Furious Fiction: September 2024 Story Showcase

Welcome to September’s Furious Fiction story showcase – where this month we mixed things up a little with a picture prompt!

Writers had to use the image above in ANY way as inspiration to tell their story!
What you wrote was UP TO YOU – but participants were told to imagine that if your story were to ever be printed somewhere, THIS image would make sense appearing alongside it.

We’ve run picture prompts in the past, but this one was arguably one of the most open assignments we’ve ever given you. No words, no actions, no character traits! Some loved it and others… not so much! (With a few even using their entry to TELL US they weren’t happy about the task – you know who you are!)

EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY… RIGHT?

So, why a picture prompt? Are we secret sadists that swoon when storytellers suffer? Not at all. For starters, it’s always a good day creatively when you’re challenged to peek out beyond your comfort zone. And the key word here was INSPIRATION. We didn’t necessarily need a description of this EXACT scene including the clothing and complexion of its inhabitants. What we were looking for was a story that captured this ‘energy’ in some way.

Remember that the ‘blank canvas’ of the image was intentional – we wanted YOU to build off it (rather than merely describe it). Here were some of the many directions we saw your stories take:

A waiting room – Well, yeah, we did see that one coming! A lot of stories (a LOT) saw this as a doctor’s office or perhaps the waiting room for an interview or audition. People went to great lengths to describe how dull the scene was. (Fun fact: the location of ‘Centrelink' came up a lot!)
The pearly gates – It’s always a fun trope when St Peter and the gang are involved and yes, we saw plenty of newly (and not-so-newly) dead people waiting to see if, to quote Mister Mars, they’d been locked out of heaven.
The fiery gates – Ah yes, sometimes the door led to hell too!
Donors – From blood donations to ahem, body donations, this altruistic angle popped up from time to time.
Headmaster’s office – Some big ‘naughty chair’ energy saw stories set in a school, usually with parents or teachers awaiting their fate!
Whodunnit? – The idea of a murder mystery was a fun one and we saw a few original takes on this. (At least one including Cluedo-style characters!)
Androids and AI – It’s on everyone’s mind these days, and the blank stares from those in our photo surely inspired writers to think that some or all of those ‘assembled’ were not human.
Competitions – From ‘Don’t Laugh’ challenges to people who could sit completely still the longest, this idea was given some fun takes. (One memorable competition is showcased below!)
“It’s a photo” – This might sound obvious, but many used (or got stuck on) the idea that this was an actual photo, allowing for some flexibility, longer timelines and nostalgia.

In general, those who were successful (in our judges’ eyes) took the image and delivered a new perspective or a take that was relatable to the reader. Sometimes it incorporated a common trope, but twisted it in an enjoyable way. And on that note, it’s time for the showcase stories – including this month’s Top Pick from Tatiana Samokhina – congratulations! Tatiana’s story, along with our shortlisted stories and longlisted authors are all showcased below. Well done to ALL who attempted this unique challenge – we hope to see you back for the next challenge in October!

SEPTEMBER TOP PICK

HAVE WE? by Tatiana Samokhina, NSW

Have we crossed paths before?

Maybe we sat across from one another on a sticky metro seat.

There’s a salty tang lingering around you – ocean molecules evaporating from your then-girlfriend’s virgin-brown hair in the stuffy, hot underground. Her yellow puffed sleeves itch at her skin, and she wrinkles her nose but keeps reading. She’s about to sneeze, and you can feel it – her shoulders lift and hunch forward, her chest expands; she’s a filly, she’s a storm. You fish a tissue out of your pocket and hand it to her. She covers her nose and droplets of her saliva never reach me, sitting in front of her as well, but neither does your gaze.

Maybe we hustled and jostled and pushed our elbows at the Town Hall Square on New Year's Eve five years ago.

An old man, his buttons gasping on his tight shirt, steps on your foot, and you want to snap, you want to swear, but there are hundreds of people, if not thousands, and you’re pressed into the man – a glossy, slick sardine. You breathe in his sweat, and his flimsy glasses are so crooked that you snicker and forgive. Fifteen strangers, ten backpacks, three hats across from you – my brother hiccups into my shoulder and tugs at his white collar as if it has superpowers. I giggle. My voice spills like grains through the crowd, maybe even pinches you on the cheek, but you're still fifteen faces away, cringing, your toes burning with the imprint of the man’s foot, and you simply don't notice.

Maybe we drove to the same beach on the same sultry Sunday.

We run out of the fluffy spume, my friend and I, both salty, both glinting, sunscreen beads slide down our skin. We laugh and hold hands, and somewhere between the ocean and blanket, I stumble and fall. Fine white sand clings to my knees, my thighs, my long, dark hair. My friend's pigtails, wavy like the rare summer clouds, peek at me from above, and she hops onto me for a sand-fist fight. We wallow, welter, loll about.

Then you walk past.

Your friend's clean-shaven, you're covered in stubble, and I can almost feel its sharp ends. My fingertips prick, and I lose, I surrender. I groan quietly, annoyed. Sand is now in the corners of my mouth. I rub them hard, but a grain slips between my lips, down my tongue, all the way inside. The sand you'd just walked on. I stand and look at the ocean. Where are you? Maybe you're underwater, drinking the water I swam in only minutes ago.

I lie on my back, a wide-brimmed hat shading my eyes. You walk past again, heading back to your tent. You glance at me, slightly curious; my hazelnut freckles smile politely – or wink – but you keep walking past.

Have we crossed paths before? We probably have. But have we chosen to linger?

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This month’s top pick answered the picture prompt in the true spirit of what our judges were hoping for – a story that used the image as inspiration rather than literally. By using this group of random strangers as the base for its world, this piece is free to visit other locations and situations, all underpinned by a shared theme of almost-connections. Many writers may recognise the concept of “sonder” – that person you make eye contact with in a passing train carriage, whose story is completely different from yours. This idea is exploited to great effect here – with some lovely sensory details and a crackling air of expectation and anticipation that feels at home with this universally relatable tale of random encounters, fate and what-might-have-been.

OPEN CASTING – CHOSEN ONE by Christian Weir, UK

Jules huffed, why did Gorethrax have to be invading on a Friday? Not only was the city at threat from his orcish hordes, but it was always much harder to find a Chosen One to protect the city on a weekend. She felt a tweak of hopelessness at the sight of the mere 7 candidates who had heeded the call.

“Welcome and thank you for responding to the casting call.” She beamed with professionalism. “We only need one today, and it is quite urgent that we find who is up to the task. So, shall we find the Chosen One!?”

Jules checked the sign-in sheet, “Linda? Would you like to tell us about yourself?”

The young woman in purple stood bolt upright, “I. Am. Spartacus.”

“Okayyy, I have you down as Linda?”

An older gentleman raised his hand.

“Sir?”

Pressing hands down on his knee he creaked to his feet, “I am also Sparticus.”

Jules furrowed her eyebrows then nodded, “Okay, thanks. Any other Spartaci here?…No?… Gladiatorial uprisings are on the 3rd floor.”

The Spartaci shuffled out in unified embarrassment.

Jules shot an eye to her watch. A bright yellow topped teen stood.

“You don't have to stand.”

“Oh.” The teen heaped down. Then sprang up again. “How about a coming of age Chosen One?” She fluttered like a dandelion as she spoke.

“Sorry. This isn’t a development opportunity. Gorethrax is expected in… 5 hours…”

The yellow teen ran from the audition hall.

“If I may.” A caped man boomed as he hovered to his feet. “I am Io.”

“Oh Io… of course, you did the Zanthar invasion.”

“Indeed citizen” he heralded.

“Now if I recall…there was an issue around. Um…collateral damage.”

“AH!” cried Io, bringing a fist to his chest. “My past is too tragic to mention. I shan't burden you other than to say that there was no cost too high to stop the Zanthar.”

“Okay… As an agency we are measured on costs, buildings… civilian casualties…the paperwork alone…”

“My tortured Soul!” Io blasted through the ceiling, bringing down dozens of bricks, pipes, and declarations of Spaticus(ness).

Three candidates left.

“We come as a team.” Said the turquoise topped man, putting his arm around his partner. She continued, “We do wisecracks, and Brazilian Capoeira?”

“Can I see some?”

“Wisecracks?”

“Nono, the Capoeira please.”

Gorethrax? More like…eh…Borethrax.” The man sounded surprised with himself. His partner started to dance.

Jules considered the budget. Maybe she could afford both. “And have you been Chosen before?”

“First time!”

The woman spun and kicked and flailed. It was going well enough – given the tight schedule – until she over rotated…

!KERPOW!

… and knocked out the only other candidate.

Jules thanked Kothran that everyone had signed the liability waiver.

“Sorry, I didn’t stretch!” said the woman.

“No collateral damage! Out!”

Then just like that there were no available Chosen Ones.

Jules huffed again. It was typical that this responsibility be thrust upon her.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We did see plenty of candidates awaiting selection in our stories this month (for obvious reasons), but none quite so delightfully mundane and paperwork-laden as this one in the face of the city’s demise. Not only had Gorethrax chosen an inconvenient time to invade, but getting good help is proving difficult for our protagonist Jules. From “we have you down as Linda” to the declarations of Sparticus(ness) and the hilariously random appearance of Brazilian martial arts, this story is a fun ride, playing off the office and superhero tropes to perfection.

BACK AGAINST THE WALL by Melanie Hawkes, WA

Bum number 9,457 just sat on me. Yes, I'm counting. There's nothing much else to do so I may as well amuse myself. It's tiring sitting around all day. I'm fulfilling my purpose in life, along with my six brothers and sisters. Seven is quite an odd number, if you ask me. Even if you didn't ask, I'm going to tell you what I think anyway.

Hundreds of us were cut from bits of this and pieces of that. Then we were put in boxes and shipped to far-away lands. I didn't like the ocean voyage. Legs are made for land, and I have four of them. I'm 100% certain that I don't belong at sea.

Anyway, we made it to land, got loaded onto a truck and taken to a giant store. It was freezing in the warehouse, and I longed to get out of my box and on display. I was jealous of the stock on top and beside me that disappeared first. We all had to wait our turn.

One day I was having a nap when I started to move. Is today my lucky day? There was a slight jolt as I moved off the shelf. It was a smooth ride before I heard seven beeps, then another jolt as I moved again. An engine started and we were off, hopefully to my forever home.

There were huffs and puffs as we were offloaded. It serves them right for trying to carry more than one of us at once. After living inside a cardboard box for over a year, it was nice to see the light at last. They took a while to put all seven of us together – and I was second last – but I could finally stretch my legs.

Our new home is quiet but smells funny. There are no pets or children, just adults wearing funny white coats. That suits me fine. Hopefully I'll live a long life without premature ageing like a lot of flat pack furniture does.

If you look closely, you'll notice one of us is different. It seems we weren't all cut from the same branch. Different pattern or mould used? Or did someone at the big store pull someone's leg and mix parts up? Either way, that lady doesn't seem to mind. It's a full house today. Every seat has a bum on it.

I creak under the weight of my guy. How come I always seem to get the heaviest people? I hope they call him soon, and that he doesn't need to come back for more treatment. At his age, why doesn't he get false teeth and be done with it? Give me a break, please!

“Hey, quit your whingeing,” the floor speaks up. “I never get a break. People walk all over me!”

“Fair point. I'll shut up now,” I respond. And I go back to doing my job with my back against the wall.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

With seven characters in the picture, most naturally told to tell their story about one or more of the people. However this piece chose to recognise that it is the chairs in the image that have the most interesting backstories of all. With a memorable opening sentence, we’re left under no doubt what we’re dealing with here and all that remains is to take a seat and hear all about the journey that led to this establishment. The final admonishment from the floor was a fun bonus too, and the original perspective of this piece helped it get over the line.

SHARED SECRETS by Kevin Raines, USA

We sat side by side, seven strangers, in small uncomfortable chairs in a large uncomfortable room. Each moment of silence became increasingly weighty and awkward, so it was a relief when the door finally opened. A woman in a lab coat entered and handed out random one-letter name tags, A to G.

“Thank you for participating,” she said. “As you’ve read in your paperwork, this experiment will last three hours, after which you will each receive a $10,000 honorarium.”

Amidst the grins of greed and need, Participant B raised a hand. “Can you tell us about the experiment now?”

“Certainly. You’ve heard of artificial intelligence?”

We murmured agreement.

“Artificial intelligence has a fatal flaw. It cannot emulate true holistic human intelligence. This project is a research program to develop Hive Intelligence. Has anyone heard of Hive Intelligence?”

She waited for us to shake our heads. “Of course not, because we’re inventing it. Hive intelligence is a means of temporarily merging multiple human minds to achieve exponential gains in intelligence. In today’s experiment, we’re going to give you an extremely complex unsolved multi-dimensional problem, and you’re going to collectively solve it as one interconnected hive mind.”

There was a long pause before Participant G spoke. “You’re going to combine our minds? The seven of us?”

“Precisely. During our recruiting process, you each tested as geniuses in a distinct area of thought: math, philosophy, literature, and so on. Our technology will combine your individual realms of genius into one supermind.” The professor launched into a long explanation of the process, using words like electrodes and synapses and electroencephalosynthesis.

We all absorbed this information before Participant F piped up. “So how do you isolate the genius elements of our brain?”

The researcher shifted uncomfortably. “We don’t. Your minds must be completely combined to achieve holistic superintelligence. That includes all of your reason, your knowledge, and your memories.”

“Everything?”

“100 percent.”

“So … my bank information is going to be known to everyone?”

We all laughed, but the woman didn’t. “Well, yes. All of your individual knowledge and memory will be shared collectively. Change your passwords afterwards.”

There were murmurs of concern.

“Our private memories will be shared?”

“Our sexual kinks?”

“Our family secrets?”

“Illegal drug use?”

“Everything. That’s why the stipend is so large.”

Sweat appeared on my palms. I really, really, really needed this money.

We all pondered the things in our minds that no one should know, and compared the risks and benefits of participating. At long last, Participant E spoke. “None of us will likely see each other again.”

Participant A nodded. “We can all use the money, and we all have secrets. I say we make a never-to-be-broken pact that none of us will ever reveal anything about the others.”

There were hearty yeas all around, dollar signs in everyone’s eyes.

I glanced around. “Even if one of us is a serial killer?”

Everyone laughed, and we intertwined fingers in a pinkie swear.

I pretended to laugh with them.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Artificial intelligence featured heavily in many stories this month, but here we see things have been taken a lot further than “one of us might be a robot” levels. In fact, we’re getting busy creating a human super-brain to combat the inevitable robot uprising! The dialogue and back and forth between the seven participants gives great insights into each of their personalities and fears, but our protagonist appears to be more worried than the rest. It’s only in the final lines that we realise why – a fantastically satisfying ending for such an ambiguous and unassuming sentence!

SPILL THE BEANS! (PILOT EPISODE) by Louise, Freya and Jinn, NSW

It was silent but deadly. Nostrils flared, faces greened, but nobody budged. That was the name of the game: last to move won the Victory Bean.

If they also guessed the culprit.

“And that is a stinker!” Stank Fankly announced. “You could chew that air biscuit!” The game show host hooted as the sulphurous stench swallowed the row of contestants.

Knuckles turned white and frozen eyes watered.

But they sat firm.

On Stool 1, Melina held her breath as her bowels gurgled. The first contestant to break wind snagged a cool $5,000, tripling if nobody guessed them. But Melina was sniffing after the hot goods. That Victory Bean held $80,000.

“They've all smelt it, but who dealt it?” Stank boomed. “That's what I love about this game, folks! The strategy! The stealth—not even a squeak today! This’ll be a hard fart to outsmart!”

Melina's lungs struggled. She ruled out the white-haired man on Stool 6. His aged bowels had gone off in the studio lunchroom like a deflating balloon, with a suspected trot from Toot Town to Squirtsville.

“And thanking our sponsors, Pappy's Nappies! Excreting air in a chair is no easy breeze—NO! Stool 5 is out! A hand to the nose, I don't blame her! Smells like cabbage stew in a Dutch oven!”

The audience “awwwwed' from the safe hall.

Stool 5 could be faking. Melina finally inhaled. Her wide nostrils unfurled, quivering like an undecided sphincter in the toxic smog. Flashbacks flickered.

***

Her fiancé.
Accepting her, freak nostrils and all.

“I nose—um, KNOW you're self-conscious, babe. But you make me so flappy—HAPPY.”

Liar.
He'd wanted her paid-off mortgage.

***

She tensed, hoping she hadn't twitched. Hints of seafood and rancid fruit clawed Melina's sinuses.

***

The wedding altar.
His one nervous ‘parp’.
Melina's emotional sniff.
Floating whiffs of her sly maid-of-honour's prize-winning cherry-pie.

He confessed at the reception.
It WAS her nose.

***

“Stool 2 has Gone With the Wind! It's a KO to the schnozz!!”

***

Booking a nose job.
Cancelling.
It wouldn't heal the hurt inside.

***

But the hope of her putrid ex-fiance watching her success on ground-breaking primetime TV perked up Melina's limp nostril flaps like a stingray on the hunt.

There. A tangy whisper of anchovy.

“And another elimination! Stool 6 is—someone better check his pulse…”

Three left. Only one person here had eaten pizza with anchovies.

“There goes 7! 3 is teetering…”

Cloying breaths, vision blurring…

“…and crashes into 4! Folks, Stool 1 wins!”

Melina stumbled into the safe hall, gulping clean air. Stank followed, hollering the round's statistics while the contestants recovered.

“And now, the lingering question… Who dealt it? Melina, it’s time to—”

The audience read the prompter. “SPILL! THE! BEANS!”

“Right.” Melina's nostrils hot-air-ballooned confidently. She knew foul play when she smelled it. “The rules were broken. It was Stank Fankly!”

“Me? No!”

“Whoever denied it supplied it.”

The audience cheered.

Stank grinned. “She's got me there. Congratulations, Melina! What a nose!”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

A game show was a great idea given the nature of the picture prompt. And by making it a breaking wind game show, it provided the perfect reason for why everyone is doing their best not to show any emotion. Filled with descriptions so chunky you could carve them, this fluff piece never claims to be high literature. Instead, it relishes in the reek, trades in the toots and sends up the stinkers to great effect. Of course, it’s not just a conveyor belt of fart synonyms (although “air biscuit” and “toxic smog” are delightful) – it also manages to dish up a cheeky ‘who-dealt-it' as our hero attempts to win the big prize. A silly topic, expertly navigated.

THE END OF QUOTIDIAN GODS by Kristof Mikes-Liu, NSW

That’s me at the end on the right. It’s supposed to be a nostalgic group photo, a pre-retirement celebration, but I couldn’t even bear to look at the camera, let alone smile. (Actually, none of us were up to smiling. That says a lot given the two characters next to me have reputations as party animals.)

Me? I’m the Sunday God. Call me Domingo, Seventh Deity of the Week. Day-ity if you’re a punster. Same thing though. We’re each a Day of the Week’s essence. We’ve scaffolded the passing of human time for what, two millennia? And now they tell us the times have outgrown our relevance.

They say we hamper productivity, then shoot side-eyes at Friday, Saturday and me.

Rest is subjective, they say, then add that they’ve already made concessions on hours of sleep per night. I for one know that people remain wide-eyed on my Day anticipating what’s ahead.

There’s no sense in closing workplaces for Weekends, they say, and I know that’s the clincher. People can rest in their own time, and only if they so choose: Productivity must remain continuous. They want an entire planet of shift workers, and the only way to do that is to decommission us Seven.

Sure, we protested. But we couldn’t work through our differences. Monday was all for getting to work, and Tuesday and Thursday followed suit. Wednesday tried to get us to see the positives, completely missing the fact that her Hump Day status relies on the existence of an end to the Week. Get rid of Weekends, and Hump Day’s just another Dump Day. Poor Friday was a mess: she couldn’t separate their proposal from the existential conflict of being both an ending and a beginning.

Saturday and I, we should’ve known better. Our bickering over which of us was more ordained from Heaven than the other stopped us from getting our point across. I mean, really, more ordained from Heaven? Are we just two alphas fighting over which of us is God’s Gift, while Rome goes up in flames?

I overheard an official say they were banishing Retirement next, because it, too, hampered productivity. And yet, somehow, we’re celebrating our retirement. We even received gold watches. For what?! To mark the historical moment where shiny metal commands more value than time? We’re not retiring. They’re retrenching us.

At least Saturday and I are on better terms now. Gods of religion from either of our Heavens have lost traction. More and more people worship the Big Machine in the Cloud; it’s the epitome of twenty-four/seven and its reach goes far. Sixth Day and I will commiserate rather than gloat, remember good times and sip Irish Breakfast or Darjeeling first flush and nibble on cucumber sandwiches. Maybe the other Day-ities will join us in time.

Humans, though. They’re already getting busier and busier. Rome’s still gonna burn, and take the world with it. That’s a given, but the world’ll be too caught up in its busy-ness to notice.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

One way to approach an assignment such as this is to think about what things might come in ‘sevens’. And personifying our characters as days of the week was a clever way to add interest to what was essentially a blank canvas. Told through the eyes of Day-ity Domingo (Sunday), we have fun playing off the personalities of each day of the week to great effect. Getting fast and loose with God mythology, this story uses humour to excellent effect and once more proves that using the image simply as inspiration allows you more freedom to tell your story.

A LETTER FROM COUNCIL by Michaella Curtis-Morris, VIC

Knock knock.

Putting on his lucky green shirt, Brian Sidebottom made his usual cup of green tea – two sugars to sweeten the leafy taste, and a dash of milk because it used to annoy his wife. She passed away three years ago, but he liked to make sure her ghost was still equally frustrated by his tea drinking habits.

Knock knock.

The banging on the door became more furious as Brian finally looked up from his small mug. Making his way to the door, he pulled aside the curtains, locking eyes with a rather cranky looking man in a collared shirt. Brian opened the door and immediately had a piece of paper thrust into his hand. The man said nothing, and having completed his mission, promptly left.

Brian looked down at the letter in his hand. It was a rather boring envelope with a grey border and a small grey logo in the corner. In the centre of it sat the name: BRAIN SIDEBOTTOM.

Being seventy-two, Brian had been spelling his name for approximately seventy years and was almost certain that his name was not spelled “Brain”. Reading the logo in the corner, Brian decided that he must make his way to the council office to rectify the mistake. Taking his coat off the hook by the door, he kissed the photo of his wife goodbye and began his short journey to the local council office.

The journey to the council office was in fact very short – as it was only two houses down the street. The glass sliding doors opened quickly and Brian walked in very slowly. There was a large line at all of the desks, but Brian knew he was far too important to wait in a line for half an hour. He approached the furthest desk, placing the letter down on the metal.

“Excuse me?”

The woman behind the desk took no interest in Brian, still occupied with resolving the previous taxpayer’s issue.

“My name has been spelled wrong and I expect compensation.”

Sensing the anger in his voice, the woman took the letter and stared blankly at it.

“Brain Sidebottom?”

“It’s Brian.”

“The one who’s been sending all the letters about the bins?”

Brian puffed up his chest, most proud of his bi-weekly rant to the council in paper form.

“Why yes, I am.”

The woman sighed again.

“Did you read the letter?”

Brian stopped. Of course he didn’t read the letter. How could one possibly be expected to read a letter with such an egregious error on the envelope?

Taking his silence as an answer, the woman slid the paper back to him and shooed him away.

Offended, Brian began his walk home. As he walked, he finally opened the envelope:

Dear Mr. Sidebottom,

We must ask that you please STOP sending us letters. We are a local council and cannot supply you with seven recycling bins. If you still require them, please approach someone else.

Sincerely,
Your Local Council.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There is something delightfully relatable about this suburban story of local bureaucracy, with Brain–– sorry, Brian a lovely drawn character who clearly has a lot of time on his hands. On the surface, this is an older gentleman getting a letter and taking a walk. And yet, we learn a lot about Mr Sidebottom as the story unfolds, including his attention to detail, love of routine and late wife. The cherry on top here however is that unlike most other stories, it employs the image as its final frame – a perfectly placed pictorial punchline that works as the ultimate response to “if you still require seven recycling bins, please approach someone else”! Seeing our protagonist return with six others (as pictured) elevates this piece from Brian-y to brainy.

USE YOUR INSIDE VOICE by Athena Law, QLD

That’s what my mum always used to say to me, even if we were outside. She said grandma taught it to her. ‘It’s called manners darling,’ she’d smile as she patted me on the head.

So, I stopped using my outside voice altogether. I only used my ‘inside voice’ outside – speaking softly in the park or the playground. But then something strange happened. My quiet voice began shrinking; from a mumble to a murmur to a hum until one day it disappeared altogether.

Mum was so proud of me when her friends commented: ‘Goodness, what a well-mannered young lady,’ but then at the doctors her own voice would grow into a shriek. ‘What on earth is wrong with her? Where is her voice?’

I didn’t know where it had gone myself. There was just silence. But early one morning a little whisper tickled my brain. A voice from the inside.

‘Darlink, it’s boring being good, isn’t it?’ It sounded like Natasha from that old cartoon. ‘But it’s good to be bad, isn’t it?’ I nodded and agreed with her, as I made my way to the kitchen to tip cereal all over the floor.

Another brain tickle, a different one, a boy! ‘Cereal is best served with milk.’ I also agreed with this sensible boy (who I decided to call Tom), and so did Natasha.

‘Wait!’ A pretty sing-song voice. ‘Don’t listen to them, you and I could be making a cake.’

A cake? I put the milk bottle down. Natasha, Tom and I leaned in.

‘You’ll need a bowl, some flour, rice, sultanas, maybe four eggs?’ Lila was so clever. And pretty, I could just tell.

‘Room for one more?’

‘Oh, this is my brother Lenny, he knows a lot about cooking.’

‘I do. So you’ll be wanting six more eggs and chocolate chips and some tomato sauce. That’s right, into the bowl.’

‘Put in ze cereal from the ze floor.’ Natasha chuckled as I scooped it up.

Tom coughed. ‘Might I suggest using an implement?’

‘Everyone quiet!’ A new voice. She spoke quickly, just like my friend Amy. ‘Get in, get it done, get out. Don’t get caught.’

A hubbub in my head as everyone said yes to Amy.

‘Young lady.’ Gravelly and grouchy, a real Grandpa. ‘Where does your Dad keep his beer? Add one of those.’

The hubbub of approval again.

Another new voice. Posh and smart. Peter. ‘Focus now, let’s get that oven switched on. Turn this dial to volcanic, that’s right.’

Natasha, Tom, Lila, Lenny, Amy, Grandpa, Peter and I were admiring our swirling gloop of red and brown when mum walked in and began screaming: ‘NAUGHTY NAUGHTY NAUGHTY!’

‘I didn’t do it all by myself!’ I shrieked.

‘For God’s sake, how many times have I said to use your inside voice!’ she shrieked back, before noticing I had spoken for the first time in months, staring at me with her mouth open.

‘I am Mother,’ I smiled. ‘ALL of them.’

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Yet another clever way to use our characters is seen here as those multiple voices inside a child’s head. The concept of the inside voice is brought to life through the staggered arrival of Natasha, Tom, Lila, Lenny, Amy, Grandpa and Peter – all with their own personalities yet united in their efforts to cause chaos. The result is the inner workings of a child’s mind in explaining why they made a mess. As each voice arrives, we see a new side of our pint-sized protagonist, bookended by a fun plot that provides context to the inside story. This scores high marks once more on the relatable scale – for anyone who has young kids or remembers being one!

EVERY DAY I SEE ___ by Tiff Du, USA

Monday morning, Dr. Pope’s patient, Val, bounced into her office.

She sat cross legged on the easy chair and grinned. “Tried the new yoga studio at the Plaza. We’re going again tonight. Might make it a daily thing.”

Dr. Pope made a note. “A daily routine is a great idea.”

“By the way, I think I have – I’ve met someone who’s interested in a consultation.”

Val waved as she walked out of the office.

On Tuesday, she saw Akeem. Like many of her patients, his memory lapses left him confused. His journal only had one entry – a scribbled line about his breakfast from that morning.

“And after breakfast?”

Akeem told her about his commute past construction traffic, his Python class, and his shift at the electronics store.

“And last night?”

“Uh…” His eyes moved over the posters behind her, as if he could find a record of his memories there. “I went to the Plaza?”

“Excellent. What did you do?”

He shrugged. “Just hung around with friends?”

Wednesdays, Kate and Javier had back-to-back appointments.

“The patient before me – I think I know her, but I can’t remember where,” Javier remarked, crossing his legs and leaning back in the chair.

Dr. Pope’s pen paused in its journey across the page. “You saw her?”

He shrugged, “Just through the glass when I was walking up to the building.”

“Did she see you?”

“I couldn’t tell. I think maybe she was on her phone. It was really sunny outside, and I was calling my mom at the time.”

Thursday morning, Sarah showed off her meticulous timesheet. It kept her focused for her job at the electronics store. “Haven’t missed a shift since I started this,” she bragged.

Thursday afternoon, Mort bewailed the construction by his house. “I’m retired, but I still have to study. A jackhammer goes off, I lose my train of thought. Then I have to nap and it wipes out my whole day. It’s ridiculous. It’s been two years.” He asked if she knew any good lawyers.

On Friday, she consulted with a new client, Ryan. He told her about dissociative episodes as he rubbed his hands on his slacks and tapped his right shoe.

“Do you prefer Fridays?”

He adjusted his glasses with a forefinger. “I prefer Mondays, Doctor. I live near the construction, and traffic isn’t as bad on Mondays.”

“I do currently have limited availability on Mondays, but I can call you if a slot opens up.”

Ryan smiled and shook her hand at the end of the session.

Monday again. Val told her, rubbing her hands on her jeans, that she had abandoned the yoga. “Also, this might be my last appointment for now.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Pope stared as Val began to tap her right foot, then rubbed the bridge of her nose.

At the end of the session, Val smiled, stood, and stuck out her hand. “Thank you, Doctor. You’ve really helped me these past two years.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

We’ve chosen to showcase this story directly after the last as it provides a more nuanced tale of what might happen to those inside voices as you get older. This one plays out subtly at first – laying breadcrumbs for the reader to connect dots. Are these people linked in some way? Why are they all seeing the same doctor? Wait, do they live near each other? And finally, as the multiple-personality-penny drops, we get to understand the thing all these ‘people’ have in common. Using days of the week to progress the plot works well, while the sheer number of characters never overwhelms. Once more, an inventive way to use the picture prompt!

WHO SHAT THEIR PANTS? by Edward B, NSW

By the office door,
At Peffer & Co.,
Sat a row of hopefuls,
Raring to go.

A coveted role,
They were there to seek,
It promised remote work,
Two days a week.

Plus, benefits galore,
And a package most generous,
(Though the owner’s reputation,
Was somewhat dubious).

Once applications,
Were signed and dated,
The candidates networked,
While they waited,

They swapped Instas and X's,
And LinkedIn-vitations,
But soon they were faced,
With a grave situation.

For someone amongst them,
Without any warning,
Had unleashed a stench,
That was highly concerning.