Q: Hi AWC, what’s the deal with “taught” and “taut”?

A: Two completely different words. Nothing to see here.

Q: Except there IS something to see. I saw it in my friend’s story yesterday. It read, “the rope was pulled taught” … but that’s not how I was taught!

A: Haha, calm down. And yes, you WERE taught right. The word “taught” is indeed the past tense (and past participle) of the verb “teach”. It came from the Old English “tahte” during the 1300s.

Q: And to be self-taught?

A: That term followed much later, around 1725 according to the Online Etymology Dictionary.

Q: My uncle is a self-taught saxophone player.

A: Oh, that’s nice. Is he good?

Q: Oh no, he’s terrible. Can’t play a single tune. He really should have had some lessons…

A: Ummm, okay. So, now let’s look at “taut” – the word your friend SHOULD have used in their story.

Q: I knew it!

A: “Taut” is an adjective described by Macquarie Dictionary as “​​tightly drawn; tense; not slack”. And as you might expect considering such a different meaning, it’s not related to teach/taught at all.

Q: I did expect that, yes.

A: “Taut” is also the older of the two words – arriving into English during the 1200s.

Q: When you say that, I always imagine a fresh-faced word jumping off a ship, ready to start a new life in England. 

A: That’s quite ridiculous, but a fun image.

Q: I know, right? I can hear the seagulls now, the ropes pulled taut against the wharf…

A: Well, as far as where your ship had sailed from, “taut” was possibly an offshoot of the Old English word “toen”, meaning to pull or drag. The same root word gave us “tow” and “tie”. But another etymological theory traces it back to a similar path of the word “tough”. It’s unclear.

Q: So what you’re saying is that not only was there heavy fog on the morning the good ship Etymology sailed into port, but “taut” also snuck off without filling out any paperwork?

A: Something like that, yes. Interestingly, in its early life, “taut” wasn’t spelt that way. Can you guess HOW it was spelt?

Q: Surely not… Was it spelt “taught”?

A: It was!

Q: Oh English, WHY do you keep shooting yourself in the foot!

A: Haha, it can be frustrating. The good news is that by the 1500s, “taut” had settled on its current-day spelling as well as the final “tightly drawn” meaning. 

Q: Why do people use “taught” instead then?

A: Besides simply not realising “taut” is a word, it’s likely that the similar “-ght” form of “tight” and “taught” leads them to assume those words are related. They’re not.

Q: So that’s the end of the confusion!

A: Not quite.

Q: Sorry, what?

A: It’s probably also worth mentioning the word “taunt” at this point. Again, it’s a completely different word – a verb meaning “to reproach or mock” as well as a noun of that same thing – “a scornful reproach or gibe”. 

Q: Example?

A: “Bullies taunted the boy and their taunts were heard through the streets.”

Q: Poor kid. I would have taught them a lesson.

A: Anyway, despite it once more being unrelated, ”taunt” is often mistakenly used for something that is being pulled tightly, when the correct word should be “taut”.

Q: So is there some way to remember it?

A: “Taut” has just four letters – it is the shortest word because it has been pulled tight. That’s really all you need to know. The other words simply mean other things!

Q: Fair enough. So, what about Tweety Bird?

A: What about Tweety Bird?

Q: Well, he “taut” he taw a puddy tat, right?

A: Haha. It’s true that I Taut I Taw a Puddy Tat WAS the original spelling in a 1950 song by the cartoon creator Mel Blanc, the spelling was later changed to “tawt”.

Q: Fascinating! Or, as Sylvester the Cat would taunt, “Sufferin Succotash!”…

A: Believe it or not, it’s not the first time we’ve discussed “succotash” – check out our conversation on “squash vs quash” if you want to be taught some more!

Do you have a question you’d like us to explore? Email it to us today!

Deborah Frenkel reignited her long-held dream of becoming an author when she became immersed in the world of picture books after the birth of her daughter. Throw in frequent long walks and she soon started to simmer with stories of her own.

Knowing she needed some direction to get her stories on to the page, Deborah jumped into Writing Picture Books at the Australian Writers' Centre. Since then, she has gone on to publish four picture books, with more under contract. Her latest release is 100 School Days, out now with Affirm. She has also published The Truck Cat, The Sydney Harbour Fairy and Naturopolis.

Inspired to write

When creativity struck, Deborah was working as an advertising copywriter, so she already knew that writing was a practical skill she could learn. But she had never tackled a book or a work of fiction before. That’s why she turned to the Australian Writers' Centre.

“I was coming to the end of my maternity leave with my first child. My daughter was one of those babies who would only nap in a baby carrier while moving, so I spent months and months walking the streets of my neighbourhood with her snoring gently on my chest. It turns out there's something very meditative about walking without anywhere to get to – it stirs up so many ideas,” Deborah told us.

“I couldn't stop thinking about stories, many of them inspired by the piles of picture books we were reading every day. I realised this was my opportunity to actually do something about the need-to-write that I'd squashed inside myself for decades.

“I knew I needed some kind of instruction. In my day job – the one I was on maternity leave from – I was (and still am) an advertising copywriter, so I already had a very pragmatic approach to writing, borne of years of working on whichever brief I was allocated. I knew it's a craft you can hone, but I didn't know the first thing about writing a book. And I was looking for a course I could do from home, flexibly. So I started with Writing Picture Books.”

She was particularly drawn to the no-nonsense nature of AWC courses, which deliver detailed and actionable content.

“They're extremely practical. I've done a few other writing short courses, and often hit a point where I'm frustrated by the vagueness of the lessons – sometimes the whole thing feels like the introduction. I don't need broad strokes inspiration from a course, I need nuts and bolts! All the AWC courses I've done have delivered that,” she says.

A whole new world

Deborah says that that first course unlocked the floodgates of creativity for her.

“About 18 months after completing the course, using what I'd learned, I applied for and was awarded an Australian Society of Authors mentorship for a non-fiction picture book manuscript. It was a manuscript inspired, appropriately, by wandering the streets with my daughter, who was by then a toddler and fascinated by all the weeds, moss, ants, and lizards she could inspect at toddler-height.”

This manuscript eventually became her debut book Naturopolis.

“A year or so later, I submitted the same manuscript to a publisher's open submissions window, and then a few months later received a mysterious email from the publisher asking if we could talk on the phone. As soon as I answered, she said, ‘Congratulations, I'd like to publish your manuscript!' and I nearly fell over – only I didn't, because by that stage I had a second baby who, if I recall correctly, had just pooed all over my hands. Glamorous!,” Deborah recalls.

Naturopolis is beautifully illustrated by debut illustrator Ingrid Bartkowiak, and went on to be awarded by the Children's Book Council of Australia and elsewhere.

The start of a career as an author

“As soon as I got a little momentum with the mentorship and this first contract, it snowballed. I kept writing and submitting and joined critique groups full of staggeringly talented writers, and soon I had a second picture book under contract, The Sydney Harbour Fairy, which was published in 2023 by Affirm Press. I have two more picture books out this year, The Truck Cat and 100 School Days. And I have others under contract for release in the coming years,” she says.

The Truck Cat tells the story of Tinka, a cat who lives on a B-double truck with his human, Yacoub. But while Tinka and Yacoub live literally everywhere, home feels very far away, for both of them. Then when Tinka and Yacoub get separated on the highway, everything changes, and in finding their way back to each other, they discover something new about what home might mean. 

“It's a story about cats and humans, immigration and identity, and homes lost and found… and there's even a hint of a love story, too! It's illustrated by Danny Snell and published by Bright Light.”

100 School Days is a celebration of growth and learning, in a rhyming narrative that also incorporates elements of a counting book. 

“It's the first picture book in Australia about the ‘100 days of school' milestone that many primary schools celebrate in the first year of school,” Deborah says. “It's fun and heartfelt and I think it encapsulates the joy and drama of the first year of primary school! It's illustrated by Laura Stitzel and published by Affirm Press.”

Deborah continues her work as an advertising copywriter while fitting her creative writing into evenings and weekends. And while she is bubbling with ideas for older readers and writing short stories, picture books are her main focus for now. Her adventures with her three-year-old provide ongoing inspiration.

“That's the benefit of living with your target audience – it's constant market research!”

Deborah’s writing process

Fitting writing in around her work and family means she has to be flexible.

“My writing process is very fluid and often happens on-the-go – it normally involves me stabbing single-sentence thoughts into my Notes app, or emailing myself a couple of words before I forget them! Ideas find me and I find that if I can't stop thinking about something, it's probably a good idea that's worth pursuing.

“Once I get to the laptop, I generally write a picture book manuscript in a single sitting, and then edit it furiously over a longer period of time.”

One surprising aspect of creating picture books that Deborah loves is working with an illustrator and an editor.

“I love the collaboration of it, and how other minds make your words far, far better than they ever could have been in your little Word document! I also love the visual thinking required, which is its own language, and it’s one I'm slowly learning, book by book.”

As Deborah continues to pursue success with her picture books, she is thankful for those first steps she took with her newborn – and the AWC.

“Do a course! There's nothing to lose,” she says. “You hear a lot about how fiendishly difficult it is to get a publishing contract, so I'd tucked away any hope I had of that happening. But it happens! Persistence pays off, and so does owning your goals and dreams.”

Courses completed at AWC:

• Writing Picture Books
• SEO Copywriting
• Writing Children's Novels
• Presenting to Kids

You can listen to the episode below, on Apple Podcasts, on Spotify, or add the podcast RSS feed manually to your favourite podcast app.  

Links mentioned in this episode

• WIN The Wrong Man by Tim Ayliffe
• Buy So You Want to be a Writer – the book!
• Facebook group for So You Want to be a Writer

Writer in residence: Kyra Geddes

Born in Adelaide as the daughter of German immigrants, Kyra Geddes spent her infancy in the South Australian opal fields before moving to Sydney. Following a successful career in marketing, Kyra returned to university to study English and pursue her life-long dream of writing, publishing two short stories and earning the Vice-Chancellor's Award for Academic Excellence. The Story Thief is her debut novel, and the culmination of almost a decade of research and writing. When not at her desk, Kyra can often be found visiting one of Sydney's many art galleries or daydreaming about future travel with her husband and two children.

Follow Kyra on Instagram.

Follow Affirm Press on Twitter and Instagram.

“I’d always wanted to write fiction and have my own novels published… When Allen & Unwin made an offer, I was home alone in my study and I literally jumped for joy! It was so validating to have others believing in your story.”

When she took her first course at the Australian Writers' Centre, Petronella had had success in professional writing and ghost writing, but her dream to become a published fiction author was getting lost in the business of everyday life.

“I work from a home office as a professional writer and editor… I was writing a manuscript in my ‘spare time’ but it was hard to find ‘spare time’ with the juggle of work and children in primary school. The necessities of everyday life had overtaken my writing routine. I felt that doing a course, face-to-face, would help me to carve out the time I needed for writing my novel and prioritising it once again.

“The first course I did at AWC was Crime and Thriller Writing with L.A. Larkin. My aim was to write a psychological thriller so I wanted to find out more about how to create tension, set up suspense and drive the action.”

After that short course, Petronella enrolled in Write Your Novel: 6-month program with Pamela Freeman. “I signed up to the Write Your Novel: 6-month program to kick-start my novel… We had deadlines for chapters, we had deadlines to workshop and give feedback and it really helped give you the support to write a really long piece of work. When you sit down to look at writing a novel of 100,000 words, it’s a large task and the classes really supported me all the way through that process.

“The six-month course created the space for me to focus on writing. I could say to my kids, ‘I have to do my homework’ and they understood that! It showed my commitment to my writing and, I guess, validated it in a way.

“The workshopping process and editing was particularly useful, in terms of looking at a novel as a whole. That always feels daunting but reading other people’s manuscripts and having feedback on your own provided different perspectives on how the story was working.”

Petronella McGovern
Graduate of Australian Writers' Centre, author of “Six Minutes”

Petronella finished her first draft of Six Minutes during Write Your Novel and continued to work on several drafts after that. “Getting published often takes time and involves setbacks, so being resilient, persevering and being prepared to re-write are essential skills for authors.”

Keeping on track
While working through drafts of Six Minutes, Petronella continued to learn. “I did the online course, Anatomy of a Crime: How to Write About Murder, which was fascinating… As a result of that course, I decided I needed to do more research into my police character. I had interviewed a few police officers in Canberra and I decided I needed to get a bit more detailed information, so I managed to find two more police officers who generously gave me a lot of time and information about their career. 

“When life was again overtaking my writing routine, I signed on to the online course, Make Time to Write. It gave plenty of motivation and inspiration to get me back on track. As part of that, I had the bonus 30-day Writing Bootcamp. It emails a reminder task every day. I really like the ‘write 500 words in 30 minutes’ exercise. So often when I’m writing, I start researching online and fall down a rabbit hole! Setting a timer to write for 30 minutes, with no other distractions, is good discipline and gets the words on the page.”

Petronella also had the help and support of four friends from her Write Your Novel course. “When we finished the Write your Novel course, five of us continued to meet… Pamela Freeman encourages students to create a writing community and I think this is really important when writing is such a solitary undertaking.

“We still meet up, support each other and give feedback on our writing. We all write in different styles and in different genres and I think that helps us in critiquing each other. I was so appreciative of their feedback on Six Minutes – in particular, they helped me to sort out some plot issues and make it a better book.”

Within Petronella's writers group, Margaret Morgan published her novel The Second Cure in 2018 and Frances Chapman‘s YA novel Stars Like Us was released in 2020. Katy Pike and Catherine Hanrahan are working on fascinating novels which Petronella is confident will also be successful.

The road to publication
When Petronella felt her first manuscript was ready, she sent it out to a number of publishers, but she wasn’t successful right away. “One publisher had just commissioned a book with similar themes but she thought it was good and encouraged me to keep sending it out. Others said the writing was great but it was the wrong story for them at this time.”

She decided to do one more edit, changing the first chapter and the climax. “At this point, I sent it to Brian Cook of The Authors’ Agent, who stayed up half the night reading the manuscript because he couldn’t put it down. He emailed it out to a number of interested publishers.” Allen & Unwin got in touch with their offer not long after.

“It has been fabulous working with Allen & Unwin and to have a whole team who care so passionately about the book. Across the publishing process – editing, final proofreading, marketing and publicity – everyone has been great to work with and very enthusiastic about Six Minutes.”

Petronella released her second novel, The Good Teacher, in 2020. She still has her professional writing and editing work but has wound it back slightly so she has more time for her creative writing.

“If it wasn’t for the Australian Writers' Centre it would have taken me a lot longer to finish my first draft of Six Minutes, and a lot longer, I think, to get it published. I really enjoyed the feedback and the support that I got through the Australian Writers' Centre through the tutors and the other people in our class.

“Even though I came to AWC with strong writing experience, there was always more to learn and take away from each class.  

“The AWC courses are very practical and you’ll find lots of different aspects that you can apply directly to your own writing. The presenters are experienced authors who can share their advice on the industry. I liked the online courses for their ease of working at your own pace at home but the face-to-face courses provide a chance to meet other writers in person and create a writing community. The AWC courses give you both the practical skills and the motivation to make your creative writing a priority.”

Petronella’s advice to writers: I would say get started on a course as soon as you can.

Courses taken at AWC:
Crime and Thriller Writing
Write Your Novel
Anatomy of a Crime: How to Write About Murder
Make Time to Write / Creative Writing 30-day Bootcamp

You can also meet Tim on episodes 426 and 547 of our podcast. Here’s the blurb:

Detective Holly Sutton has been seconded to work with the New South Wales Homicide Squad to investigate the murder of Sydney socialite, Tottie Evans, who was found dead at the Palm Beach home of a millionaire property developer.

Alec Blacksmith isn’t like other real estate guys. He’s a former mercenary soldier who shot to fame after appearing on a reality TV show. Blacksmith is refusing to cooperate with police because he has his own secrets.

John Bailey is an old school reporter with a nose for a story.

He gets a call from the police about a break-in at the house he inherited from his former girlfriend, Sharon Dexter – a cop murdered in the line of duty.

Whoever crowbarred the lock was looking for Dexter’s case file about the murder of a waitress named Sally King at an exclusive Sydney gentlemen’s club a decade earlier. After examining the file, Bailey discovers something that will blow up the Homicide Squad’s investigation into Tottie Evans’s death – a link to the murder of King.

The only problem is that a serial killer is already serving a life sentence for the crime.

Catching killers is Holly Sutton’s job. But for John Bailey, solving the case offers him a chance to finish a job for the woman who saved his life.

If you’d like to win a copy, simply enter your details in the form below. Three lucky people will win a copy!

Entries close midday (Syd/Melb time) Monday 8 July 2024. Winners will be notified within a week of the competition closing.

GOOD LUCK!

Congratulations to AWC graduate Bec Nanayakkara who now has two picture books published. Grow Big, Little Seed has been published by Hardie Grant. And her second book The Book Star is out now with Affirm Press.

The Book Star is based on an idea she workshopped in our Writing Picture Books course just a year ago!

“I wrote a story for one of the assignments, and soon after the course, I polished it up and submitted it to Affirm Press. It was my first picture book submission to a publisher,” Bec told us. “Six months later they got in touch, and I have just signed a contract with them.”

Finding a creative outlet
Bec had always loved picture books, but it was while she was on maternity leave that she turned to writing as an emotional and creative outlet. Her long-held desire to write for children was reignited and she enrolled at the Australian Writers' Centre. 

“Learning how to present a picture book manuscript was a real game changer. We all have stories – amazing stories! But what next if you don’t know how to turn those stories into a manuscript?” she says. “We were given a manuscript template, and we were taught heaps of rules about things like formatting, page numbers and illustration notes. This information gave me the confidence to take my stories, turn them into manuscripts, and actually submit them to publishers.”

What inspired Bec’s story?

“Keeping it child-centred, I started to think about Book Week Dress-Up days,” Bec says. “My daughter loved all her costumes from prep through to Grade 6 but, prior to every Book Week, there was always that discussion – ‘What should I wear? What is everyone else wearing? What does everyone else think I should wear?’ I felt certain that this Book Week Dress-Up Day dilemma was one that many young readers could relate to, and so I began writing.”

Although Bec felt that she intuitively knew many of the elements of storytelling, the course helped her to apply those principles to her own stories. She also developed a commitment to a regular writing practice.

Getting into the flow of writing
“The course was only five weeks long, but it helped me build up a writing momentum,” Bec says. “Each week we had to submit a writing task of approximately 200–500 words. At first, it seemed like a big commitment – we had nine-month-old twins who liked to cluster feed all evening. But once I was in the flow, and once I realised how much I loved my writing time, it didn’t feel so hard. Since the course has finished, I’ve kept up with writing three or four nights a week.”

While she waited to hear back from Affirm Press, Bec continued to work and rework her manuscript. So when they came back with positive news, her story had actually changed!

“We talked about the original and the updated version of my manuscript. The Kid’s Team were keen to keep some parts from the old, but also really loved some of my new changes. I happily agreed to blend the two together. A month or so later, the Kid’s Team took this new blended version to their acquisition meeting, and it was a success,” Bec says. 

A book deal!
“Amazingly, the day I signed my contract was the same date that my Writing Picture Books course had started, 12 months ago.”

Now that she’s had her first taste of success, Bec is keen to keep writing and submitting manuscripts and work on her social media presence. But the important thing is to keep loving what she’s doing.

“I’m reminding myself not to get overwhelmed or to let writing become a burden. Above all else, I want writing to be my creative outlet, a source of joy, and a mindful and therapeutic practice.”

Bec is based in Armidale, in the New England region of New South Wales.

Courses taken at AWC:
Writing Picture Books

You can listen to the episode below, on Apple Podcasts, on Spotify, or add the podcast RSS feed manually to your favourite podcast app.  

Links mentioned in this episode

• The Richell Prize
• Buy So You Want to be a Writer – the book!
• Facebook group for So You Want to be a Writer

Guest in residence: Vanessa Radnidge

Vanessa Radnidge is the Head of Narrative Non-Fiction and Head of Literary at Hachette and her passion is for connecting great storytellers and great stories with readers. She began her publishing career at the Law Book Company. She worked at HarperCollins as an editor and acquisitions editor before joining the team at Hachette Australia. At Hachette, she has published fiction and non-fiction and is very proud to have worked with Favel Parrett, Mark Brandi, Stephanie Bishop, Brooke Davis, Catherine Therese, Deng Adut, Michael Brissenden, Madonna King, Hilde Hinton, Miranda Tapsell, Sean Doherty, Future D. Fidel and Connie and Samuel Johnson to name just a few.

Follow Hachette Australia Books on Twitter and Instagram.

Q: Hi AWC, what does it mean when Sheryl Crow says “apropos of nothing” in the hit 1994 song All I Wanna Do? 

A: What do YOU think it means?

Q: Hmmm, is it some kind of payment system, like EFTPOS? She’s singing in a bar after all. 

A: It is not. First, let’s clarify the pronunciation. You say it “ap-ruh-POH”.

Q: Okay.

A: And the word “apropos” has a few uses, so let’s start there shall we?

Q: Fine. We have apropos of nothing to lose, after all! 

A: That is not one of the uses.

Q: Hey, all I wanna do is have some fun…

A: According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the word “apropos” came to English from French in the 1660s, from the French”á propos” – “to the purpose”, from the original Latin “propos” – meaning a “thing said in conversation, talk; purpose, plan”.

Q: 1660s? Just in time for the Great Fire of London!

A: Well, the original role for “apropos” in English was as an adverb, meaning ‘opportunely’. So one might say that considering all the disease and rat-infested filth in the city at that time, the Great Fire of London arrived “apropos”.

Q: And it still means opportunely?

A: It does. It can also relate to the seasonality. So blossoms in spring appear apropos.

Q: That’s quite the contrast from disease and filth.

A: We try to mix up our examples.

Q: Nice.

A: By 1690, “apropos” was also being used similarly as an adjective – describing something that was relevant or opportune. For example, “The hunting lodge has a giant stag’s head above the fireplace, which feels very apropos.”

Q: So is “apropos” related to “appropriate”?

A: Etymologically, no. But their meanings are very similar today.

Q: What about the word “propose” then?

A: Yes it is related, but curiously, that word started out as “propound” – from the Latin “proponere”. However over time, the French came in and simply swapped out the ending to fit with one that suited THEIR purpose.

Q: They just did it for no real reason?

A: That’s right, apropos of nothing!

Q: Ahhhh, I see what you did there. So, that has brought us back to all this “apropos of nothing” silliness.

A: It has. And to be fair to the above uses, while they are valid and pop up from time to time, they’re less commonly seen than the use of “apropos of” as a preposition – something that took hold around the 1760s. Certainly well before 1994.

Q: So, what’s the meaning here?

A: “Apropos of” goes back to the original Latin, relating to “a thing said in conversation”. Essentially, “apropos of” is just a fancy way to say “with regard or reference to”. It gets used when bringing up some other fact or anything relevant to the topic at hand.

Q: Unless of course…

A: Unless of course something is “apropos of nothing”! Not relevant or without reference to anything. So, in the earlier example, the French just came and changed “propound” to “propose” with no etymological reference – apropos of nothing. 

Q: And Sheryl Crow?

A: Her lyric states that a man sitting next to her just says something to her out of nowhere. “It’s apropos of nothing” she goes on to add. Not in relation to anything.

Q: Well, she was drinking at noon on a Tuesday, so it was likely to happen.

A: It was.

Q: Do you have another real world example for me? It doesn’t have to be from a song.

A: Okay, well you might say that “a tree fell in the forest, apropos of nothing”. No storm. No lumberjacks etc. It just fell.

Q: Ah yes. But the real question is did it make a sound?

A: Haha. Annoyingly, sometimes “apropos of” drops the “of” while still meaning “with regard/reference to”. For example, “Apropos the planned changes, more discussion is needed.”

Q: Or you could just say “regarding” and stop being pompous!

A: True. And “pompous” is another great French-derived word.

Q: Okay, so to recap. “Apropos” can describe something relevant or opportune. But it can also be a preposition, usually with “of”, meaning “with regard to”.

A: That’s right. So if something is “apropos of nothing” it’s unrelated to anything. 

Q: Any final fun facts?

A: Yes actually. During the 2020 COVID outbreak, the US mint coincidentally brought out a quarter dollar coin with a design of a bat (the animal thought to have started the pandemic). Many called this release “ironic” – but the better term to describe it would actually have been “apropos” (relevant and opportune).

Q: Don’t even get me started on Alanis Morisette’s abuse of the definition of “ironic”…

A: Haha, we’ll save that for another day.

Q: Right now, all I wanna do is have some fun. And I got a feeling I'm not the only one…?

A: Ummm nope. You’re the only one.

Q: Ugh, I wonder if you’ve ever had a day of fun in your whole life.

Do you have a question you’d like us to explore? Email it to us today!

• Each story had to strongly feature a relationship between TWO characters. 
• Each story had to include someone whispering.
• Each story had to include the words JAR, UNIFORM, NEEDLE and EDGE. (Certain variations were allowed)

These prompts hit a note with many writers – as we received around 700 stories all whispering their secrets to us through the trees, the breeze and through voices here and in the past. Along the way, mason jars, specimen jars, jam jars and doors left ajar rubbed shoulders with knitting needles, hypodermic needles, compass needles and needless tasks. School uniforms, work uniforms, soldiers, sailors, security guards and sportspeople – along with uniform movements that took us to the edge and back. We always love the variety of ways you approach the prompts – keep up the great work!

THE POWER OF TWO

Frodo and Sam. Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy. Sherlock Holmes and Watson. Peter Pan and Captain Hook, Miss Honey and Matilda, Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer. Literature is filled with twosomes that are companions, mentors, rivals and lovers – where each character is tied to the other in some way. So this month, we wanted to CELEBRATE and feature the relationships and roles that two characters can play.

• Twins represent! Many of your stories featured the powerful bond the twins share. An excellent choice for this wordcount.
• Siblings also featured heavily – often told in a life-spanning arc to showcase their role beside the other throughout the years.
• Best friends played a big part in many stories. Again, often highlighting the ups and downs of this relationship through the years.
• Of course, couples are the ultimate couple – with love matches featuring heavily, from meet-cutes through the years and till death did them part. The Top Pick was a beautiful example of one end of this range.
• Other generational relationships featured this month, grandparents, favourite uncles, parents and children. Oh, and pets! We love our pets.
• And then there were some more quirky relationships – a few have made it to this month’s showcase, so we won’t spoil those ones. But other notables included an odd sock yearning for its mate, an unlikely love story between scone-buddies jam and cream, insects, actual superheroes (of which we expected more) and some plucky reimagined fairy-tales! Creativity at its best.

So, now to the showcase stories – including our Top Pick of the month from Laura Cody (congrats!). Laura’s story, along with our shortlist and longlisted stories are all showcased below. Well done to ALL who completed the challenge – let’s do it again next month!

JUNE TOP PICK

OLD HABITS by Laura Cody, USA

On that last night, after the television had been turned off and the matching living room recliners were restored to neutral position, Nora and Jim climbed into bed. Long gone were the days when they could “slip between the sheets” or “tumble onto the mattress,” breathing heavy with desire as their strong, capable fingers unbuttoned buttons and unzipped zippers. These days, climbing into bed was a laborious process involving strategy and perseverance. It began with the alignment of a walker on either side of the bed, continued with the careful lowering of buttocks (groan) and hoisting of legs (on the count of three) onto a mattress, and culminated in a bit of strenuous shifting and scooching until both husband and wife found proper orientation on the bed: Feet down, head up, neither one too close to the edge.

On that last night, Jim picked the jar of liniment off his bedside table, removed the cap, and mindlessly held it out to Nora before dipping his own fingers inside. They engaged in ordinary everyday chatter while massaging thick cream into stiff hands, unaware of the perfect synchronization of their movements.

“Theresa’s stopping by tomorrow with the groceries.”

“Have her get ice cream. Pistachio–and not the one for diabetics.”

On that last night, Jim removed a large-print novel from his bedside drawer. He read just a page or two, as always, while Nora retrieved knitting needles and yarn from her side. Her fingers could no longer produce flawless, uniform stitches, but still they worked away, finding comfort in the rhythmic activity.

Click, click, click

The music of Nora’s knitting needles inevitably lulled Jim to sleep. The book dropped to his chest. His eyelids drooped, and soon–

“Glasses,” Nora demanded.

Jim startled awake without protest, knowing the routine. On that last night, he removed his spectacles and handed them to his wife. Nora sprayed them with the cleanser she kept on her night table, then wiped the smudges away with a cloth. She handed them back, and Jim laid them on his side, ready for tomorrow. Then Nora put away her knitting and did the same with her own glasses. A new day started best with fresh lenses.

Nora turned off the bedroom light.

On that last night, Nora rolled toward Jim in the bed and whispered. The couple’s whispering was a holdover from a time when their house was filled with big-eared children, a time when their pillow talk, intended only for each other, was a carefully protected secret. And even if there were no longer any children to overhear, Jim and Nora’s final words each night were still exchanged in hushed tones. It was a habit that felt as right as the words themselves.

“I love you, my darling. Goodnight.”

And even though Jim would not wake up the next morning, Nora would continue to whisper words to his pillow that night and every night because, while it is true that everyone dies, old habits die hardest of all.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

There’s a beautiful sense of calm that settles on this domestic scene throughout this story – all while the ‘reveal’ of sorts has been telegraphed in the first four words. And it’s the repetition of those same words that provides a lovely scaffold on which to go out not in a blaze of glory, but rather – much like the embers of an old fire – a warm glow. We see the familiar night routine and synchronicity of Jim and Nora’s movements and whispered goodnights. And in these seemingly small and mundane actions, we see so much love. Wonderfully observed and a worthy pick to celebrate the power of relationships.

THE LOVERS, THE DREAMERS, AND ME by Susan McLaughlin, VIC

I called it the ‘magic pudding’. My brother called it the ‘chain letter’. In reality it was the start of the rainbow connection.

“Want a magic worm?” I would ask, meaning, ‘do you want a fresh worm to magically catch that elusive trout?’

Wasn’t so magic most of the time. Another drowned worm. Another wasted hour. Another childhood memory.

But then one day the wriggling wizard did his job. Caught a juvenile redfin off Dad’s dad’s rod, held by my brother. The sort we usually threw back.

“Toss him in,” Dad would say. “We’ll catch him next year when he’s a monster.”

We never questioned this instruction. Until one day we did. “Can’t we use him for bait?” I asked.

“The trout won’t go for him,” said Dad. But I insisted, persisted, pestered until Dad relented. He let me use his pocket-knife to carve off a chunk of tail flesh.

My hook was in the water less than a minute when the rainbow latched on. A proper bite, not a nibble, and I hauled him in with heart racing and voice squealing. My first fish. And it was a trout! My dad, never prone to envy, was filled with envy. Positively green. He hid it marvellously.

“Can I take some of the tail?” my brother asked that night in the kitchen.

“Of course not,” scolded Mum. “That’s good eating fish.”

But he insisted, persisted, pestered until Mum relented. He sliced up the tail and popped it in the deep freeze with the frozen peas and ice-poles.

And thus began the Magic Pudding Challenge. Catch a fish. Then use that fish to catch another. Then use that fish… Well, you get the point. How far could you stretch that first piece of luck?

Our record was seven. Our family record. Unbeaten by any other family, because other families didn’t have this tradition. This secret game our family played on Friday nights in summer.

“Do you want the last of the pudding?” I ask my brother.

“Chain letter,” he corrects me, for old time’s sake.

“You take it,” I suggest. “You always did attract more luck than me.”

He’s silent for a moment. My tears make him uncomfortable. “You attract enough,” he finally says. “You caught that first trout. Patient zero. Remember?”

I remember. It was drizzling that day. There was a rainbow. But patient zero was actually the redfin.

I remember. Worm jars. School uniforms. People walking their dogs too close to the edge. Needles and haystacks and songs about ants and rubber tree plants. “For you Dad,” I whisper softly as I thread the last bit of thawed fish onto my brother’s hook.

Dad’s no longer with us. He went to the great lake in the sky four months ago. But he caught the yellow belly that started this latest magic pudding… ah… eh… chain letter. We’re using the last of fish five.

“And for Grandpa Mack,” my brother adds, then hands Dad’s dad’s ancient rod to my ever-watchful son.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Using fishing to highlight a generational story works marvellously well here, and it’s hard to say if the most notable relationship is between brothers, that of the father and son, or even that of one fish to the next! Whatever the case, it creates a strong linking device to structure this story that’s painted with the kind of nostalgia that families often feel when memories have their own language and traditions. The rainbow trout that features as a hook here (literally and figuratively!) is nicely mirrored in the kermit-green tinged title.

SHE KNOWS ME BEST by Madelyn Grace, NSW

Clear as day, she appears before me through the glass.

She yawns quietly, her eyes scrunching until the rich embers of her irises disappear.

My mouth stretches wide, my chest tightening.

It’s too early to be awake; she can see it in the storm clouds beneath her eyes. She slept barely four hours last night, and just three the night before.

I feel it in my bones, the exhaustion. I feel every tickticktick of the hours that pass without slumber, night after night.

She’s already donned the maroon uniform, pristine and clean-pressed, silver buttons glinting from her blazer sleeves. The crest over her blouse should be something to take pride in–a symbol of what she has worked so hard to achieve—but when she wakes feeling like she never slept, and finds no time to spend with the friends she does not have, it’s more akin to a burden.

An anchor.

“Hey,” she whispers, pulling her thin lips into a gracious smile, curling her fingers in a lazy wave. Her kindness is soft here, feather-light and warm. With anyone else, she is needle-sharp and glacier-cold, too dedicated to allow herself the pleasure of bountiful company.

“Hey.” My mouth hurts around the greeting, pulled taut against my teeth. My fingers wriggle.

While the sky paints itself into a patchwork of blushing tangerine, she begins the painstaking process of pulling herself together for the day. Thick hair, darker than a raven’s wing, is brushed to silk and smoothed back into a low, all-business ponytail. From a half-empty jar, she scoops a citrus scented balm, and scrubs it in slow circles over her face, rinsing the cleanser off with lukewarm, filtered water.

My nose tingles at lemon blossom while I pat my face dry.

After the cleansing comes the makeup, all twenty-three steps of it.

I’ve never felt so claustrophobic than I do beneath these colours, this overpriced muck, these never-ending expectations.

She tells stories as she works, primps herself over the course of two hours, desperate to please. Her peach-pink lips spin tales of essays and flute practice and quizzes and the first hand to be raised and debate club and charity work and application after application after application. Twelve in total, to every Ivy League in the country, and then some.

I mouth every word back to her, tone for tone.

When she’s finished, she brushes her pleated skirt of invisible dust, and sighs.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she sighs, her brow twitching, the only sign of her slow creep towards the cliff’s edge. After a moment, she turns back to the mirror.

“You’re all I have left,” she confesses. “The last person I care about.”

“The last person I care about,” I echo. I try not to feel such rage; we are one and the same, after all. It is both our faults that we’re the only people who can stand one another.

She waves once more at her reflection before she leaves.

I wave emptily back.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The use of italics here is sublime in providing a counterbalance from one ‘character’ to the other – as the reader alternates between the two in this morning conversation of sorts, set against “a patchwork of blushing tangerine”. Of course, it makes very little secret of the fact that this is just one person and their mirror image. However, the choice to provide the mirrored-self with a first person perspective to the third person counterpart is a stylistic touch that elevates this scene. We are essentially being told the same story from two sides, with extra clues to fill out this personality and her own mental state. Quiet, yet powerful at the same time.

TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND MILES by Tatum Schad, USA

Dad always called it his reliable Honda.

Painted the color of murky lake water, it didn’t have a CD player or a tape deck so we listened to fuzzy radio stations or the wind. The speakers rattled with their blown-out parts loose inside, and there was an underlying wet dog smell that must’ve seeped into the frame and thawed when the weather topped seventy-five degrees.

On steep inclines or tough stretches, he’d stroke the console and whisper to it.

C’mon old girl, you can do it.

Like it was his trusty steed or something. He believed in the Honda like he believed in a good handshake – some things just worked. I would sometimes wonder if he believed in me the same way.

The first time I heard Mom and him fight, he slammed the screen door and the Honda sputtered to life in the dark. He sat out there for hours, the front yard hazy with exhaust. She said he paid more attention to the car than her. That she wanted something more from life, and that there were plenty of people that would give it to her if he couldn’t.

Mom spent less time at the house after that. Dad spent more time working on the car. On the days that Mom didn’t come home for dinner, he’d show me the proper way to check the oil and how not to electrocute myself with jumper cables. He’d show me the jar of mints wedged inside the driver door and the spare needle and thread stashed inside the console, just in case. But his real pride and joy was the odometer.

Two hundred thousand and counting! They just don’t make ‘em like this anymore.

One day, Dad picked me up from school in the Honda. He took me to Dairy Queen, a place he usually saved for weekends when the weather got warm. Never on a school night, and certainly never before dinner. We stopped at the park after and sat on the hood, ice cream melting faster than I could lick it up. I remember my sticky fingers and the stains blooming on my uniform as he told me that Mom didn’t want to live with us anymore.

It’s my fault. I’m sorry, kiddo.

He explained that she still loved me but couldn’t stay in the same house as him. I’d visit her when I could, when she settled down somewhere. He apologized again and said the engine fumes were stinging his eyes and took us back to the house.

I caught my reflection in the side mirror a few times on the way home. The fumes must have gotten to me too.

Mom moved out the next week. Dad and I watched from the driveway as her U-Haul pulled away. As soon as it turned the corner, he asked if I wanted to drive the Honda for the first time. I was only thirteen, but he said he wasn’t worried.

He believed in us both.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Ah yes, a man’s love for his mechanical steed is a strong one, and here it is borne out in a coming-of-age style story, the ‘reliable Honda’ playing a key role in the backdrop of this family’s changing circumstances. Of course, this is both a study in the father’s relationship with his child as it is with his car. We are given a thoroughly authentic tour of this ‘man shed on wheels’ (an adult treehouse even?), prompt words snuck into the door and console – always through the child’s eyes. And that’s where this story truly succeeds, in making it both about the car but also about everything else happening at that time in our narrator’s life – exactly how kids often thread memories, even for big moments such as described here. They don’t write ‘em like this anymore.

THE OTHER ME by Anne Wilkins, NZ

I was six when Mama told me I had a twin. He was meant to have died at birth, but he was very much alive to me.

He’d kept me warm in the crib, cried when I cried, and crawled after me on the floor. I called him Other Me because I had no other words for what he was. He looked, sounded, and acted like me. A reflection of me, but for only my eyes and ears.

“Who did this?” Mama would ask, looking at our glass jar of marmalade jam shattered on the floor.

“It was Me,” I would tell her. “The Other Me.” And I would point to the Other Me standing shamefaced in the corner, his hands still sticky with jam, but she never understood.

Other Me grew just like I did. When my hair grew long, so did his. When my voice changed, his did too. He was always with me, and at night we would melt into each other like two drops of water.

“That boy, always talking to himself,” Mama would say when she heard me chatting to Other Me long into the night.

I’ve heard identical twins can be so close that they can feel each other’s emotions. It was like that for us, except more.

We were so close that Other Me could take away my pain and soak up my sadness.

When I fell in my school’s cross-country race, Other Me took my injury. He limped for me, allowing me to cross the finish line to win gold. When my first girlfriend dumped me, he sucked away my sadness and heartache; leaving me only with lightness and the idea of fresh beginnings.

And when I got sick and had to go to hospital, Other Me was right beside me.

Look away, he whispered as a Nurse in a shiny uniform produced her shiny needle for another blood sample. I barely felt a pinprick upon my skin as Other Me took away the stab.

The cancer spread quickly.

Let me help you, he said from the corner of my hospital room. You don’t need to suffer. Let me take it away.

And I let him take it all.

All the sickness.

He pulled it from inside me and claimed it as his own, where it rested inside him like a black serpent.

“A miracle,” Mama said the next day. Mama, who had worn her rosary beads thin, praying for my recovery.

I was cancer-free.

The doctors and nurses were dumbfounded.

None of them could see my brother slumped in the corner, or hear his ragged breathing from the serpent inside him.

I had beaten the odds, but the cancer had beaten my brother.

He closed his eyes and simply disappeared over the edge — like he’d never been there at all.

My eyes filled with tears; my heart shattered like that jam jar so long ago.

And this time there was no one to take away my pain.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We received many twin stories this month, but this one deals with the idea in such a unique way – a child who keeps the memory of their twin alive as a kind of imaginary friend. At first, it’s playful in a ‘blame it on the other guy’ way, before turning to a role of soaking up the hurt and the pain. As the narrative navigates into these darker waters, this is where the storytelling gets lifted. The idea that ‘Other Me’ is the one to beat cancer, and being defeated in doing so, is heartbreakingly depicted here, the final two lines providing a poignant end.

UNTITLED by Brooze, QLD

They stood together, alone.

Tall, they were and so very similar that their relationship was easily recognised as what they were, twins. So alike were they that, if you saw them one at a time, you would not be able to say with certainty which you were seeing. “Which is which?” you might whisper but not perceive an answer until both were returned to your sight, separately together.

They stood as sentinels, guardians of a revered space, unmoving and uniformly full of resolve. Jarring attacks could not move them. They did not retreat one iota, nor did they return the ferocity exhibited by their attackers. It was not in their makeup to gloat or needle someone for a failed attempt at penetrating their space as they stood at its edge. Not at all. No emotions were exhibited at any time. Resolute, inflexible, unmoved by inclement weather, they stood on guard and asked no quarter. They did their job and remained firm…. as all AFL goalposts should.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Consider this 166-word story a ‘palate cleanser’, if you will – and a reminder that sometimes a story can take place between two goal posts and still radiate an emotional impact! In this case, we are led down this twin-esque garden path before the siren eventually sounds on the conceit and these two characters are in fact revealed to be ‘outstanding in their field’. Yes, it’s silly, but hey, for many AFL fans reading from the sidelines, this one might still hit all the ‘feels’ in a big way! For what it’s worth, we score it six points.

A BEGINNING THAT ENDS by Jo Skinner, QLD

I know her more intimately than I know myself. I hold her, press her cooling body against my breasts, her lids tiny membranes, veins tattooing translucent skin.

Every part of her is still a part of me, her heartbeat dancing below my own, her breath a fluid love song vibrating in my belly.

I unfurl ten crinkled fingers, touch each perfect toe and trace soundless lips before I whisper into her tiny ear shaped like a shell.

My words form soft waves that reach into her now still heart and I know that she knows, always knew that she was loved and wanted even before she was knit inside me.

They will come soon, to take her away and the thought of separation is a sharp pain like a needle.

I hear firm footfalls and a nurse enters, her uniform crisp, her hands cool as she measures and assesses, cuffs my arm, and asks me how I am.

I cannot answer. I save my words for her alone. I submit, one arm enfolded around her still, my whispers an echo in this room that cocoons me from a future that is no longer ours to share.

‘It was unexpected, unexplained,’ the nurse says, not unkindly. She leaves brochures beside my bed, and I am left alone again, the time still, the grief on pause while my body searches for itself and comes up empty.

The light changes and falls across the blanket. Still, she sleeps, weightless in my arms. My belly is flaccid, my breasts ache, my thoughts suspended.

They come and go. Another shift. They are patient but each intrusion jars and I long to be left alone with her forever. I will carry the weight of this day and need to carve each memory into my heart where it can be reached.

It will pass, they assure me.

It won’t, I whisper to her tiny pink scalp peeping from the wrap.

I tell myself stories, to make sense of it. She was impatient to meet me, longed to be a part of this world that was not ready for her. She is too pure, too unsullied, and never chanced a breath.

I pushed and allowed her to come, and they told me it was already too late to intervene, that there was nothing they could do.

And so she lies, lifeless in my arms while the world encroaches slowly on our final moments together.

I sense him in the room, waiting at the edge of things, uncertain. I should let him hold her but am loath to sacrifice even one moment.

I slowly become aware of all that awaits us.

The cot. The pram. The tiny clothes folded and never worn.

They will ask me to choose something for her to wear one last time.

I will leave that to him.

The day ends and they take her away.

I fold in on myself, collapse into his arms and weep.

She is gone.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

Heartbreaking. This story highlights one of the most intimate relationships of all at its most vulnerable. In doing so, it goes about documenting those swirling clock-stopping minutes that describe a mother’s precious time with her newborn baby that she will never get to see grow. The result is a delicate and powerful exploration of grief – where the world and its brochures blurs away and we are left with seemingly perfect physical reminders, whispered moments, and the numb reality of a world turned upside down. The title also captures the painful potential of a new life ended so soon.

In Australia, SANDS – 1300 072 637 – is an independent organisation that provides support for newborn death, stillbirth and miscarriage. 

FIRST TIMES by Danielle Barker, NSW

I didn’t want a friend, or so I thought, but you did and that was that. From the moment you sat next to me in class you needled your way into my life, stitching yourself tightly to my side. Even now, thirty years later, when the wind is warm and the sun is high, I feel you there.

You’d only been at our school six weeks before the long holidays hit. By then we were firm friends and for the first time in my life my summer ‘to-be-read’ pile stayed just that. You showed me that adventures were not only for the likes of ‘The Famous Five’.

The summer was endless, as they were back then, our exploits blanketed by a permanent blue sky, a feeling we were on the edge of something as yet unknown. We notched up miles on our bikes, discarding them carelessly, wheels spinning, as we raced to reach our latest destination.

It was with you I caught my first fish, a tiny stickleback, in the beck down the back of the estate. You said it didn’t count, it having landed by accident in my wellie, but I carried it home proudly anyway, letting it swim circles in a jam jar before returning it the next day.

You pushed the boundaries and I happily followed. At the sweetshop, I’d count out my 50p mix under the watchful eye of Mrs Pickle. Every time she turned her back you snuck in an extra couple of white mice or cola bottles, blinking at me (you never could do it with one eye) knowingly. I quickly paid, worrying my sweaty coin would give us away, but we emerged from the shop safe and feeling like we’d got away with murder. After, we sucked and chewed our way through the stash, bare skinny shoulders pressed together, giggling under the shade of the weeping willow, before hopping back on our bikes to spend the last few hours of daylight at the park.

It was a summer of constant motion. Days filled with swinging, spinning, running, climbing, racing until we collapsed in a tangled heap, onto itchy brown grass, exhausted and laughing at the sky, no worries other than when the sun would go down.

When the holidays ended, for the first time, I didn’t dread the return to school. I pulled on my uniform feeling taller and not just because I’d grown. I looked forward to your hot whispers in my ear, telling jokes that only you and I understood. For the first time I didn’t want to escape to my books, I was choosing my own adventure with you.

But you didn’t come that day. Or any day after. I never saw you again.

In a summer of firsts yours was the first funeral I attended, the first heartbreak I had. I’ve had countless firsts since the moment your bike wheels stopped spinning, but you were my first friend. I just wish I hadn’t been your last.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

It’s true that so many of the most powerful relationship stories this month also dealt with loss. This time, it’s the reminiscence of a friendship and those long summer days that at first appears so full of life, before the rug is pulled in the final paragraph. Along the way however, we are treated to a montage of best-friend energy – likely relatable to many who have spent a lost summer in similar fashion. The choice to frame this story around a series of ‘firsts’ allows it to never drift and of course, gives us the final first and the unexpected ‘last’. Nostalgic and tragic.

UNTITLED by Jane C, ACT

My funeral was held on a Wednesday. A morose affair by all accounts, as these things tend to be. And all the more heart-wrenching because I was a teenager. So young. So much promise. Freckles and vitality.

The service was a long time coming. No body makes it a little harder to be declared dead. But the schoolbag and uniform left carelessly by the edge of the river, the bits and pieces of mine they found in the water, and the disappearance of Jennifer Joan Bradley – so complete and unequivocal – what other conclusion could be reached?

My mama wept at the funeral. Wept for her JJ, for her baby girl. She swayed and staggered with grief. Dad drank himself into a fury that night and belted Mama. This was typical behaviour from him. He needn’t have buried his daughter that day. It could have been anything that set him off. The coffee jar was empty once so he smashed it and Mama’s cheek bone.

I used to intervene but he’d wind up hitting me, too, and Mama begged me not to, so I stopped. Instead I prayed. When the yelling and the beating sounds started I closed my eyes and clasped my hands together so tight my fingers would get pins and needles. And I’d stay like that until I heard Dad’s snoring and Mama’s quiet sobbing. Next day he’d get up and work the farm like nothing happened.

One evening during dinner I noticed Dad, four beers in, looking at me. I noticed Mama looking at him.

That night after Dad had fallen asleep, Mama came and sat on my bed. Without preamble she told me in whispers that every time Dad was unconscious after drinking hard, she’d sneak a little money from his wallet. Not enough so as he’d notice. But given how much of a boozehound he was, the total sum amassed over the years was not inconsiderable. She wanted me to take the money and follow her instructions. She’d give me the nod some day soon, she said. Dad was unpredictable and if I simply went missing, there was a chance he’d go looking for me. So it was better he think I was gone forever. She would come and meet me and we’d be together again but there were things she had to take care of first and I mustn’t worry if I didn’t hear from her or see her for months or even years.

I understood. I felt strangely calm. I would do as she said.

Seven months after my funeral, tragedy befell the family once again when Justin Bradley was killed in a farming accident. Well, accidents do happen. Poor Lucinda – first her daughter, now her husband. The community rallied, and when she decided there was too much sadness, too many memories to go on there, she was offered more than a fair price for the farm.

And then she came and found me.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The ‘dead person narrating’ technique here seems at first like we have ourselves a ghost in reflection mode at first, but as the story unfolds and the backstory comes into focus, the plot literally thickens. Turns out that poor Lucinda had it all planned out and when her husband meets with a ‘farming accident’, well, the stage may just be set for an off-camera reunion. A good example of subverting expectations and somehow (for a story that opens on the narrator’s funeral) managing to conjure up a happy ending that is very much alive!

IN THE YEAR ALL COASTAL AREAS FLOOD, THE SKY SMELLS LIKE GASOLINE by Laila Amado, Netherlands

Leaves burn. Crimson, red, and burgundy, they tremble against the backdrop of coal-black clouds. Maud always craved the coming of the cooler days. She welcomed the slow shortening of light and the long hours spent curled up in her favorite armchair, but this season the change of weather is making her nervous. The wind wails in the chimney in an unfamiliar way, and the static on the radio sounds like voices. By turn angry and mournful, they whisper of the coming storm.

Maud bends down to attach the watering hose to the connector. Things haven’t been the same since the illness took hold of Dan. The day he checked into the hospital, he smiled and said, “Don’t you worry, love, we’ll be dancing at the fair next spring. You’ll see”.

Maud no longer remembers their first date, their first dance, the feel of Dan’s hand on her hip. Instead, she remembers needles stuck in the knotted blue veins, sticky bandages clinging to paper-thin skin. She remembers the stark white sheets, the aseptic smell of the hospital room. The green tiles of the waiting room floor. The blue uniform of the doctor telling her there’s nothing more they can do.

“No,” she kept saying. “No.” And then, stomping her foot on the green tiles, Maud saw in the doctor’s face that she’s being the difficult loved one every shift dreads.

“Let me take him home,” she said, resigned.

Their daughters have been begging Maud to move to the city ever since that day, as if being cooped up in a concrete box can protect from the unraveling of threads holding the world together. She is too old to pacify herself like that. Too attached to this stretch of land, this color of the sky, these weeds and flowers.

She glances at the house, at the figure seated in the deck chair on the porch. Maud finds comfort in the familiar breadth of the shoulders, the angle of the upturned face.

A sudden gust of wind rips through the garden, beheading the last of the chrysanthemums, and the black Alsatian in the kennel howls, sensing the approaching darkness. Maud wipes the sweat from her brow and tucks the handkerchief away. Time to take a break.

She walks up the porch steps and sits in a chair next to Dan, pours herself a glass of ice tea from the jar. Air carries the smell of smoke. Beyond the tree line, the edge of the sky is a bleeding wound.

Maud puts her hand gently on top of Dan’s, feels the cold of the metal wires holding together his brittle bones. It took her some time to get the knots on the phalanges just right. She gives her husband a sideways glance. If Maud takes off the glasses, she can see the familiar smile in the yellowing jawline of the skull. That’s good enough for her.

“Don’t you worry, love,” she says. “It’s going to be a mighty storm, but we’ll brave it together.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Much like the story that opened this showcase, once more we have ended with a widow alongside her beloved husband. But in the case of Maud, this tale is a little darker, as she seems to have raided the craft cupboard to keep the spirit of Dan going strong. Using the dramatic change of seasons as a backdrop, we see a flashback to Dan’s illness and a realisation that they won’t be dancing together next spring. Maud has chosen to care for Dan at home, but as she tends to her flowers and the sky paints itself into a bleeding wound (great colour descriptions throughout), we realise – through the metal wires and yellowing jaw – that this skeleton figure of Dan is only alive in Maud’s grieving mind. (But seriously, where are those daughters?)

The final line sums up a lot of the relationships that were on show this month – braving storms together, whether alive or simply as a memory.

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we include an extra LONGLIST (approx 5-10%) of stories that stood out from the submitted hundreds and were highly considered for the showcase. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, enjoy a moment of satisfaction! And to ALL who submitted stories, we’d LOVE to see you again for next month’s challenge!

THIS MONTH’S LONGLIST (in no particular order):

• COPS AND ROBBERS by Isaac Freeman, SA
• CITY SHADOWS: THE UNLIKELY DUO by Zoë B, NSW
• A QUARREL WITH TIME ON LOVE by Courtney Evans, WA
• GREAT UNCLE HENRY by Lisa Zeltzer, Canada
• WHO AM I? By Chloe McLeod, VIC
• JUNE AND AUGUST by Bruno Lowagie, Belgium
• STRANGERS ON A BUS by Victoria Daube, SA
• MATCH THE PAIR QUIZ: REASONS YOU MARRIED A WOMAN NAMED SARAH by Kenneth Mann, UK
• MAX by Jenny O’Hara, WA
• GOOD COP by Paula Benski, USA
• THE SILENCE IN SOMEBODY by Jay McKenzie, NSW
• ECHOES FROM THE FIDDLER by Del Griffith, USA
• RESIDENTIAL CARE by Charlotte Chidell, VIC
• UNTITLED by Teri M Brown, USA
• A BEGINNING THAT ENDS by Jo Skinner, QLD
• DRIFTING by Annie Lance, Ireland
• UNTITLED by Brutus Richmond, NSW
• TOO MUCH SCREEN TIME by Simon Shergold, USA
• BEACH DAZE by Sherri Bothma, WA
• MOMO TWINS by Nina Miller, USA
• UNTITLED by Zach Lawler, NSW
• SIZZLING by Robyn Knibb, QLD
• FLYING LESSONS by J. Lynne Moore, USA
• NEIGHBOURS by Pat Saunders, WA
• A BEDTIME IF STORY by Miriam Drori, Israel
• NOTES FOR A EULOGY by Jaime Gill, Cambodia
• REFRACTED LIGHT by Simone Bowers, VIC
• DEAR SISTER by Alex Atkins, Canada
• WRITING IS LIFE by Anna McEvoy, QLD
• IT’S NICE AND QUIET by Suzanne Wacker, QLD
• HOW TO MAKE A DATE IN ELEVEN EMAILS by Amy Wolter, VIC
• MY HAIRDRESSER by Anne Moorhouse, QLD
• AMANDA LEE by Adrienne Tan, NSW
• NEXT MOVE WINS by Ducky T, QLD
• UNTITLED by Lisa Verdekal, Ireland
• THE RAVAGES OF CHAOS AND TIME by AC Millington, WA
• THE COLANDER by David Wilson, VIC
• SWEET TOOTH by Ani Artinian, Canada
• A LETTER TO MY DEAREST, WHO HAS BEEN MISSING FOR TWO MONTHS NOW by Romany Rzechowicz, ACT
• THE CATERPILLARS by Philip Ogley, France
• TAMARAMA AND TURRAMURRA by Olive Moon, NSW
• SIDE BY SIDE by Deborah Ferry, NSW
• I, ME, WE, HE by Djuna Hallsworth, NSW

“I don’t think I would be a published author without the AWC courses; they were the seed from which everything else grew. The fantastic lessons aside, recommendations for great books on writing, connections with other writers and news of publishing opportunities all came through the AWC,” Anna told us.

The start of a new chapter

Anna started toying with the idea of returning to her first passion during a stay at an Enid Blyton-like cottage in the English countryside. A friend recommended she try the Australian Writers' Centre, so Anna enrolled in Creative Writing Stage 1, followed by Novel Writing Essentials.

“I’d been concerned about how my brain (which often feels like mashed banana) would hold up to further education after such a long time away from study, but I needn’t have been. The lessons in the AWC courses were incredibly clear and easy to follow. My tutor (Bernadette Foley) was sensational. She not only provided practical feedback but made me believe I had something worth writing, and her initial words of encouragement have stayed in my head to this day.”

Anna found the community aspect of the courses to be particularly beneficial. “The opportunity to be surrounded by other writers from all different walks of life and give and receive feedback on each other’s work was priceless. It gave us the skills and insight to critique and edit our own work as well as providing a good sense of how our writing was tracking rather than going it alone and just hoping for the best.”

Write about what you know

For her first manuscript, Anna drew on her experiences working in aged care. “Before having children, I was studying to become a doctor, yet ended up as a social support coordinator after following my heart into my grandfather’s nursing home after he was diagnosed with dementia.”

Anna feels privileged to have cared for residents with varying stages of dementia and to have provided support to their families, knowledge which she later passed on to the protagonist of her first novel. 

“Sadly, an injury and multiple surgeries left me unable to return to aged care, so I began to write about it, channelling my experience and love for older people onto the page.”

Her debut novel, The Borrowed Life of Frederick Fife, is about a bizarre case of mistaken identity that gives a desperately lonely elderly man one last chance at being part of a family. He just has to hope that his poker face is in better nick than his prostate and that his lookalike is never found! It’s a life-affirming story about redemption, forgiveness, grief and finding family, coated thickly in Aussie humour.

“The idea for the novel began with the creation of my protagonist Fred, who not only shares my late grandfather’s name but also his delightful, selfless, and endearing nature. Pa was my best friend, whose gratitude, humour and kindness lit up any room he was in. People over eighty are often under or misrepresented in the arts, so I wanted to create not just an elderly character but an elderly hero who inspires hope and shows that worth, unlike eyesight, does not diminish with age. 

“Pa provided the perfect inspiration. He had countless strengths, but his poker face wasn’t one of them! He was so honest that he found it terribly difficult to even play a card game that required bluffing. Plot stems from conflict, so I contemplated what would happen if you placed such a man in a situation where he was desperate enough to deceive (if he believed he wasn’t hurting anyone). Doppelgängers and cases of mistaken identity have always fascinated me, and I began developing the idea of one man being able to redeem another man’s life, even after death. The story grew quickly from there.

“My experience in aged care provided the setting for the book and influenced its themes of grief, ageing, isolation and the power of identity, purpose, love, and connection. I was also greatly inspired by my grandparents’ beautiful marriage which breathed life into the novel. I often wonder what prompted multiple people to publish this story and I can only believe that their love somehow got into my keyboard and onto the page. The characters, plot and setting of the novel are all fictional. But the love? That’s entirely real.”

Building on her knowledge

Anna took the skills she learned in additional courses, including Fiction Essentials: Scenes, Fiction Essentials: Grammar and Punctuation and Fiction Essentials: Structure to polish her manuscript to the best of her ability before looking for a publisher. 

“I entered a couple of writing competitions to little avail and began preparing a query letter to submit to agents and publishers. However, my big break came when I decided to give Virtual Literary Speed Dating a go, as suggested by my AWC tutor. This is a unique and fabulous opportunity offered by the Australian Society of Authors in which you have three minutes to pitch your novel to a publisher or agent on Zoom. 

“I pitched to the lovely Bev Cousins at Penguin Random House, and she requested my full manuscript the following week. I began preparing myself for a ‘no’ with my Stephen King rejection nail and hammer at the ready – it’s a thing, google it!. But I never needed the nail because this was THE YES! And not for one book, but two. I feel incredibly lucky and grateful to have had this door open so quickly and don’t take it for granted that everything aligned that day.”

Anna celebrated the good news with spaghetti, seafood, dancing, tiramisu and champagne. “Not necessarily in that order!” Anna says. “It was a similar feeling to when the boy I really liked called me for the first time, which made me so happy that I screamed and jumped into the pool. I didn’t jump into the pool when I heard I was being published, but I did tell that same boy (who is now my husband) and we screamed and cried and jumped up and down along with our daughters and geriatric Italian Greyhound.”

Anna then secured herself an agent, and now has publishing deals with Harper Collins USA and Nemira Publishing Romania. 

“I’m also thrilled that the manuscript is now with a media rights agent in Los Angeles who is pitching to writers and producers for screen adaptation, which for me was always the ultimate aspiration from the minute I typed the first word. Not too long ago, I would have told myself I was dreaming. Now that my dreams and reality have begun to merge like the perfect gin and tonic, I’m starting to believe that anything is possible.”

A career as an author

Anna is working on the second book in her two-book deal, currently titled Ratbag. “It’s about a retired Michelin-star chef called Griff who now lives in a nursing home, widowed and depressed. He has created a death menu—a list of ways in which he could take his own life. He just has to choose which one…by Friday. There is no way his last meal is going to be the flavourless mush they serve at the home, so the night before he plans his demise, he breaks into the nursing home kitchen to cook himself his last meal, sparking a long-forgotten joy. 

“It’s a story about the power of food, purpose, family, and love. I drew inspiration for this from the delightful Maggie Beer who is doing great work with her foundation to improve food in nursing homes.”

And while the achievements keep rolling in, for Anna the most important thing is sharing her dream with her family.

“Showing my kids that dreams were possible was one of my proudest moments as a mum. Because of my physical health limitations, they had never seen me climb a mountain, until now. My youngest daughter has already planned her book week costume based on my debut – even though it’s not a kid’s book – and I get teary even thinking about that! They are both wonderful writers and I love sharing this passion with them.

“Because this book grew from such a personal family connection, I also felt delighted and proud that my grandparents’ love, which inspired everyone who met them, could be shared beyond their lifetime and geography. That’s the magic of books.”

A winning recipe

Anna has found the winning recipe, combining her love for her family, storytelling and aged care into stories that will resonate with readers. Her aim is to write uplifting and meaningful books that make the reader laugh and cry in equal measure and leave them seeing a little of the glitter in the world.

“I feel so incredibly grateful and in awe that this little story that began in my head has really meant something to people in the publishing industry and because of that it will have the opportunity to reach, and hopefully capture the hearts of, people on a global scale. It’s just mind-blowing. I hope that it’s not just an enjoyable read but that it might also be a tonic to people whose lives have been touched by ageing and loss.

“If you are even remotely curious about writing, enrolling in an Australian Writers' Centre course is the single best thing you can do, whether you are after a career change or just want to enjoy it as a hobby. It not only teaches you the craft of all kinds of writing – from novels to picture books to copywriting and grammar – but also offers very practical advice on getting published and invaluable insight into how the industry works.

“The courses also put you in touch with other aspiring authors, which helps to keep your writing momentum. Writing a book is a bit like trying to get fit – but with less sweat and more chocolate. In both pursuits, having accountability buddies gives you the highest chance of success. My origin story is not uncommon – so many authors I’ve had the pleasure of speaking to also began their journey to publication at the Australian Writers' Centre.”

Courses completed at AWC:

• Inside Publishing
• Your Author Website
• Fiction Essentials: Scenes
• Plotting and Planning
• Fiction Essentials: Grammar and Punctuation
• Fiction Essentials: Structure
• Novel Writing Essentials
• Creative Writing Stage 1