Furious Fiction: July 2024 Story Showcase
Welcome to July’s Furious Fiction story showcase – where we all get to crowd atop the podium of prose and raise the flag of creativity. The prompts for this month’s challenge were:
- Your story must take place at a sporting/competitive event.
- Your story must include something shaking.
- Your story must include the words GOLD, GREEN and GLOBE. (Certain variations were allowed.)
On the doorstep of the 2024 Olympics, we thought we’d be awash with gold medals stories. And, okay, we WERE. But we also loved the weird and wonderful array of other competitive events and sports that emerged – many showcased below. Competitors shook hands or simply found themselves shaking in anticipation, while donning the good old ‘green and gold’ and being ‘best in the globe’!
GOING FOR GOLD
Sporting competitions are often full of drama, action, comedy, tragedy, horror – even romance. Basically, they’re your perfect story vehicle! And as we said, we loved seeing the variety of events you came up with this month. These included:
- Olympic events – often on a track or in a roaring stadium. Sometimes the protagonist was the athlete, but not always – with one of our showcased stories below providing a good example!
- School sports days – another popular venue. And we loved that many stories were told clearly based on a true story as that child yourself or as a proud parent (or teacher) watching on the sidelines.
- Country fairs – bring forth your flowers, cakes and giant pumpkins! There is something about a country fair that just lends itself not only to great stories, but also longer than average story titles (you know who you are).
- Animal races – from the relatively normal horse and dog races to crab racing, frogs, turtles, snails and cockroaches, to name but a few. It made for entertaining viewing, on the most part!
- Eating competitions – we were secretly hoping for some ‘Stand By Me’-style stories of eating challenges. And you delivered, with hot dogs, pies and even watermelons among others.
- Pub Quiz/Trivia nights – who doesn’t love a competition that you can get better at with beer? And we had a bunch of tiebreaking, tip-of-the-tongue tales this month, including one showcased below!
- Sports, duh – And yes, of course you had every other sport imaginable, from football (all codes) to golf, tennis, baseball, basketball and so on! And if you picked something obscure to highlight, nice work – we are now suitably more enlightened than we were a month ago!
So, now to the showcase stories – including our Top Pick of the month from Lena Jensen (congrats!). Lena’s story, along with our shortlist and longlisted stories are all showcased below. Well done to ALL who completed the challenge (we’ve made a giant podium, so come on up) – let’s do it again next month!
JULY TOP PICK
IN THE BLOOD by Lena Jensen, SA
It’s in your blood. That’s the thing about your team. It’s more than just the players. More than the roar of the crowd or the kicking of a ball.
It’s the smell of crushed grass. The sun setting in golden flares behind the goal posts. The tension when the opposition intercepts the ball, and the collective sigh of relief as it soars into the cloudless sky, beyond the posts. The moment your team scores and everyone’s up off their seats.
It’s the atmosphere in the clubroom after, where Teddy the barman pours pint after pint of frothy beer to help us celebrate or commiserate.
‘What do you want to do on your big day Dad?’ my son asked. ‘Maybe we should have a party?’
Strange thing, family. You think they know you, and then they come out with something like that.
‘There’s a new Thai restaurant in town,’ my daughter said. ‘Maybe we could grab a bite to eat there?’
Thai restaurant! Give me a steaming pie smothered in sauce any day.
‘There’s only one thing I’ll be doing next Saturday,’ I told them.
‘Ok,’ they said, rolling their eyes.
It’s a strange thing, family.
Mine is here, in the members’ stand.
Our club isn’t the swankiest. The wooden benches give you splinters, the grandstand’s roof leaks. The rickety old scoreboard needs a volunteer to stand in blazing sun or pelting rain and hang numbers on hooks.
But it’s ours.
And there’s nothing quite like game day.
I take my place in my designated seat, watching people heading for the stands or spreading picnic blankets on the grassy banks. The smell of frying onions wafts over. Kids line up to buy popcorn.
It’s getting emptier by the day here in the members’ stand. One by one, my friends are dropping off.
But I’m still here.
It’s a tense game, but our team wins by ten points. Pride swells my chest.
The players leave the field, their green guernseys spattered with mud.
I head inside to the clubroom. There’s nothing quite like this place. The sweeping vista over the oval. The trophies in glass cabinets. On the walls, photos of teams throughout the years, from sepia to blazing colour. Smells of polish and leather.
There’s a dusty old globe on a metal filing cabinet in the corner. Someone’s stuck a thumbtack into it, in the vicinity of this place. Our little town, on the map.
I’m at the bar about to order a pint when a tinny voice comes over the loudspeaker. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, before you leave, I’ve got a very special announcement.’
Teddy nudges me and points towards the scoreboard.
Letters spelling ‘Happy birthday Joe’ hang from the hooks.
It takes me a moment.
Joe. My name.
The announcer’s speaking again. ‘Today is Joe’s seventieth birthday. And he’s chosen to spend it here, with us.’
Everyone looks towards the clubroom.
I raise my hand, trying to stop it from shaking.
Everyone cheers.
Like I said, it’s in your blood.
FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
Well, someone get a guernsey and drape it around this piece – part mantra, part manifesto, part LOVE LETTER to a sporting fan’s home club. The pacing is wonderful throughout this tale of a dad who can’t understand why you’d want to be anywhere other than in the stands – where your REAL family (ouch) are – eating a meat pie with sauce. “Strange thing, family” sums up this delightful disconnect. Then, as the story unfolds, further layers appear – showing all he has weathered (literally) in the members stand and a poignant hint that times are changing. The final part dispenses with the generics to take us into the post-match clubroom, to celebrate with Joe in the only way he’d want. And while the clues show this story as a fan of AFL, it could so easily be any other sport. Wonderfully told – with beautiful bookend repetition to close it out.
THE SHOT CALLER by Isaac Freeman, SA
For the past 40 years, he has seen winners, losers and the often-forgotten few in between.
He’s cast his eyes on countless colours, from local clubs, to state teams up to the coveted gold and greens.
He’s heard the booming roars of crowds after their eerie silences from around the globe.
He’s watched the kids begging for autographs grow up to sign their pictures.
He’s constantly surrounded by water but barely drenched, only splattered on occasion by the break in its tension.
The lines and tiles of pools from around the world are etched into his memory, as are the faces of victory, loss, determination, pain, joy and anxiety.
He knows how fast swimming can be and he knows how gruelling swimming can be. Yet he doesn’t let anyone know what he is feeling.
He’s the one that gives them their shot.
Recognised only by his peers but not by his unknowing disciples he has remained invisible for the duration of his career – but his family always points out when they see him on TV.
As he enters the aquatic centre and passes reception he sees the luminous stretch of glassy water before him.
His nostrils ignore the chlorine that courses through him and he surveys the pool.
He dips a finger into the cartoon-like blue to feel it.
Cold – but not enough for one to complain about.
He cranes his head as he follows the tightly stretched lane ropes across the 50m lanes.
He wonders how they do it. For hours on end. The relentless back and forth, the strokes that must become monotonously automatic. He certainly couldn’t stand being in the water for hours on end – he always preferred to be out of it, but now he looks to be nowhere near it.
His time has come.
It’s the state titles.
The last event for the year and the last event for his career.
As the crowd begins to gather, the anticipation buzzes and the fit, stone-faced pursuers of glory begin to run through their warm-ups.
After a briefing of the races and responsibilities, it’s time to kick off the night.
100m sprint. First heat.
He surveys those who have entered his arena. Some are familiar. Some are not.
They mount the blocks at the blow of the whistle.
He ensures that they are all in position and focuses on their forms.
They are ready to pounce, like an animal seeking prey, deathly still with eyes that only look forward.
All except for one.
A newbie. First state titles he presumes.
She’s shaking, full of nerves, scared of what results may or may not lay ahead of her.
She catches herself.
She takes a deep breath in and a slow breath out.
She is still.
She is ready.
He is ready.
He raises the starter gun.
Bang.
FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
There are a few things we loved about this story. For starters (excuse the pun), it’s the way that the third person POV is applied throughout – a nameless character who you grow to realise through short insightful statements is that unsung hero at every competition, the extra in others’ stories finally getting a spotlight of his own. It unfolds as part mystery, part homage in telling you who “he” is – and the decision to keep them nameless is a tribute to all those who do such jobs. Adding the fresh-faced “she” in near the end provides a lovely counterpoint to finish (appropriately) with a bang.
AND THE WINNER IS… by Teri M Brown, USA
Hot. That's how I would describe it. Hot, sticky, sweaty.
Perfect weather for a watermelon eating contest.
A globe of ice cold watermelon still dripping with perspiration as the knife slices through the green rind down to the table.
Ahhh, the redness. So juicy. So cold. So good.
The rules are easy. First one to finish the slice of watermelon wins. With just one hitch. Hands behind your back.
Simple, but only if you are willing to let that juice run everywhere – down your shirt, into your hair, even up your nose if you have to.
I look closely at my competition.
Mary Danner. School teacher. Her “kids” are cheering her on. Sweet smile. Nice dress. She has the cheering section but her desire for the gold medal won't be strong enough to let that dress get sticky, drawing flies for the rest of the afternoon. So, I smile and say, “Pretty dress.” She blushes. One down.
“Bubba” Johnson. Big and burly. Mouth the size of California. He's got the drive, the desire. But not the finesse needed to eat that dainty slice of watermelon without dropping it in the dirt at his feet. So, I give him a sideways glance, look down at the ground, shake my head, and grin. His shoulders sag, just a bit, but enough that I know he knows. Two down.
George Alberts. The barber. Small, compact, and can move like lightning. No doubt he could win a race using his legs. But there is the issue of that gap. Missing tooth. Lost it last week. Still waiting for the dentist to fix it up. Nope, not enough teeth up front to really dig in. “How's the tooth, George.” He grimaces, a shiver shaking his shoulders as he realizes he still has some pain. Three down.
Last, but not least, Robert Mills. Bobby. Born here. Same as his daddy and his daddy before him. Been the watermelon eating champ for the last 15 years when he finally took the title from his daddy who took it from his daddy who probably took it from his daddy. I think he must practice all year, at least all summer. All his teeth. Finesse. No worries about his shirt or even dirt if need be. I look over at him. I have nothing to say. No looks to give. He just smiles. Four down.
Second place won't be so bad. I mean, how can you lose eating watermelon on a hot day?
FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
Stories like this are deliciously fun when they size up the competition and introduce each one by one. That’s the case here, as our unnamed narrator faces off against fellow watermelon warriors. With observations that include “mouth the size of California”, our seed-spitting contender goes along the line finding weaknesses in each until coming up short with the generational dynasty that is Bobby with all his teeth. Not a lot of watermelon eating competitions happening in Australia in July, but hey, that’s what makes this a global creative challenge, and the American-ness of this drips onto dresses and into the dirt.
BOLD AS GOLD by Carolyn Nicholson, VIC
I give myself a mental slap for agreeing to compete in the anchor event. If I’d known the day’s competition would all come down to the final race, I would never’ve put myself in this position. But here I am. Ready to step up to my starting mark. Ready to put it all on the line. Because losing is not an option.
Not today.
Today, my family needs a win and it’s up to me to give them one.
The crowd is growing restless, their excitement fuels my nerves. The blood in my legs turns to jelly. My throat is a desert. I want to be anywhere but here. I jump on the spot a few times and shake out my arms, willing my legs to stay strong, to do their job, to get me across the finish line first.
You’ve got this.
Risking a glance to my right, I watch as the crowd favourite performs a series of unnecessary stretches before waving to her teammates, gathered together at the sidelines, ready to cheer her on.
‘Green team is the dream team,’ one of them starts chanting and soon the others join in. My rival bows dramatically towards the crowd before stepping onto the track. I force myself to look away.
You’ve got this.
‘Be bold like gold,’ a group dressed in an array of yellow T-shirts yells, loud enough to be heard over green team’s chanting. Two women, wearing pigtails tied with yellow ribbons, wave yellow pom poms in the air.
You’ve got this.
I look down at my faded yellow T-shirt and heavily scuffed sneakers. There’s nothing about me that screams bold. My jelly legs return. The excitement, and the noise build as the starter takes their position.
There’s no escaping now. I have to see this through.
You’ve got this.
Then I hear it. My reason for being here. My reason for being, period. Cutting through the noise, I hear him say the words I’ve been repeating to myself since I stepped onto the track, only this time I hear the truth in them.
‘You’ve got this, Mum!’
My head turns and I see Ryan, leaning against his father’s legs, wearing a yellow Bluey T-shirt and waving frantically, his grin wider than the mighty Murray River. He looks full of life in this moment. I wish with all my heart that was true.
I lift my gaze to Ryan’s bald head and smile. Earlier today, his older sister sprayed his upper body with gold body paint. Katie said he looked like a walking Golden Globe trophy. Ryan didn’t understand the reference, but he’d laughed along with her. Katie always knew how to lighten the mood at home.
My view of Ryan is momentarily blocked as something metallic is placed in my hand.
‘On your marks,’ the starter calls.
I get into position.
‘Get set.’
I look across at Ryan.
‘Go!’
I glance down at the egg, balanced precariously in my spoon, and run.
FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
Parents of the world unite! The stakes appear sky high at first – the pep talk to herself and the deft repetition of ‘you’ve got this’ paving the way for whatever global domination surely awaits. The tribal colours of a sports day – very real if you’ve ever experienced the chants and mania – are brought to life here in authentic tones. And even when the story takes the smallest of detours to hint at Ryan and his bald head, it never dwells on it (as in life), with the action building to its climax. Ultimately, the stakes turn out to be only as high as an egg in a spoon, but you’ve read enough to know that it means so much more to this particular family.
LIFE IN THE (NOT SO) FAST LANE by Fiona J. Kemp, NSW
Welcome to the third annual Muddy Pub’s professional snail racing tournament.
Our competitors are vying for the much coveted Slow Globe Championship trophy. The highlight of the night is about to begin with the colourfully painted competitors raring to go on the starting line.
Ready, set, slime!
Green Goblin is off the mark early, I wouldn’t expect anything less from last year’s winner. He is inching away from his closest rivals, Blue Bunyip and Red Rover.
Oh, no, Golden Goose is already going off track and up the barrier wall. Is this a sneaky strategy or is this going to end in tragedy?
Pink Panther has crossed lanes and has started to crawl on top of Blue Bunyip, slowing him down from his already slow pace. I will check in with judges to see if Pink Panther hitching a ride on Blue Bunyip is allowed…. The judges has given me a nod, they’re going to allow it.
Silver Slimer is still at the starting line, looks like he’s not going anywhere soon, will he even finish the race? Only a lot of time will tell.
Just a quick announcement, table fifty-five your schnities are ready to be picked up from the counter bar.
And we are back to the action, Green Goblin is still in the lead folks, looks like he’s going to go all the way, but can Red Rover and Pink Panther, still piggybacking on Blue Bunyip, catch up as we hit the halfway mark?
It’s a tense competition as owners and spectators encourage their racers from the sidelines of the packed pool room. Tens of dollars are being bet on favourites, with bragging rights for the winner of tonight’s competition plus fifty dollars club cash.
Hold on, is that Black Bandit finally making a move, hot on Green Goblin’s snail trail? Will the odds-on favourite take the lead from last year’s champion?
Black bandit is moving fast-ish, the judges might have to drug test him if he wins from so far behind.
Golden Goose is now going sideways in the opposite direction, back towards the start line.
But wait, what is this? It appears that Silver Slimer is an imposter! Yes, the snail still at the start line is in fact a slug wearing a shell. And the crowd is booing as his owner leaves in shame to buy another beer at the bar, leaving his snail-in-disguise naked on the track.
The judges are shaking their heads, instant disqualification.
Nearing the finish line, Red Rover is celebrating early doing donuts in his lane, but Pink Panther is making his move, sliding off Blue Bunyip, who retreats inside of his shell.
Will Green Goblin retain his crown or will Black Bandit or Pink Panther be the new champion?
The crowd is going wild. Three centimetres to go, two… one.
We have a winner!
Green Goblin retains his crown and takes the title of Muddy Pub’s Slow Globe Champion with a speedy time of one hour, sixteen seconds.
FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
Playing out as one long narration across the loudspeaker, you cannot help but get ready, get set and slime your way through this wave of commentary about Muddy Pub’s world famous snail race. With alliterative names like Green Goblin (the champ), Black Bandit, Pink Panther, Golden Goose, Blue Bunyip and more lining/sliming up, the action plays out like a 100m dash. Yet with side announcements of chicken schnities and other meandering controversies along the way, the final reveal of one hour makes complete sense. For anyone who has spent time in an outback Aussie pub, this one won’t feel like fiction at all – it slowly (very slowly) grows on you!
COMPETITIVE EATING by Ryan Klemek, USA
Returning champion Brad LaStatte shakes the last drops of blood into his mouth, then tosses the dehydrated husk onto the pile of corpses in front of the stage. The scoreboard clicks to “12.”
“And with that, LaStatte now leads by three,” the announcer says. “If Bacula and Spike have any prayer of catching him, they're going to have to dig deep.”
“So far, Bacula has been a disappointment,” the color commentator says. “I expected more from him after his gold medal win at the Transylvania Cup.”
“Well, there's still 45 minutes left, so let's not count him out yet.”
The cage door opens, and another groggy human is escorted to the empty trough in front of LaStatte.
“Oh, he's a big fella,” the commentator says. “This might slow the champ down.”
As they remove the human's leash, he wriggles free from his escorts' grasp. He snaps a leg off an empty chair and drives the splintered end into LaStatte's chest, turning the athlete into a cloud of green dust.
The crowd gasps as the would-be snack is restrained and dragged off the stage.
“Looks like another human has built up a resistance to the sedative,” the commentator says. “The same thing happened last year and it wasn't pretty.”
The announcer shakes his head. “Security has got to be better at these events. Fans are tuning in from all over the globe. They don't want to see something like this.”
“I'll say one thing. Anyone who thinks competitive eating isn't a contact sport has never watched the World Championships.”
FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
More competitive eating and commentating here, but this time WE are on the menu, with a matter-of-fact efficiency of someone eating hotdogs or watermelons. The subversion of this usual type of competition is deliciously devious in this silly but engaging live event. But wait, what’s this? The food is fighting back! All is not well in Transylvania, and this could be Bacula and Spike’s year after all. Let’s just call this ‘biting satire’ and leave it at that…
LIKE MOTHER USED TO MAKE by Adrienne Farago, NSW
The jitters have not yet settled at the Easter Show and even the marquee flaps nervously, never mind its occupants. The biggest cake competition since COVID is about to commence, and the revered Mrs Vanderpool, her name spoken only in hushed tones, is Presiding Judge.
Mrs Vanderpool marches through the entrance into last minute flurries of panic disguised as welcome. She draws her rectangular frame in its well packed suit up to its full 154 cm and glares at the world in general for not being as ordered as she would like. The coveted green and gold badge sitting on her left lapel is no longer needed for everyone to know her name and illustrious title – and that she is very much in charge. Her entourage, including her two fellow judges, are rendered almost invisible by her magnificence, thus making it unnecessary to describe them to you, dear reader.
Mrs Vanderpool puts out her hand without looking, knowing that a clipboard will be placed in it, and starts her inspection, drawing all in her wake. They slowly pass the cream cakes table. She sees confection after concoction, each one more elaborate, dreamlike and unbelievable than the last. Mrs Vanderpool draws in a short sharp breath and scribbles furiously, frowning. Her fellow judges now know what they, too, must write.
Mrs Vanderpool is not happy.
The next table contains jelly sculptures. She sees through their insubstantial, illusory fictions; despite their coloured layers representing so many hopes and yearnings. They shake in a genteel manner as the multitudes pass by and the marquee floor flexes. Mrs Vanderpool sighs heavily and scribbles furiously, her eyebrows drawn together across the bridge of her nose.
Mrs Vanderpool is not happy.
Members of the entourage cast anxious glances at one another.
Hope rises in Mrs Vanderpool’s chest as they approach the sponge cake table. A sponge cake is believable. It is real. It is weighty, in the metaphysical sense.
But she is doomed to disappointment. Before her she sees castles, trucks, and a cat. There are blocky buildings and funky flowers. There is even a globe with approximate continents set in seas and oceans of blue icing. Mrs Vanderpool scribbles furiously, her lips tight.
Mrs Vanderpool is not happy.
Eyes flicker and the sound of muttering amongst the retinue increases as they proceed to the lamington table. If the previous wonders failed to charm, how can the humble lamington possibly compete?
The table is set with numbered plates each containing perfect, identically sized rectangles. Chocolate-covered, coconut-sprinkled, the self-effacing lamington is doomed to be eclipsed by the other more worldly categories.
But Mrs Vanderpool stops dead. Her shoulders relax. She reaches out a finger and presses it onto an errant coconut shred which she brings to her mouth. Her eyes soften and grow dreamy. Her little audience, open-mouthed, sees her, back in her secure and ordered childhood, a loving and loved mother presenting her with an after-school plate of perfect lamingtons.
Mrs Vanderpool is happy.
FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
There’s definitely an air of the Queen from Bridgerton searching for her latest diamond in the kind of entrance that Mrs Vanderpool makes. (Likely thanks to the cheeky choice to address us as ‘dear reader’ in getting around side character descriptions!) Or is it Trunchbull from Matilda? Whatever the case, the scene is boldly set for this Easter Showdown – as we are treated to a succession of ‘not happy’ responses before the least likely plate of all unlocks that sixth sense – nostalgia. A fun cake-show story that beat out similar ones for its strong main character and unexpected end. For who, dear reader, doesn’t long for a taste of home that you can whistle down in seconds?
SURVIVOR: PLOTTERS VERSUS PANTSERS by Rananda Rich, NSW
Thousands of writers from around the globe tune in to watch the final stages of “Survivor: Plotters Versus Pantsers”.
The host, Jeff Prose, addresses the final five scribbling contestants.
“Congratulations, Penn, on winning the anagram challenge. You have immunity from rejection in the next round of submissions and you’re through to the final four.”
Penn catches Paige’s eye. As one of the original plotters, Penn is sticking to the voting plan and trusts Paige and Reid will do the same. She knows Quill and Astoria fly by the seats of their pants and can’t be trusted.
However, in a shocking plot twist, Paige is eliminated and the remaining four contestants head back to the writing retreat on the shores of the inky black sea.
The next day, the writing contestants compete in the final immunity challenge. It’s a novel three-round mental obstacle course requiring them to solve a Wordle, create a 30-word story using the word “pyrite” and take part in a spelling bee.
Reid is completely green when it comes to 30-word stories, but Penn is grateful for years of practice on TwiXter and gets through to the final spelling round against Astoria. She clinches the win when she correctly spells the Australian version of “logorrhoea”. When they get back to their writing retreat, a crushed Astoria tells Penn to stop going on about it.
The afternoon is punctuated by tense whispers as the writers connive to write and rewrite their collective next move. Later, at tribal council, a ruffled Quill gets shafted and leaves the game.
Penn, Astoria and Reid have one last day to work on their manuscripts, polish their submissions and refine their pitches for the final.
The next evening, publishers, editors, authors, and wannabe writers tune in for the season finale. Writing groups, bookshops and libraries put on wine and cheese events. Everyone wants to know who will become the next bestseller.
On the panel, Harper and Colin sit together. Hatchet looks ready to cut down anyone who fluffs around and Alan Unwin is whispering furtively with P MacMillan.
The final pitch proceedings commence.
Penn’s voice shakes as she explains her writing background, but her voice is true and clear as she reads her first three chapters aloud. Everyone delivers a tight professional synopsis, showing their strength of characters, while highlighting their verse-tility and large social media followings.
The three finalists creatively answer questions about how they out-wrote, out-ideated and outlasted their competitors.
Writing TV ratings have never been higher. Whatever the outcome, the show has been a literary success.
Meanwhile, Penn feels torn. The writing community is always so strong. Her biggest competitors are also her greatest support network. However, this publishing contract will be her golden ticket to literary success.
Even before they announce the results, Penn realises she has won anyway. Just taking part in Survivor: Plotters Versus Pantsers has been her own hero’s journey. Whatever happens, Penn’s story is already out in the world.
FURIOUS THOUGHTS
If you’re a fan of the Survivor format (or any elimination reality show really) and love yourself a good writing pun, this may just be the story for you. And trust us when we say that usually writing about a writing competition IN a writing competition won’t win you any favours from the judges. But there’s enough faithful attention to detail here and plenty of genuine laughs to deliver something fresh, against all odds. Does it ride on the coattails of existing IP Survivor? Absolutely! But what a fun ride it is. If only getting immunity from rejection as a writer was a real thing to win…
THE ROYAL by Bethea Donoghue, VIC
I catch the bartender’s eye and twitch my index finger. He nods, almost indiscernible as he reaches for a clean glass with one hand, the XXX Gold tap with the other. He’s good this new bloke.
Alrighty folks, final round for the night: One hit wonders from around the globe.
The host holds the microphone so close to his mouth, consonants ricochet off the walls like artillery shells. It’s like listening to a primary school kid speak in assembly for the first time.
The new bloke wipes the bar, where faded glass rings mark the years in the timber. His arms strong and tanned. Lucky bastard.
I look down at my own. The skin, papery and mottled sags where muscles were once. If not for the blurred cobra, now green with age, I wouldn’t even recognise it. I watch as though from a distance as it reaches, trembling, for the beer, willing the shakes to stop. It might as well belong to someone else for the good it does.
The amber liquid sloshes over the side of my glass and then my jeans before finally reaching my mouth for the first glorious sip. I push a crumpled note across the bar and wave away the change. A silent thank you for him pretending not to notice.
Turning away, I attempt to focus on the screen above me, but the voice of the host drowns out the sound. It’s like watching a dubbed B-grade movie.
The trivia crowd is bigger than usual tonight. At a table next to me, a bunch of kids sit huddled around a plate of cold chips and jugs of sparkling water. Poor Frank must be rolling in his bloody grave.
“Water’s for bath’n in,” he would have scoffed pointing them toward the toilets with a laugh.
The muffled notes of a familiar song flood the bar. It catches at the periphery of my memory.
I am leaning, shirtless over a chipped mirror, face half covered in soap and already sweating under the early morning jungle sun. Next to me, one of the boys plays with the antenna on the radio outside our hutchie, a half-smoked rollie hangs from his mouth.
The team closest to me dance in their seats until the music stops. Laughing, they look to one another and shrug.
I lean in, just close enough for them to hear. “Mungo Jerry,” I say.
A young girl looks up at me, her body alert. “Huh?”
I point at the answer sheet. “It was Mungo Jerry.”
She takes in my beer-stained jeans and then, noticing my shaking hands and the stick resting against my stool, her shoulders soften.
She smiles, the kind of smile young people reserve for the elderly. My boots are probably older than her.
“Thanks,” she says scribbling her answer.
Turning back to the new bloke I nod, the universal sign for one more. This one is for Frank.
FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
The story in which we chose to showcase a pub quiz is not really about the quiz at all, as most of the others were. Instead, it focuses on one of those other people who are always in the pub NOT playing while this weeknight fun unfolds. (You know the ones, who sometimes blurt the answer out from the bar much to groans from the studious teams!) So here, in our narrator’s beloved Royal pub, he’s just observing the goings on – with witty insights like “…the microphone so close to his mouth, consonants ricochet off the walls like artillery shells”. But like a beer spilling onto jeans, somehow the story spills so much about this character through his index-finger-twitching mannerisms, thoughts, tattoos and the wartime memories that a single question unlocks. What may at first seem like a simple scene is nicely layered storytelling.
ON PARADE by John McParland, NSW
“Did you hear about Crystal?” The glee oozing from the conspiratorial voice was palpable, as the heavily fake tanned woman sidled up to her equally narcissistic compatriot. “Caught with her pants down, trying to seduce one of the judges into giving her youngest favourable treatment. Her whole family’s been disqualified! Serves her right too, at least have the wherewithal to lock the door first!” The last being said with a knowing glint in her cheaply mascaraed eyes.
“Oh you are deliciously nasty! Though that’ll certainly shake up the entrant ordering in this afternoon’s event. Come on, my precious Angelique is on soon, I’ve been teaching her how…” The voices became lost in the overall din as the two women moved back into the crowd.
Jake shook his head and uncoiled another cable. Stage mothers were all the same at these affairs, living vicariously through their “darling babies” as they chased glory via the shameless exploitation of those in their care.
As Jake connected up the television camera, another contestant went prancing past, hair teased, fluffed and cut to meet the competition’s ridiculous beauty standards; bespectacled mama bear stalking closely behind, smelling of cheap perfume and cheaper ambitions.
The stereotypes of the pageant industry were shockingly real, and likely even underrepresented in mainstream media. Similarly, this was the reason why syndicated teen dramas featured 30 year old actors playing high schoolers. Producers simply didn’t want to deal with the colossal amount of crap that came tightly packaged in the high heeled, desperate, demanding, over opinionated and under medicated stage mothers of actual teenagers.
“Urgh, why would she even bother? That little bitch of hers was never going to get through the preliminaries, let alone place! And I hear she entered three of her brood this year. Again, why? To more prominently show off the generations of inbreeding running through that whole family?”
Jake rolled his eyes at this latest overheard barb, watching the speaker as she moved past. Her own tiny entrant being led along, wearing a rhinestone studded green cape for some godforsaken reason. He actually felt sorry for the runt.
Truth be told, he often wondered if anyone had ever bothered really asking the entrants of their opinion on this whole farce. Not that the answer you’d get from them would ever be any more meaningful than some rote response happily barked back on queue. This rundown showground was certainly no Globe Theatre and those on stage weren’t exactly spouting the Bard’s golden prose; yapping away inanely instead as they were wont to do whenever given half a chance.
Jake sighed and powered up the camera. Twenty years filming these events and it still didn’t make any sense to him the sheer level of backstabbing and debauchery that took place every single time. He squared up on the presenter as they began their opening remarks.
“Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the annual RSPCA Canine Beauty Pageant!”
FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
Wow, that final line. Some of you may have picked it earlier, but the fact remains that the worlds of child and pet pageantry are remarkably similar! And here, as our eavesdropping camera operator Jake goes about his business in the background, we get front row seats to the ‘Real Housewives of Pet Shows’. A second read will reward you with a parade of clues that were there all along, and while not all dog shows are surely as catty, it does feel like an authentic enough glimpse into this world. Cleverly done – loaded with gossip, glitz, glamour and more than a few growls.
WORLD CLICHÉ CHAMPIONSHIPS by Simon Bruce, VIC
Welcome, ladies and gentleman, boys and girls and bald-headed babies. Welcome to the greatest show on earth.
Today’s a day like no other: the final of the World Cliché Championships.
It’s the calm before the storm as the competitors are chomping at the bit. They’re keen to give it all they’ve got, and leave no stone unturned in their pursuit of the ultimate prize. Fame and fortune!
Let’s look at our finalists. What a mixed bag!
Who’d thought that those movers and shakers, Salt and Pepper, would last the distance? Thick as thieves those two and they certainly know how to think outside the box and throw caution to the wind.
And what about Green and Gold? Always an odd pairing, but joined at the hip today and dressed to kill despite being caught with their pants down in the semi-final. They’re expected to give 110% today.
Our third finalists, those globetrotting journeymen, are A Can Of Worms. Some say not a hope in hell, others believe they’re on a roll. Thought to be dead as a doornail, they bent over backwards and knuckled down during their heat.
Next up, A Bad Egg. Enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame as he downs a last-minute hair of a dog. He’ll be careful not to let the cat out of the bag like he did at the eleventh hour. Surely, he’ll have something up his sleeve today and bring out the big guns in his hour of need.
And finally, our final finalist, A Fine Kettle Of Fish. Always fishing for compliments and only here today due to Low Hanging Fruit stopping to smell the roses and Red Herring being swept away by the current. Good to see them back in the saddle.
Undoubtedly rivalries will be resolved today as they shoot for the moon and hit the target. There’s a few scores to settle, so an eye for an eye and a take no prisoners attitude will be the gameplan. No guts, no glory has been shouted from the rooftops by more than one one-eyed fan as they position themselves for a bird’s eye view. Mark my words, the moment of truth is here and the moment of glory is fast approaching like a train in a tunnel. But it won’t be the luck of the Irish, or even the luck of the draw that gets the winner over the line.
It goes without saying that the track is looking pitch perfect and as flat as a pancake. It certainly offers a level playing field.
In a nick of time, they’ll be in the starting blocks, careful not to jump the gun. All keen as mustard, wanting to put their best foot forward and the pedal to the metal. Quick as lightning and going full steam ahead they’ll go the extra mile.
You can hear a pin drop, as a hush comes over the crowd.
There’s the starting gun, clear as a bell.
And they’re off, like a bride’s nighty.
FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
What can we say that hasn’t already been said here? This stood out for its obvious “all-in” attitude to capturing the slew of ridiculous sporting rhetoric – much of which will play out during the Olympics and constantly plays out on TV and radio around the globe every week. Choosing to wrap up this gift of silliness in the premise of a ‘World Cliché Championships’ allows it to have fun with the format without ever having to address the thing it’s doing. Mark our words, we were knocked over with a feather as it brought the big guns. Definitely a story that gave 110%!
A SEAT IN FENWAY PARK by Duncan Ward, VIC
There is a seat in Fenway Park.
Directly behind the Red Sox dugout, with a perfect view of the field. Close enough to hear the players’ shouts and the umpires’ calls. To see the pitcher on the mound and the batter in the box, and every baseman and every outfielder.
That’s my seat. That’s always been my seat.
As a little girl, my father brought me to every game. I’d sit up on my knees and crane my neck to see the field properly. I’d listen intently as he explained the rules, strategies and tactics, and giggle when he lost his temper.
When I was older, we’d yell together until we were both hoarse. We’d scream at the umpires and the away team, but never at our Red Sox.
It was with my dad by my side that I fell in love with baseball. And I never missed a game.
81 home games a year – all the highs and all the lows. The strikes, the home runs, the balls, the fouls, the catches, the throws, the outs. Four World Series and I even made the front page of the Globe.
When my dad got too old, he gave his ticket to my husband. And now he’s almost as much of a fan as I am. Almost.
It’s my husband who’s at the game today.
He has his favourite suit on, his hair neatly parted and his shoes shined. He’s wearing my favourite green tie and a paddy cap. The kids don’t wear suits to games anymore, but some old habits die hard. And he looks so handsome. He always looks so handsome.
He’s watching Brayan Bello in the middle of the field, who’s due to open the innings. He should be preparing to throw the first pitch. Everyone is watching with anticipation, and Alex Verdugo is waiting patiently in the batter’s box.
But Bello won’t throw the first pitch yet.
Because today, for the first time in almost 90 years, there’s an empty seat behind the Red Sox dugout.
And in the middle of the field, Bello removes his hat. And the rest of the Red Sox and the Yankees, and every other fan in the stadium stands and does the same.
And my husband, slowly, carefully gets to his feet. His hands are shaking as he removes his cap. Tears in his eyes.
And 37,000 people are on their feet. In perfect silence.
There is a seat in Fenway Park. With fine, gold lettering that reads: Mary L. Young, Member 1937-2024, Thank you.
FURIOUS THOUGHTS:
The narrative style of this story is, much like our Top Pick story, a love letter to sport. Or more aptly, to being a FAN of the sport – as once more, we see the wonder of this world, this time introduced to Mary as a young girl alongside her father in the golden age of baseball. Along the way, we get a literal front-row lesson in the history of Boston’s Red Sox, who endured an 86-year drought before winning four times this century. We see the father pass the seat on to the husband and then in an emotional finish, a beautiful tribute as you realise whose seat is now empty. Further proof that sport can be funny, action-filled and also bring tears. A perfect story to close out this month’s selection.
THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’
Each month, we include an extra LONGLIST (approx 5-10%) of stories that stood out from the submitted hundreds and were highly considered for the showcase. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, enjoy a moment on the podium of satisfaction! And to ALL who submitted stories, we’d LOVE to see you again for next month’s challenge!
THIS MONTH’S LONGLIST (in no particular order):
- 54 BLOCKS by Belinda Delane, NSW
- GAME SET MATCH by Melanie Hawkes, WA
- TINY WINDOWS by Deborah Sale-Butler, USA
- THE NAME OF THE GAME by Amaris Lancaster, QLD
- UNTITLED by Sally Ombewa, SA
- THE CHEESE ROLLERS by Philip Ogley, France
- SPECTRUM by Rachel Howden, NSW
- THE FALL by Emily Jenik, VIC
- THRUSHMONGER VERSUS THE KANSAS KID by Nina Miller, USA
- UNTITLED by Jenny Baker, VIC
- PLAY OF THE DAY by Shayne Denford, NSW
- THE GOOD SPORT by Robert Fairhead, NSW
- THE GLOBE CAME HERE by Bridget McNamara, Ireland
- THE LET-GO MASTER by August Funk, VIC
- GREAT AUNT MILDRED’S FAMOUS CHILLI by Jaime D’Cruz, QLD
- THE TEA LADIES OF PLANET FOOTBALL CLUB by Karen Uttien, WA
- ONLY ON TUESDAYS by Pam Makin, SA
- FURIOUS FLY BALL by Lee McKerracher, NSW
- THE SING’S GAMBIT by Chad Frame, USA
- THE SPELLING BEE by Tenille Seow, QLD
- THE MAN WITH THE GUN by Alison Knight, VIC
- WHAT A CARRY ON by Madeleine Armstrong, UK
- THE STADIUM by Tatia Power, QLD
- JUST THINK OF ME FOR A MINUTE by Elizabeth Gonzalez, VIC
- GOAL! by Alison Fletcher, VIC
- THE GOLDEN GIRL by Kimberley Ivory, NSW
- BOOLOOROO BEACH BIKINI COMP by Andrew Harrison, NSW
- A LITTLE KINDNESS by Anne Carpenter, NSW
- TOMORROW IN THE MAZE AT HEVER CASTLE by Caroline Jenner, UK
- THE CHAMPIONS by Lou Harper, VIC
- THE HUMAN CARROT by Marcelo Medone, Uruguay
- SPORTSBALL by Renee Conoulty, VIC
- SKYFALL by Jenny Lynch, WA
- ON YOUR MARK by Andrew Shaughnessy, Canada
- SCHRÖDINGER’S HORSE by Mona Treme, QLD\
- DRAMA AT THE COUNTRY WOMEN'S ASSOCIATION by Michelle Oliver, WA
- THE INTERNATIONAL CRAB RACE, RUN IN CONJUNCTION WITH THE PARENTING OLYMPICS by Athena Law, QLD
- THE FINAL PIECE by Aaron Godfrey, SA
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