Furious Fiction: October 2024 Story Showcase

Welcome to October’s Furious Fiction story selection – where this month we really put the SHOW into “showcase”! Here were the prompts:

1. Each story had to take place in some kind of THEATRE/THEATER.
2. Each story had to include somebody shouting.
3. Each story had to include the words UNCOMFORTABLE, RECORD and SHRINK. (Small variations accepted.)

Surprisingly, there were remarkably few characters shouting “Fire!” in a crowded theatre. But there were plenty of record-breaking performances (recorded for posterity), shrinking violets in the spotlight (and appointments with their ‘shrinks’) as well as a plethora of uncomfortable moments.

ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE…

When we have location prompts, it’s always fun to see how that specific setting is used. And with “theatre”, there was a lot of variety. The word literally means a “place for viewing” – making it ideal for telling a visual story for your reader. And we had no shortage of theatre types in the stories we received. These included:

• A stage theatre!  Yes, this was the most common setting – the sort where you might go to see a play or musical, perhaps a famous stand-up comedy act etc. These stories took place in the audience, on stage and backstage, with plenty of variety, from auditions to opening night. Sometimes the theatre had seen better days, haunted by its past (and actual ghosts!).
• A movie theatre. The next most popular setting was that of a cinema. Typically, these stories (wisely) revolved around the moviegoers themselves rather than what was on the screen, but as the final showcase piece will reveal, combining the two was effective. As well as the usual indoor theatre, we also had a scattering of outdoor cinemas and even a couple of drive-ins – a great setting!
• Operating theatre. We probably expected more stories to take place in this setting. That said, around 10% of the submissions were of a medical nature, with some scalpel-sharp wit and gruesome operations on the table!
• The theatre of war. Here’s one we hadn’t expected, but still received a small number of stories about. The need for the ‘theatre’ aspect meant that they were often told in a broader ‘big picture’ sense than a smaller scene, but they were highly effective pieces in most cases.
• The amphitheatre. Whether it was all Greek and set during an ancient backdrop or a contemporary story among ruins, this outdoor setting captured the imaginations of many of you this month!
• The theatre of life! We always encourage you to think outside the box with our prompts – there really are no ‘wrong’ answers as long as you’re having fun and exploring your creativity. To this end, we saw some intriguing takes on ‘theatre’ – some more figurative in nature, but still engaging in content. Hooray for originality!

Well done to ALL those who entered this month’s challenge. It was clear that many of you went “all in” on your concepts. And a special congratulations to this month’s Top Pick story – it belonged to Jackson Irvine. You can read Jackson’s story, along with other showcased stories and longlisted authors below. Please enjoy – and we hope to see you back for the next challenge in November!

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OCTOBER TOP PICK

TIME TO SHINE by Jackson Irvine, QLD

You have to be realistic in this business.

“Can someone please tell me WHERE THE HELL APRIL IS!”

Brian, our esteemed director, is pacing back and forth in the large communal dressing room. It’s rare to hear him raise his voice compared to some in the industry. His moments of unhappiness never go far beyond clipped tones and curt sentences.

To be fair, the complete non-appearance of his leading lady, on the opening night of his much-anticipated production of Macbeth? We should probably be grateful that shouting has been the extent so far.

My hand moved the phone from my ear, and my body gave an uncomfortable shrug in Brian’s direction. Several cast members are ringing April for the third time, the others trying to recall precisely when they saw her last night.

Marching over to my cracked wooden stool in the corner of the room, Brian fixes me with his firm gaze. “You’re the understudy, so I need a straight answer Hannah, no bullshit. Are you ready to play Lady Macbeth?”

“I’m ready,” I reply with a calmness that surprises me.

Brian nods, some of the crimson fury leaving his face. He looks around at everyone else. “Someone help Hannah into the dress. Stace, do her hair up as quickly as you can. Twenty minutes until the curtain rises people!”

A part of me wants to scream at the top of my lungs from elation, the validation of so many years of dreams, effort, pain, and sacrifice. How many auditions throughout my twenties, just one more hopeful in a sea of desperate, brunette women? Just getting by with waitressing, bartending, and enduring sleepless nights of anxiety and despair.

I felt it back in my first school play. Your performance strips everything except you, the audience, and the stage. The connection more intimate than any lover, so transcendent it’s like you’ve touched God himself. In that moment, your entire being shines brighter than all the stars that could make up infinity.

I didn’t care about money, a husband, children. My parents still did their best to record my performances with the battered old family camera, even as their worry for my future grew ever upward. I had known what I wanted from life to my death for a long time, all from that simple school play.

Still, you had to be realistic. So many had their dreams, some more talented, some just luckier. When I first learned I was to be the understudy for April, it felt like I had once again been pushed from the heights of my dream.

Lady Macbeth was willing to do anything for the sake of her ambition, and I surprised myself with how far I was willing to go for mine. Perhaps guilt will come later like it did with her, suffocate, shrink and consume me until my untimely end.

They will find April’s body soon enough. Until then, nobody will stop my light from shining.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There are two theatre standards on display here. First, the use of the Scottish play – a common ingredient in many stories this month! But second, the clever addition of that unsung swing waiting in the wings – the understudy. Sure, the lead is in the spotlight, but here in the murky waters of flash fiction, perhaps it is their shadow who has the greater motivation and therefore the better story to tell. There’s a gentle nod to Hannah’s own backstory, just enough to know how much she wants this. The final paragraph confirms that she wants it a lot – and mention of her own likely untimely end hints at the continuing a long tradition. Standing ovation… brava!

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A LIFELONG DREAM by Axel Francis, NSW

Edward Lewis sits in the fourth row dead centre, as he has for the last 73 years. Remembering that first night as a young boy, seeing the theatre for the first time. Eyes wide, astounded at the actors on stage. From that very first day it was where he wanted to be, but he never grew the confidence nor the courage to take that first step as an actor. “The theatre’s not for you my son.” His dad would say. “Textiles, that’s where you want to be.” He remembers his father striding along the factory floor between his workers and machines. “One day all this will be yours.”

And it was.

But Edward still came to every Saturday matinee performance without fail. He leans back in his seat, taking in the excitement from his audience peers, the buzz coming from the orchestra pit at the foot of the stage as the musicians warm up and tune. Inhaling deeply, perfume and cologne mostly, but if he concentrates it comes. A smile wipes twenty years from his face. The aromas of grease paint, oil from the old foot lights that haven’t been used in years, even dust from the curtains themselves. The real smell of the theatre.

He flexes his shoulders back into the cushions, closes his eyes and lets the theatre encompass him for the last time. A solitary tear makes its way down his cheek.

They will start installing the screen tomorrow. Boarding over the pit, and bolting speakers to the walls. Progress they have called it. He has seen it often enough over the years in his factory. Now it has forced its way in here, after shrinking ticket sales and record losses for the theatre.

The Lights softly dim as the curtain rises. Voices quieten as people settle in for the show.

The actors take the stage, project their lines to a rapt audience, then take their final bows.

The curtain descends, lightly kissing the stage floor, swaying back and forth with a soft caress. The glow from the wall sconces slowly brightens the room. Edward stays seated, a soft smile on his lips as the audience get to their feet, arrange their jackets, blouses and bags, and awkwardly shuffle their way between the rows.

A young woman offers Edward a hand to help him rise from his seat.
“Sir?” She asks, placing her hand on his. “It’s time to go.”
His other arm falls from the armrest into his lap. She gently shakes his hand to wake him.
“Sir?” She’s feeling uncomfortable now, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach. She removes her hand and stands upright, surveying the theatre crowd as they make their way towards the exits.
“I need help!” she shouts, trying to be heard over the din. “Is anyone here a doctor?”
She moves towards the aisle, seeking aid.
The soft glow from the lights bathes Edward’s face in a golden hue. A smile forever transfixed on his lips.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There’s something about theatres that conjures a certain flavour of nostalgia. And in the case of Edward – the boy who swallowed his dreams and followed his father’s footsteps instead – that nostalgia is the final taste he gets. Two life stories are told here; one of a man, the other of the golden age of theatre. Ultimately, both say their final goodbyes amid the golden hue. Well paced and well written.

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A SUMMER STORY by Wendy Stackhouse, WA

A strangled sob escapes her as she catches sight of the tiny white bundle lying on the sand. “What did you do,” she screams at him, and tries to get past. He raises the stick and looms over her as he beats her about the head, each blow echoing across the sky. The blows become more frequent – thwack, thwack, each one followed by moans, moans that become weaker as she shrinks to the ground.

The noise alerts people nearby, one of whom manages to catch hold of a policeman. When the officer arrives, he is shocked to find a broken and beaten woman lying prostrate on the ground. Garish lipstick coats a mouth open in a silent scream, and her matted hair is tied back with a dirty handkerchief. When he pulls out his notebook to record the scene, her assailant appears and begins to beat the officer around the head and shoulders, raining blows on the poor man as he yells at him, “That’s the way to do it!” Vainly the policeman attempts to ward off his attacker, but the man is too strong, and before long his body joins that of the woman’s, motionless on the floor.

The man stares vacantly into the air and shouts: “I can get rid of anyone I like!” “No, you can’t,” a voice comes out of nowhere and angrily he shouts again, “Yes I can!” “No, you can’t”, this time a chorus of voices joins in and turning red in the face the man again screams “Yes I can!”

Across the sand, the noise awakens a sleeping crocodile, and silently the reptile begins to slither towards the man, who is totally unaware of the danger he is in.

Again, shouts can be heard, telling him to look behind him. At first, he ignores them, but then he finally does turn around and finds the crocodile inches from his legs. The man begins to beat it over the head with his stick but it is too late. Loud cheers and jeers echo around him, but this time he has met his match, and with a roar the animal drags him across the sands and disappears from view. It returns moments later and one by one drags the lifeless figures of the woman and the policeman out of sight.

Loud clapping and cheering fill the air, as the red and white striped curtains slide across the puppet theatre. Some of the children are crying, uncomfortable with the violence and the huge crocodile. To cheer them up their parents take them by the hand and lead them to the nearby ice-cream stand, leaving their fold-up wooden chairs behind. Tomorrow a new audience will come and sit on them to watch the show, as Punch and Judy once again continue their age-old battle.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

What starts out as quite a disturbing scene soon reveals itself to be a tale as old as time. And yet, when you think about it – WHY is it a long-standing tradition for such a tale to be peddled to children at the seaside? When stripped back to its bare plot, it is rather disturbing indeed! Anyway, that aside, this was a fun take on the ‘theatre’ prompt – and surprisingly one of just a few stories to choose such a smaller ‘puppet-sized’ setting. (As a footnote, we suspect Punch and Judy have likely been cancelled in 2024.)

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THE PRICE OF DISCRETION by TJ Edwards, NSW

Sleep deprivation is a form of torture, so they say. After seventy-three hours, I’m sucking back my eighty-first cigarette to cover up the dishwater taste of my twenty-third coffee. My mouth is a well caffeinated ashtray and my body shutters and trembles.

I stare at the chalk outline.

Twenty-four, dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair… bright smile. The photo in my hand shows a young woman staring into the camera, her teeth so white in contrast to her features. So full of life. Three days ago.

“Sir, you’re not supposed to smoke in here!” A young usher storms down the aisle and produces a cup filled with water. I stare at him until he fidgets then, uncomfortable in the silence, he backs away and leaves. I take another long drag, grimace, then sip my coffee again.

Four hundred red fabric seats. Three levels. Multiple points of exit and entry. I glance at the photo. The chalk outline. Drag. Sip. A vibration in my pocket sets my teeth on edge and I fumble the cigarette between my fingers holding the coffee and fish my phone from inside my trenchcoat.

The screen shows my shrink calling. As the vibration stops, the tally of missed calls increases by one. Lucky thirteen. Hell, it was either him or Charlie from AA. That reminds me. I drop the phone into my pocket, retrieve my flask and give the coffee a nip… or two. The next sip is smoother, probably the alcohol killing whatever germs were doing the backstroke in it.

“Ahem.”

Instead of turning around, I lean back as far as the chair will allow and see the Jeeves-looking theatre director in the aisle where the usher had been moments ago. In his hand, a cup of water. I take a deep breath, steady my nerves, and drag the cigarette down to the filter before depositing it into the cup.

“Thank you.” He bows, turns, and leaves.

“Yer welcome.” I wave a hand over my shoulder, then retrieve another cigarette from my pack and light it. When I lean back again to savour the tar hitting my lungs, I spot something on the balcony above me. Blood? I glance down to the chalk mark and up to the balcony again. Murdered up there? Fell down here? I record the observation in my notebook and head up.

The door to the balcony is stiff and despite the knob turning, I can’t push the door open. I down the majority of what’s left of my coffee, drop the cigarette into the dregs and toss it aside. When my shoulder hits the door, I feel a weight slide forward. With enough space, I lean my head in and discover the body of a young man.

“Oi, Jeeves,” I shout into the hall. “Thought you said you cleared the place?”

“We did!” He appears and glances to the propped open door. “Oh no… is it?”

“Yep.” I say, letting the door swing shut. “Means your fee just doubled.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The thing that stands out most in this story is the strong narrative voice throughout – a clearly defined character that is a culmination of all the detectives in all those taped-off crime scenes throughout time. All the classic caffeine-fuelled nicotine-stained tropes are on display and it’s a fun take on the theatre setting as simply the backdrop for this crime genre. 

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THEATRE OF THE MIND by Jared Hansen, NSW

ACT 1
SCENE 1: The Alleged Living Room
(The room has seen better days, or at least you'd hope. Blinds are shuttered, doors are creaky. There is a lounge and a broken chair redolent with symbolism. A pine table peeks shyly out from under reams of loose leaf paper and a couple of adrift plates. MATTHEW JINGLEWOOD, a nearly-budding genius, reclines on the lounge pen poised over a notebook.)
(ENTER GIRLFRIEND, stage diagonal holding a bag)

GIRLFRIEND:
Matt, I'm leaving.

(Beat.)

MATT:
No, no.

GIRLFRIEND:
I am.

MATT:
No, that won't do. That's a very weak entrance. It's trite, it's been done We need to establish character.

GIRLFRIEND:
Excuse me?

MATT:
We need to establish character or context or nobody will pay attention.

GIRLFRIEND:
Matt, this is serious.

MATT:
Yes, that's part of the problem. You can't open too heavy. We need some witty banter.

GIRLFRIEND:
Matt, this isn't a play.

MATT:
That's what I'm saying. The structure's all wrong.

GIRLFRIEND:
You're obsessed. This is why I'm leaving. You're not a playwright.

MATT:
I'm wrighting right now, aren't I?

GIRLFRIEND:
No, you're just bossing me around. You've really let the Glebe Occasional Players get to your head.

MATT:
Well, they said I was the number one entry in their contest.

GIRLFRIEND:
They said ‘only'.

MATT:
Yes, and then I applied deductive reasoning to their claim. I like that line. An undergrad crowd would chuckle at that and pat themselves on the back for getting it.

GIRLFRIEND:
I think they'd probably feel more embarrassed.

MATT:
See, we're getting there now, this is witty banter! We're established how charming we are.

GIRLFRIEND:
YOU'RE INSUFFERABLE! YOU NEED A SHRINK.

MATT:
No, no. It's too early for shouting. You need to save that energy for the next act. I do like ‘You need a shrink', though. It's raw and frank, and bringing a therapist character in always works a treat.

(MATT scribbles furiously. GIRLFRIEND snatches the page off him.)

GIRLFRIEND:
I am speaking off the record. And I don't want to co-write your psychotic break.

MATT:
How about a producer credit?

(GIRLFRIEND reads the page critically)

GIRLFRIEND:
Hang on… have you been naming me ‘girlfriend' this whole time?

MATT:
I didn't want to get too attached to a name. You know, I've had a feeling we'll need to recast.

(Beat)

(EXIT girlfriend)

MATT:
Yes, good from the top. Just bring that same energy!

(ENTER Nobody)

(Uncomfortable silence)

MATT:
On second thoughts, maybe we could work with ‘I'm leaving'. I think that was a better launching off point. Can we try it again? Or maybe it's

(Curtains)

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Anatomy of a break up, right here! A clever use of the theatre prompt brings a highly original structure to the fore in which this scene plays out as a script. Some nice meta moments throughout (“I’m wrighting right now, aren’t I?”) and back and forth ‘dialogue’ makes for an engaging scene. We’re not sure what ACT 2 will look like, but the GIRLFRIEND character is likely to be absent. It is indeed ‘curtains’ for this relationship!

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MY SEMI BRILLIANT CAREER by Dennis Callegari, VIC

My first theatrical experience, aged seven, was when I was chosen as the Dragon in a dramatic retelling of the story of Puff the Magic Dragon, based on the popular record by Peter, Paul and Mary. I don’t know why my teacher at primary school chose me for the role. Did I have a strong voice for a seven-year-old? Was I particularly good at roaring?

‘Puff’ was a serious production. There were props and scenery, and I had the full dragon costume complete with a big green papier-mâché head.

Disaster struck at the dress rehearsal. I remember feeling uncomfortable as I stepped out onto the stage, and when it came to speaking my lines I froze completely. On the night of the show, another small boy took my place. He was the one who roared disconsolately; he was the one who shouted out Jackie Paper’s name, not me.

End of Act One.

My second experience in the theatre was the exact opposite. It was four years later; my school – the same school – was celebrating its 50th year, and everybody in the school community was invited to perform at a special gala evening. There was even a prize.

Four of us decided to put on an original play, and this time I wasn’t just an actor in the play, but the playwright and director as well. No sign of stage fright. The plot, as I remember, was of a burglary gone wrong, and was highly influenced by old TV reruns of ‘Get Smart’.

Scenery? Props? We had none, except that we were all dressed in black, wore cardboard masks over our eyes and had a big paper bag marked ‘$$$’. The crowd thought we were hilarious – or at least that’s how I remember it . . . but that evening’s prize went to the pimply teenage quartet who mangled the latest pop song.

End of Act Two.

The final act in my theatrical career was a Reader’s Digest condensed version of Gilbert and Sullivan’s ‘The Mikado’ at high school. The production was very nearly the real thing, complete with a professional director, proper costumes, sets, props and an actual band of musicians.

I don’t remember volunteering to join the cast, and certainly I never would have if I’d had to sing solo (for which the audience should be eternally grateful), but my not-too-big, not-too-small role as Pooh-Bah suited me perfectly.

I did feel sorry, however, for the poor kid who had taken on the demanding role of Ko-ko, the Lord High Executioner. He would shrink down in terror inside his faux-Japanese costume every time it was his turn to speak, but every time he did, he fought back out of it bravely.

The show, as they say, must go on.

As we took our final bows at the end of our final performance, I recall wondering if I would ever be on stage again. But as you can see by looking at me, I never was.

Curtain.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

Like the previous script-based story, this once more explores the idea of ‘acts’ – but here we are treated to the full ‘three act structure’! The narrator’s three distinct experiences on stage are perhaps a mirror of many readers, who dabble at it in the papier-mache school days and again in high school, before never treading those boards again. (Just a ‘stage’ we go through…) Simple anecdotal storytelling, yet relatable and honest throughout.

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NIP ‘N’ TUCK by Jenny Lynch, WA

“Mrs Fotherington-Smythe… hello there. Mind if I call you Abigail? I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Doctor Butcher. I’ll be your surgeon today. I’m filling in for Doctor Shyster. I hope you don’t mind, but he had a small matter of urgency at the local litigation court.

But don’t worry. To make up for the inconvenience and to compensate you, Doctor Shyster is shouting you a free anaesthetist, Doctor Kip. He’s fresh out of medical school but I guarantee he’ll have you away with fairies and in La La Land before you can say Rip Van Winkle.

I note on your records you’ve ordered the whole kit and kaboodle — the Ugly Duckling makeover package. I hope you don’t feel uncomfortable, but the surgery today will be captured on video. I will be submitting it for my final assessment at medical school. Hopefully, thanks to you, if all goes well, I’ll be a fully-fledged, licensed plastic surgeon this time next month!

Now, I’ll help you remove your hospital gown, so I can fully assess the situation and see what I’m up against. I’ll be drawing some lines here and there with my permanent marker pen, but don’t worry, you won’t notice them once the bruising sets in tomorrow.

Okie-Dokie. Let’s start at the top and work our way down, shall we? Hmm, yes, reading Doctor Shyster’s notes, I agree a facelift is definitely in order. As he so eloquently put it, you have the kind of face only a mother could love. But I’m guessing at your age, your mother has long since passed. I’m sorry for your loss. But, anyway, I’ll start with the Rhytidectomy, which will lift and pull back the skin on your face, jowls, and neck. I’ll also use a bit — well, quite a bit, actually — of Botox, to plump out your lips. You’ll obviously have to treble your lipstick budget, but hey, them’s the breaks. I promise you’ll finally get the hang of ‘keeping a stiff upper lip’, and I guarantee you’ll never, ever, frown again. But don’t worry, everyone will gradually get used to your new resting bitch face.

Now, what to do about your nose? I mean, geez, it’s rather large. You look like you could be the love child of Barbra Streisand and Jimmy Durante. But fear not — a Rhinoplasty will change the size and shape, and your new schnoz will be as cute as a button.

I see a breast augmentation is required. I mean, when life gives you lemons, why not have a little procedure that can turn those lemons into melons? I promise I can make mountains out of molehills, and I suggest the ‘Dolly Parton’ look. That’s a 40DD in layman’s terms.

Then finally, the Abdominoplasty — the tummy tuck — with liposuction, will drastically shrink that muffin top and belly flab.

The total cost today will be $240,000. Will that be cash, card, or Afterpay?

Abigail? OMG, we need a crash cart in here! Does anyone know CPR?”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

This is a riot from start to finish – with the bumbling Doctor Butcher having absolutely NO filter whatsoever (we loved all those names, by the way). As we take a tour of the poor Mrs Fotherington-Smythe’s body, it’s a hilarious laundry list of procedures and sassy judgement. Hilariously unprofessional and what we hope will NEVER happen in a real operating theatre – but great fodder for an entertaining story! That final sentence… brilliant!

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LIFE IN 35MM by Maddison Scott, VIC

I love the smell of napalm in the morning.

I opened the projection room and was met with a smell that was so familiar, I’m sure it clung to my skin. Mildew caked into the exposed ventilation pipes, dust swept across the linoleum floor, the faint scent of oil and butter that coated everything in a salty layer of film. Even in the dark void before the projectors clicked to life, I could navigate that machinery like I was dancing with my own shadow.

You had me at hello.

The first time I threaded a film, I knew. The cells slid over the gate, the xenon illuminated still images into moving pictures, the platter sucked the film back into a perfect disc ready for the next audience to devour.

When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad.

Growing up, I used a diary to record every movie I ever saw. They were my cure-all. When my parents fought. When I was sick or uncomfortable. When there was a thunderstorm. I saved my pocket money for a year to buy my first VHS tape.

I’m the king of the world.

Through the porthole, humanity unfolds like a studio logo at the beginning of a film. From above, I watch first dates, last dates, popcorn fights, midnight marathons, alcoholic sing-a-longs, sex acts, heart attacks, laughter, wonder, screams, tears.

I see dead people.

1999, Cinema 4, Back Row.

“No, he can’t be,” she whispered, gripping my hand. Tears streamed down the beautiful woman’s cheeks, her bottom lip quivering so violently I could see it in the dark theatre. Of course, I already knew the plot twist. I’d watched this scene many times through the porthole. Seeing the devastation in her eyes—the empathy for a fictional ghost—I realised this was the woman I wanted to marry.

Houston, we have a problem.

The film burned across the screen like a hellish claw ripping through snow. The acrid odour of melted plastic met the shrink of film tearing through the loop, tugging at the sound head, whipping back to the platter. I had to splice several seconds of Tom Hanks’ distorted face from the reel that day.

Nobody puts Baby in the corner.

The news came in a letter. I was redundant. Unneeded. My manager didn't even look me in the eye. Thirty-five years boiled down to a one-shift goodbye. I broke down the reels one last time, packed up the trailers and ads, boxed the splicers and tape. Said goodbye to the mildew, the dust, the oil. As I locked up the projection room that final night, I shouted into the abyss…

There’s no place like home.

The movies look smaller from down here. The projection room, a tomb. Digital projectors make no sound, have no soul. The beautiful woman beside me grips my hand.

The end credits roll.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We loved the way that this story chose to include famous film lines to segment each stage of the piece – not just as a structural gimmick, but a meaningful detail for someone who had literally witnessed all of these moments from the projector room. In that respect, this story has strong parallels with the film Cinema Paradiso – both pieces providing a love-letter to cinema and once again (like Edward in his theatre from the earlier story), a farewell to the traditions of yesteryear.

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THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Encore! Encore! 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 deserved 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):

• THE PRINCESS by Ilya Belegradek, US
• A BOY BECOMES A MAN by Sally Farmer, NSW
• THE DAY GRAMPA GOT STUCK IN A BOX by Bill Boyd, NSW
• WHAT IS IT GOOD FOR? by Caroline Trescowthick, VIC
• ROMAN HOLIDAY REGRETS by Lauren Goodwin, SA
• THE STAGE IS SET by Amanda Fisher, NSW
• THE GHOST OF MRS SLOANE by Audie Lewis, Portugal
• MURDER by Anne Carpenter, NSW
• A STAR IS BORN by Simon Shergold, USA
• A THEATRE BUILT FOR DRAMA by Andrew Shaughnessy, Canada
• WE PLAY OUR PARTS by Mel Jardinera, VIC
• TSINDOS BISTROT 1987 – A LOVE STORY by Steve Cumper, TAS
• WAITING IN THE WINGS by Sophie Pell, UK
• YOUR DIFFERENT LIVES by Isaac Freeman, SA
• REFLECTIONS by Freya King, QLD
• A FEW OF MY FAVOURITE THINGS by Lynn Gale, UK
• WHAT DO YOU CALL A GROUP OF ACTORS? A TRAGEDY by Kevin Jin, NSW
• MATINEE by Michał Przywara, Canada
• OH YES HE DID! by Eugenie Pusenjak, ACT
• JUST GOING THROUGH A DIFFICULT STAGE by Madeleine Armstrong, UK
• THE FIRST DANCE by Sarah Edmunds, WA
• THE MAGICIAN by Ryan Klemek, USA
• SMILE by Thomas Moloney, VIC
• MAGICAL MOMENT by Kathy Stevens, USA
• THE PROCEDURE by Claire Pales, VIC
• THEATRE OF WAR by Dee, UK
• GHOST LIGHT by Alyssa Buchthal, USA
• INTERVIEW WITH A FALLEN STAR by Meredith Kingsley, VIC
• DR E. TARKANIAN, COSMIC SURGEON by Ben Hogan, WA
• THE EVER AFTER by Lynn Abramson, USA
• THE LEGENDARY ADDISON YORK by Alison L. Robson, NSW
• THE USHER by Ed Friedman, USA
• DIFFICULT TO DIGEST by Sarah Fisher, QLD
• GROUNDED by A.M. Obst, UK
• ETERNITY by Tessa McCarthy, QLD
• VAMPIRE by Joshua Kepfer, USA
• A FIVE-ACT PLAY ON HUMANITY by Robert Fairhead, NSW
• THE SHOW MUST GO ON by Sarah Fox, Canada
• RECORDS FROM THE WORST TIMES™ by Ryan K. Lindsay, ACT
• THE EVOLUTION OF LIGHTING by Melanie Wittwer, NZ
• STAR OF THE SHOW by Louise Walton, NSW
• ANOTHER LATE SHOW WITH NICK SCRATCH by Paul Lewthwaite, UK
• THE LAST DANCE by Byron Churchill, Canada
• THE RED CURTAINS by Elizabeth G. Arthur, QLD
• A REAL PERFORMANCE by Christina Kershaw, UK
• ONE SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE PICTURES by Rhonda Valentine Dixon, QLD
• MAGICAL INNOCENCE by Miriam Drori, Israel
• STAGE by Matt Goddard, UK
• CURTAINS by Nikki Reid, VIC
• MY KINGDOM FOR A CUSHION by Claudia Nicholson, Greece
• THAT SUMMER by Ella Herdman, NSW