treasures in the open, like an invitation. An offering.

I edge closer, the hot, dry sand crunching beneath my feet, weaving through a battlefield of abandoned flip-flops, plastic buckets, and forgotten hats. The coarse grains stick to my feet, rough and unyielding. My steps are deliberate, calculated. It’s not about speed; it’s about precision. Patience. I have all the time in the world.

She shifts, a slight adjustment, a glance in my direction. I freeze, blending into the chaos, the heat, the noise. It’s all part of the game — knowing when to stay still, when to advance, when to disappear into the background. She’ll never see me coming.

She rolls onto her stomach and covers her face with a towel. The perfect opportunity. A surge rushes inside me, something primal and instinctive, urging me forward.

This is the moment.

I angle toward the target, body coiling, ready to strike. My eyes are locked onto the prize. The golden treasure awaits. My talons grip the crinkled, foil-lined paper. My beak punctures the bag with a sharp tear. The intoxicating smell of salted victory fills my lungs.

Suddenly, a sharp ringtone pierces the air as the woman’s phone vibrates on the towel beside her. She jerks her head up, her eyes wide with panic.

“Bloody seagull!” she shouts, flinging a sandal in my direction.

I’m already in motion, wings slicing through the air. I dart upward, narrowly avoiding her second attack, my body folding into the wind. I escape into the distance in bitter triumph.

Perched above the lifeguard tower, I watch her scramble below, flustered and frantic. She’ll never understand how close she came. She’ll never understand how easily I could have taken it all.

But there’s always tomorrow. Another bag. Another beach. Those chips will be mine.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

Aaarkk! We couldn’t let a showcase of beach stories be complete without one from a seagull’s point of view! And no, this was not the only submission who had fun with this perspective. The reason this chip-heist piece stood out however, is in the pacing – like a suspense thriller at first, the predator watching its prey. Then the small details and observations as we inch ever closer. By the time our feathered felon lunges for the ‘golden treasure’, there’s a good chance you’ve figured out who – or what – is doing the narration, yet that does little to spoil the fun of this peck-pocket story. We also loved that final promise – oh yes, “those chips will be MINE”. A fun one to end on as we spread our wings and fly away for another month!

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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 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):

• THE BEACH SHOE by Caroline Ross, WA
• THE MAMMOTH WAVE by Pauline Malkoun, VIC
• DRIFTWOOD AND TIDES by Suraj Kumar, India
• WHERE THE TIDE RESTS by Rebecca Hefron, QLD
• SURPRISING, BUT EXPECTED by Deidra Lovegren, USA
• FAMILY BREAK by Kenneth Mann, UK
• SQUARE ONE by Marcelo Medone, Uruguay
• ARRANGEMENT IN BLUE AND WHITE NO.4 by Exeter Stevens, USA
• PEBBLE BEACH ECHOES by Mike Sams, QLD
• DAY 25 by KB, VIC
• BEACH LIFE by Catherine Shovlin, NSWMORNING RESET by David Allsopp, NSW
• CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE SEASIDE KIND by Jeff Taylor, NZ
• GIRL by Jeremy Jones, VIC
• THE LAST ONE by Neil Burlington, Canada
• AWAKE by Ilya Belegradek, USA
• PERFECTLY STILL PEBBLES by Donnalynn Rainey, Canada
• THE DAY THE WORLD CHANGED by Bill Boyd, NSW
• MEMORIES AT THE WATER’S EDGE by Fiona Botterill, QLD
• THE WEIGHT OF SAND by Russell Mickler, USA
• FROM DOWN DEEP by Freya King, QLD
• WHY NOT? By Thomas Moloney, VIC
• THE PROPHETESS by Lindsay Morrison, WA
• UNTITLED by Ella Hind, VIC
• SWEET MELODY by Jayne Economos, NSW
• CARPE DIEM by Jade Cezanne, SA
• TROUBLE by Tim Law, SA
• THE FALSE FRONT by Roxanne Kalinda, QLD
• THE KISS OF WATER by Susan Manwaring, WA
• SCORCHED BY AN OLD FLAME by Sam Woodgarth, QLD
• SAXON SHORE by Nick Hilditch, UK
• TEENAGER ON A BEACH by Catriona McKeown, QLD
• LONGING FOR HOME by Narges Jalali-Kushki, Canada
• THREE SIDES TO EVERY STORY by Dean Gaudoin, VIC
• A SONG FROM MY MOTHER by Josh Townley, SA
• BEACH BELLY by Alana F, VIC
• WAVES BEFORE PEOPLE by Louise Hansen, VIC
• BURNING by Helen Walker, QLD
• HARD BEGINNINGS by EB Davis, ACT
• WHERE THE WAVES REST by Helen Guan, NSW
• THE BEACH WALK by Pat Treleaven, VIC
• FRAGMENTS FROM A SWIMWEAR COMMERCIAL UNDER PRODUCTION by Shankar Menon, India
• THE BUSTER by Stelle Shumack, ACT
• THE WAITING SHORES by Seraphic-Bolu, Nigeria
• WHAT HAPPENS ON THE ISLAND STAYS ON THE ISLAND by Cheryl Lockwood, QLD
• THE FIRST KISS by Grainne Armstrong, Ireland
• GRACE WATMAN LOSES HER SUPERPOWER AND A REALITY TV WILDERNESS SURVIVAL COMPETITION by Rachael Crane, NSW
• I’M NOT STRANGE, JUST IN LOVE by Romany Jane, ACT
• BEACH PILGRIMAGE by Jessica Carroll, VIC
• THE BEACH BODY by Kylie Maguire, QLD
• SICKIE by Jackson Ryan, NSW
• THIRST FOR MURDER by Jo Moran, SA
• THE SEAHORSE by A.M. Obst, UK
• HABITAT by A. Chan, SA
• ECHOES OF DUNKIRK by Elizabeth Morris, VIC
• FURIOUS FICTION by Melanie Noller, QLD
• BAD FUMES by Elijah Heath, QLD