Furious Fiction: November 2024 Story Showcase

Welcome to November’s Furious Fiction story showcase! And kudos for getting here on time too, as plenty of our characters this month did NOT do that. Why? Well – all will become clear when you see this month’s prompts:

• Each story had to include a character who arrives somewhere LATE.
• Each story’s first sentence had to contain only four words.
• Each story had to include the words SKIP, KICK, BLUE and DISAPPEAR.
  (Longer variations, e.g. “kicking” or “skipped” were acceptable.)

This month, we were exploring the concept of being LATE. And we did indeed get a mix of stories about what LED to lateness as well as what occurred DUE to lateness. There were a lot of missed trains, buses, planes and boats (including the Titanic) and even White Rabbits. But MOST stories fell into the ‘Births, Deaths and Marriages’ category – late arriving babies (or periods!), late arriving brides/grooms and plenty who were late for their own funeral!

Here were some of our favourite four-word opening sentences:

• Run, puff, run, pant. (Grace Cox, NSW)
• It thundered putrid indignation. (Rayza, VIC)
• This gentle ebbing softness. (Noni Croft, NSW)
• He arrived, drenched, alone. (Yayu Uppsurya, China)
• “Hold the lift, please!” (Johani Maree-Moens, France)
• He’d met God before. (Ernest Malley, VIC)
• “Is this your card?” (Rhiannon McKenzie, ACT)
• My hearse is lost. (Robert Fairhead, NSW
• Time travel is hard. (Paul Dunn, NZ)
• Inside out, zipper jammed. (Juliette Poole, QLD)
• “Fat Emma’s singing again.” (A K Scotland, NSW)
• “She’s on the cliff.” (Kathryn Phillips, NSW)
• I needed Carole King. (Robyn Knibb, QLD)
• A slip or push? (Fiona Botterill, QLD)
• The audience never knows. (DSM Christensen, VIC)
• Please make me beautiful. (Carnelian Easton, NSW)
• Just Five more Kills. (SL Turner, NSW)
• “Gee whillikers, Blue Bustard!” (Eugenie Pusenjak, ACT)
• Like a wrecking ball. (Jade Cezanne, SA)
• Only four words. (Well played, Chad Frame, USA)
• Surprisingly, eternity lasts forever. (Cheryn Witney, SA)
• Felicity’s going to crochet. (Fiona Green, VIC)
• “Your feet need bandaging.” (James Vee, WA)

Well done to ALL those who entered this month’s challenge. And a special congratulations to this month’s Top Pick story from John McParland! You can read John’s story, along with other showcased stories and longlisted authors below. 

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NOVEMBER TOP PICK

SCAPEGOAT by John McParland, NSW

“We find the defendant…”

Oh lovely, a dramatic pause. Just what I need right now.

Though, considering the ridiculous nature of the case against me, a delay is only poetic.

Three years ago I had the most charmed morning of my life. Everything just fell into place and I actually arrived at the bus stop early for the first time ever. I was the last person in the queue that the driver let on. Behind me, a gentleman called Mr Jones would have been the last patron instead, if not for my promptness.

That was where my problems began, as Jones claimed that my punctuality made him late.

Jones was a train driver, and arrived at the depot 17 minutes after his shift started. That meant the 8am blue-line out of Littleton departed behind schedule.

The blue-line was how Ms Aldren got to the Kaufman residence where she worked as a nanny. She was 23 minutes late that day.

When Aldren arrived, Ms Kaufman could finally leave for her job at the fire station. She was 34 minutes late.

Kaufman’s tardiness meant Engine 5 was late to the scene of the Northwood warehouse fire, causing it to spread to nearby residences. Namely, Mr Lister’s.

Lister was the board secretary for BioMed. Distressed at losing his home, he incorrectly tallied the votes on a controversial proposal tabled at that evening’s meeting, causing it to pass.

Ratified, the deeply unpopular measures spooked investors, tanking the share price.

Realising their error, it took BioMed three weeks to correct the decision and set the record straight. This ended up delaying their yearly paperwork filing to the commission.

Late on their submissions, the regulator suspended trading on the pharmaceutical company as a formality. The market incorrectly assumed the worst and panic selling set in.

Like dominoes, other organisations began to fall, the ripple effect ultimately crashing the medical industry and the world’s economy at large.

Businesses collapsed, pensions disappeared, families were torn apart, and lives were lost.

When the dust had finally settled, $17 trillion had been erased from the global economy, 163 million people had died, the Amazon rainforest was ablaze, and Sweden’s government had inexplicably fallen.

Somehow, all these people, agencies, corporations and governments had kicked the culpability-can down the line until some investigator found me to pin it all on. I tried to blame it on my neighbour’s dog Skip, whose barking that day woke me up before my alarm and led to my fabulous morning of timeliness. The courts said it would be crazy to prosecute a dog.

I, apparently, was the saner choice.

Now, I could spend the rest of my life behind bars because my being early made other people late and somehow that broke the world.

How any of this could possibly be my fault is beyond me. Yet here I sit, as the forewoman continues to dawdle by silently dragging out her moment in the spotlight.

God, I wish she’d hurry up.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

As absurd as this premise is, we loved the way it played with the effect one event can have on so many others. In particular, in a sea of stories about being late for a bus (and kicking yourself as it disappears into the blue), this one featured a protagonist who actually got to his bus stop early! Obviously, the universe had other ideas, and the fun of it all being his fault has old-woman-swallowing-a-fly style consequences as the ripples get bigger and bigger. We also enjoyed that the verdict is not passed down in the story itself, but here it was all about the long-winded journey, not the destination. Well done!

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TIME IS MONEY by E B Davis, ACT

Death was running late. 

Walter Wiseman tapped his fingers on his hand-crafted Elwood Tasmanian Blackwood desk. At 116, Walter was the world’s oldest billionaire. At least he had been, an independent review into his finances had him now being the world’s oldest millionaire. 

Over the past decades, Walter’s wealth had seemingly disappeared without reason. Walter looked at the antique grandfather clock in his study, he had the face converted to digital when it had started skipping minutes. The light blue digits showed 8:06 AM, Death was due at 8:00. This wasn’t good. For Walter time is money, and he never wasted money.

 Walter had spent his whole life building his fortune. Family and friends had fallen by the wayside as he believed there were better ways to spend his time. Time spent with them didn’t bring any profit, so was wasted time. Walter still worked as CEO for his multimillion-dollar company, despite the board trying to retire him years ago. Time is money, and Walter couldn’t trust anyone with his money.

Knock, Knock.

Walter looked up as death walked through the door, it was closed but that didn’t matter to Death, as he floated through the door as if it was fog. Death had only knocked as a sign of respect to Walter. Death was a tall skeleton in a long black robe, his white skull was just visible under his hood.

‘Sorry I am late; traffic problems’ Death apologised, his voice sounding like it was echoing around a large cave.

‘I thought you were not bound by the same restraints us mortals are.’ Walter replied, his voice a bare whisper compared to Death’s.

‘I am not. There was a 32-car pileup that I had to manage’ Death raised an eye socket where an eyebrow should have been. ‘Mondays, am I right.’

‘I get you, they are killers. My monthly payment, as per normal.’ Walter indicated a black leather bond briefcase on his desk. Death slowly walked over and lifted the lid. The briefcase was filled with piles of $100 notes. Death picked up a stack and flicked through it slowly. After a calculation, he turned to Walter.

‘You are short. This will only cover you for 25 days.’

‘What? That can’t be right. I checked it three times.’ This was true Walter always triple-checked his avoiding kicking the bucket payments.

‘It was fine, for last month, but costs are going up. There has been a rise in the cost of living.’ As Walter looked at Death, Death’s unwavering eyes just stared down, two pinpoints of burning red light.

‘OK,’ Walter sighed as he pulled another two piles of cash out of his desk. ‘I will ensure I have the full amount next time.’

‘See you in a month Walter, same time as usual. Death turned and left with the briefcase.

Walter breathed a sigh of relief, he hated these meetings, but they were needed. Then started his workday, a bit late, which was a shame, because time is money.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We had a lot of stories about dying this month, as you’d expect. Even a bunch that featured Death as a character – another favourite. But what made this one stand out was the cleverness of the concept. After establishing (very bluntly) who he is waiting for, we meet Walter, seemingly still going remarkably strong for a 116-year-old. Once Death arrives, the real fun begins – the traffic excuse and the “Mondays, am I right?” quip, followed by a brilliantly literal take on the rise in the cost of living. Paying off Death with a ‘living allowance’ is a great story idea, and this piece played it well!

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DEAD by Michael Booth, VIC

I knew he died. I could just feel it, but I ran through the doors anyway like rushing would change the outcome. I glanced at my watch and saw it was 20:38. I panicked a little more because of the conversations I have with myself about all the things I could do differently to save time. I could’ve taken Harkness Street instead of West Road. I could’ve double parked and paid the fine later. I could kick myself for all the things I could’ve done differently in life, but right now, I needed to run. I was already getting puffed out, I couldn’t stop though because I would only have regrets if I did.

I approached the elevator and pushed the button, and pushed it again, then another 15 times rapidly. How long did it take for a stupid elevator to reach the ground floor? I saw the door to the right and disappeared through it while I kept running. My chest was burning by this point, I had to keep going. I took the steps, 2 at a time and just as I reached the top step, I misjudged the distance, caught it with my foot and went forward. I put my hands out to break the thud as I hit the floor, then ended my heroics with a slight roll. I caught my breath and got up again, only 2 more flights of stairs and I’d be there. I didn’t want to go as I knew how uncomfortable it would be, or rather, how uncomfortable I would be, but I knew my family would never forgive me if I didn’t go in to see him.

I approached the doors and stopped; I needed to at least seem calm before I went through. 20:40. I imagined I was blue in the face and forced my breaths to slow just enough so I could breathe through my nose and not make it obvious how out of breath I was. I heard a loud voice on the other side, and I knew my son was dead.

I braced myself for what was ahead. How could I face my wife? Look her in the eye as if it didn’t matter? I decided to skip the dramatics and open the door. A couple of people turned to look at me, then quickly turned away. I gave a polite smile and walked over to where my wife was sitting. I took the empty seat beside her and whispered “Sorry”. 

She glared at me and said, “Danny really wanted you to be here. He had the opening scene, the big death scene, and you missed it. You’re going to have to apologise and make it up to him.” 

I thought for a moment and replied, “I know I will, but he’ll be OK. I’m getting him the dog like we discussed.” My wife shushed me with a motion of her index finger, and we sat quietly until the end of the play.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

A great first sentence sets up immediate expectations as we’re plunged into a breathless race against time, across town and across our main character’s own trail of regrets. In fact, it’s action aplenty as we see him jump, tumble and run to meet his wife. The brain says hospital? Rest home? Accident scene? But then an impressive reveal that we didn’t see coming and suddenly the first sentence makes sense. A nice idea, brought to a satisfying conclusion – and one that many parents can relate to!

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DAWNING by Rosie Francis, Italy

I'll never forget it. My wife's frightened face, all contorted and pale, as she shook me awake that morning.

‘He hasn't come!', she hissed.

‘What are you talking about?' I rubbed my eyes, and glanced towards the clock.

‘It's 5.30am!' Her voice cracked with panic.

‘Maybe he's running late?'

‘No. He's never been this late before.' Janey put her head in her hands. ‘Sam, he's not coming', she whimpered.

I kicked off the doona, hurried over to the window and looked out into the blue pre-dawn sky. No tracks. Not a footprint or sign of disturbance anywhere.

I sat back down next to Janey on the bed, desperately trying to think how to make this nightmare disappear. We looked at each other helplessly.

Then a shadow seemed to pass over her face and I knew what was coming.

‘I don't want to ask this,' she said, ‘but I feel I have to.'

She looked into my eyes without blinking. ‘Have you been good? Have you been good for the whole year Sam?'

‘Yes, I have,' I said without skipping a beat. ‘I've had a great year. I was nice, and honest, and .. and generous. We both were, right? And Chloe too.'

She nodded slowly.

I felt like I was about to vomit. Of course this was my doing. I was dishonest and I lied. And now my wife and little girl are paying for it. I didn't trust my knees to stand, so I lay back down on the bed and closed my eyes. How did I think I would get away with it? Did I really think he wouldn't find out? I felt tears sting my eyes.

Janey lay down beside me. ‘Chloe will be awake soon. What do we tell her?'

‘I'll explain that there was some kind of horrible mix-up. That he somehow thought we were at the beach house. It's a lie I know, but what can we do?'

We held hands and lay together, waiting for the sounds of the morning birds and our sweet Chloe's waking up. Instead, it was the soft jingle of a sleigh that broke the dawn.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This really was a delightful read. The earnestness and fear on the parents' faces in light of the ‘visitor’ who hasn’t arrived is palpable. Sam and Janey are in full panic mode and it peaks at the hilarious “Have you been good?” inquisition and self-reassurance in the pre-dawn bedroom. Not once is the jolly man’s name uttered, but all the clues are sprinkled joyously throughout this piece. We’re very curious about what secrets Sam is sitting on, but he’s clearly been good enough to end it with the sound they were so desperate to hear. A timely piece, with equal parts drama and comedy – a real gift!

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TYPHOON by John Scholz, SA

The island huddles, waits.

Kids rejoice at a promised school shutdown tomorrow. Night falls slow and secretive behind a thick grey black blanket. The forecast announces that my arrival will be on the east coast at eight pm. But I am unpredictable, late, spinning a dogleg and gathering strength over the superheated blue Pacific.

Skyscraper waves smash the shore. At nine I cross the ragged east coast, my size now greater than the island itself. I kick over a mighty phone tower as if it’s a child’s pop-stick construction. In a village I kill a mother of four with a flung sheet of roof.

I breach the central range. Taking my time. Bashing down villages with furious breath, and hot fat waterfall rain. I wash away a flimsy school. Forty three houses, in bits, and a body, make their way to the sea in sudden, limb gnarled rivers.

The capital trembles, waits.

Shops close, even the resolute Seven 11s and Family Marts. Flights cancel. Scooter riders huddle into handlebars and plastic rain jackets plastered to their bodies like oiled skin.

Dawn and I arrive in the city together. A female reporter tries to deliver a dramatic on location report to her TV breakfast news, but I blow her eyes shut and the words from her mouth.

A man clad in white plastic walks a small white dog through a sodden park. As if to say, my dog always gets a walk at this time, and you will not stop us. He weaves under wildly shaking trees through horizontal rain. Skeletonised umbrellas and fractured branches skip down streets. A line of parked scooters falls in a domino dance, and lie like half stranded tadpoles. A tree uproots, canters across the park, almost taking the man and dog with it, but they dodge, and disappear beneath concrete awnings.

Apartment blocks hum, windows shiver like shiny puddles. I throw trees and bits of shanty across the streets. An ambulance sirens its way around these obstacles. A video billboard, brightly advertising make up and then a new Disney movie, is vividly the only thing alive on the blown streets.

I bend to the north west, giving another finger to the forecasters. I’m exhausted now, my breath shattering into fragments of yellow and green smudges on maps. Out over the blue again, regathering its heat.

The island mourns.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Telling this tale from the typhoon’s perspective adds a powerful layer to this story, filled with tension, drama and chaos. Beautiful descriptive prose is used throughout, such as night falling “slow and secretive behind a thick grey black blanket” or “skyscraper waves”. They help you fully get a sense of the colour and scale of this natural event. The use of first person present-tense POV keeps everything very immediate, from kicking over towers to killing innocent victims. Also teaming up with ‘Dawn’ as another character adds to this personification – a new perspective on such a storm. Finally, the bookended first and last lines wrap up this impactful piece perfectly.

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SEVENTEEN MINUTES by Michelle Cook, UK

I am so sorry.

Not sorry I was late for our wedding, Darren. That was a surmountable problem. Once the driver had ditched the bloody tractor, we skipped on through the torrential rain and did our best to make up time. It came down to minutes in the end. Just seventeen tiny minutes. The most important of my life.

No, I’m sorry I ever met you. Sorry I spent so many years trying to make a life with you. Sorry you never let me know you already had one. A full on wife and kids. I found this out afterwards, of course. When the weeping was finished, I did some digging. You disappeared from London, abandoned them to come up north. Poor cow, she looked like I’d kicked her in the stomach when I turned up at her door to introduce myself. Julia. She’s nice. You’re an idiot.

And I’m sorry for Tina. My so-called best friend, so keen to step in with the consoling hugs… and the rest.

Bet you didn’t know I was there. Of course you didn’t turn around. No one did. All our tiny congregation, the few friends and family you let me keep, occupied checking watches and murmuring. They didn’t see me in the back, white dress covered in a rain coat. The only clue I was the bride was your mother’s sapphire bracelet—my something blue—rattling as my hand cupped my mouth in shock. The way Tina looked at you, I just knew.

It all fits now of course. Julia, me and Tina. How many more in between, before… since?

I hear Tina’s pregnant. Congratulations, I guess. It almost makes me feel bad for what I’m about to do. Almost.

But… my finger presses the bell anyway. Tina opens the door and yes, I can see her compact little bump. She smiles nervously, her hand flying to her belly. Protective. “Sally.”

“Tina. Hi. Can I come in?”

She hesitates, your future in the balance. But we were friends long before you came along.

“Yes.” She steps aside.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The first half of this story plays out as a reverse love-letter of sorts, an address by our narrator to her ex, Darren – a brutally honest litigation of the clues she missed and events she witnessed. Being late for her own wedding turns out to have been a blessing rather than a curse, or at least now in retrospect, as she seeks to rebuild her life and previous friendships. Using all the tropey power that weddings can provide, this story packs a salty punch. All it needs now is a soundtrack by ‘Panic at the Disco’!

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PATIENCE by Wes Hawkins, WA

Is that him now?

The apartment echoes with approaching footsteps, but then they recede. It’s probably just Mrs Hamilton from next door, coming home from bingo. I shift the weight of the cardboard box on my knees to relieve the sciatica, and I wonder.

Where is he?

The box contains my precious things, the very last items to be packed. A small crystal vase catches my eye. A wedding present, so delicate, but still in one piece after decades. Geoffrey was always late, but the most memorable time was for our wedding. The priest remarked that it was the only time in his experience the groom arrived after the bride. My anxiety that day was tempered by the knowledge that this was classic Geoffrey. He finally dashed in, mumbling something or other. The guests visibly relaxed, although I could sense my mother’s eyes rolling, and we were wed.

A gold frame glints from the box. A photo of Geoffrey, proudly holding our son, just a few hours old. I still remember him rushing into the birthing suite to find little Geoff Junior suckling sleepily, wrapped up in his blue blanket, his tiny fingers wrapped around my thumb. Geoffrey was so upset, kicking himself for missing the birth. I was too tired to care.

He’s really late now. Not even a message. The apartment looks so big when there’s no furniture. Shapes on the walls define where artwork used to hang. I’m sitting uncomfortably on a packing crate, and I wriggle to get some relief.

Another photo frame — Geoff Junior and I. Geoff, in his graduation gown, proudly holding his degree. A wonderful day. Geoffrey caught up with us afterwards for dinner — held up in traffic, it seems. We joked about how we would get him photoshopped into the picture, but it never happened. He was a good man, really, just so bloody disorganised. The number of times I would be by myself at weddings, parties, waiting for him. I’d be so embarrassed I’d just want to disappear. And then he’d wander in, always dazed and apologetic, and he’d somehow make everything right again.

It’s quiet. All I can hear is the muffled sound of the kitchen clock, wrapped in tea towels, from somewhere inside the crate. Time is ticking. My orientation meeting at the nursing home was due to start fifteen minutes ago. Where is he?

The largest item in the box; an urn. I remember collecting it, a week after the funeral. I remember the hushed tones of the receptionist as she explained there was a delay, but Geoffrey’s ashes will be ready soon. She must have wondered why I was smiling. Of course, he’s late. My Geoffrey.

Urgent footsteps outside now, someone is practically skipping up the stairs. The door bursts open.

“Sorry, Mum, I got caught up with…” He looks around the room, shocked at the starkness.

I hug him and hand over the box.

“It’s fine, sweetheart. I know how to wait.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

A quieter piece now, as a mother waits to leave her home of many years. At first, it’s unclear who it is she is waiting for – especially as we learn of her beloved Geoffrey’s serial lateness. Late for the wedding, late for the birth of their son, late for parties. We see it all play out as she reflects on a life now packed up around her. The detail of the delayed ashes is a lovely way to continue the theme and gently confirm what has happened, as the son arrives – also late. This is not a high stakes story filled with conflict or shocking revelations and decisions, but in its muffled clocks and boxed memories, it tells a story of a lifetime of patience – sometimes just as noble a pursuit.

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SUPERLATE-IVE by Eugenie Pusenjak, ACT

“Gee whillikers, Blue Bustard! What kept you?”

The Blue Bustard surveyed the scene. A runaway ice cream truck had slammed into an empty trolleybus. No deaths thankfully, but the driver had a broken arm, and gallons of ice cream were now puddling the streets of Urbanopolis.

“Looks like a sticky business, kid.”

For once, his trusty sidekick, Woodcock, was not amused. “I couldn’t stop the truck by myself. You’re the one more powerful than a locomotive. All I’ve got is this lousy x-ray vision!”

The Blue Bustard rubbed the back of his muscled neck. “I’m sorry, Woody.”

“Golly, BB, you disappeared on me. I kept looking up in the sky. I saw a bird. A plane. But I didn’t see you! Also, do you realise that–”

“Look, would you let me explain?”

A crowd had gathered. A few opportunistic children tried to scoop up the melting ice cream. Others simply gawked at him and Woodcock.

“Take a powder, people – the show’s over!” declared the Blue Bustard. Capes swirling, the two superheroes strode away.

“Listen, I was out on the streets covering that story about the missing gerbils, when I heard the cries for help.”

Woodcock nodded. The Blue Bustard’s alter ego was Ernest Evans; a reporter for the Daily Platypus.

“But I was wearing my suit. Vest, tie, fedora, tortoise eyeglasses. The whole shazam. Or shebang, rather. I needed somewhere to change.”

“Why didn’t you go back to the office?”

“I was five miles away. Too far. No time. I’m the Blue Bustard, not the Blue Streak!”

“So, what’d you do?”

“I found a phone booth on the corner of West and Thirty-Eight.”

“That’s swell!”

The Blue Bustard shook his head. “I couldn’t go in. There was a queue!”

“You should’ve skipped it. This was an emergency!”

“Certainly not. Can you imagine the new slogan? ‘Rudeness, Impatience, and the American Way’. It would never fly. No pun intended, Woody.”

“So, then what?”

“I tried the men’s room in a nearby drug store. Unfortunately, it was out of order. Burst pipe.”

“Couldn’t you have fixed it?”

“It looked like a job for a plumber, not for the Blue Bustard.”

“Holy crapola, Blue Bustard!”

“Quite. So, then I ducked down a blind alley, where an inebriated panhandler tried to make off with my tights.”

“But you got them back.”

“He tried to be the Man of Steal, and failed.”

“Golly.”

They crossed the street and headed towards Siegel Park. A dame did a doubletake, and a gang of kids whispered and pointed. All part of the gig, thought the Blue Bustard.

“Finally,” he continued, “I found a storage closet off a garage. Dark as a Knight, inside. But I changed clothes without any problems. I raced over, but was too late.”

Woodcock raised an eyebrow. “Changed clothes without any problems, huh? Hooey!”

“Hooey? How so?”

“You’re the strongest, gutsiest hero this city’s got. But this time, you were distracted.”

“Distracted? Not me, Woodcock.”

“BB, you’re wearing your underpants on the inside!”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

Yes, it had a great opening line – and the playfulness and originality of this story (well, sure, it’s very derivative of all superheroes, but you know what we mean!) can’t help but grab your attention and draw it in. The language (“whillikers!”, “take a powder, people!”, “swell!”) is delightfully quaint, as are the dangers – such as an icecream truck hitting a trolley bus. Hearing the Blue Bustard relay his excuse for running late to gee-whizz sidekick Woodcock is a pun-filled ride through the streets of Urbanopolis. (Fun use of ‘blue’ and ‘kick’ too!) And the final underpants gag is simply a cherry on top of the melting icecream. But the missing gerbills? Oh dear! Silly, stand-out fun, and the ideal way to end this month’s showcase as, capes swirling, we stride away…

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THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we include an extra LONGLIST (approx 5-10%) 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! (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):

• ADVANCED CALCULUS by Sukanya Singh, India
• ONE OF THOSE DAYS by Lena Jensen, SA
• TIL DEATH DO US PART by James Maley, WA
• THE CLOCK TICKS by Melanie Hawkes, WA
• DELIVER ME by Judd Exley, WA
• THE LATE JACOB by Carol Gageler McMinn, NSW
• BLUE by Erica Murdoch, VIC
• FOREVER LATE by Leigh Rodgers, NSW
• AN IMPORTANT PERSON by Kit Holmes, WA
• MORE TIME AND A OUIJA BOARD by Robert Fairhead, NSW
• OUT OF TIME by Rachel Howden, NSW
• APARTMENT FOUR by Melissa Mantle, NSW
• TUPPERWARE PARTY by Kerry Cox, WA
• RIGHT TIME, WRONG PLACE by Danielle Barker, NSW
• HER FINAL VISIT by Kay Lea, WA
• IN A MAKESHIFT CRADLE by Michelle Oliver, WA
• MENSES by Harriet Hay, WA
• FAREWELL MY BROTHER by John AD Fraser, SA
• BRAIN DRAIN by Jenny Lynch, WA
• ‘SHOULD I STAY OR SHOULD I GO NOW’ by Matt Cannin, VIC
• THE NEW NEIGHBOUR by Stephen Martin, VIC
• FORGET-ME-PLEASE-NOT by Tatiana Samokhina, NSW
• BEHIND SCHEDULE by Marilyn Filewood, NSW
• JUST ANOTHER DAY by Camila Stupecka, QLD
• HOW DID YOU FEEL? by Heather Maywald, SA
• BETTER LATE THAN SEVERED by Rayza, VIC
• BLUE, NOT PINK by Deidra Lovegren, USA
• THE ART OF BULLSHIT by Jo Skinner, QLD
• LAST CALL by Martyn Tilse, QLD
• TWIN SOULS by Emily Koniditsiotis, NSW
• QUIET QUITTING by Clarissa Kwee, ACT
• CHRYSALIS by Greg Eccleston, NSW
• SANDRA’S CHANGE OF PLANS by David Klotzkin, USA
• THE FLOOD by Chloe Paige, VIC