Clear the table everybody – the latest Furious Fiction creative showcase is here! And we’re not lying when we say that we had a rich variety of responses to this month’s story prompts:

• Each story had to take place at a table.
• Each story had to feature a character who tells a lie.
• Each story had to include the words GLASS, RICH and SPEED.  (Longer variations were allowed, e.g. “glassy” or “speeding”)

As expected, we entertained a rogue’s gallery of liars and cheaters this month thanks to prompt number two. Get-rich-quick schemes rubbed shoulders with rich chocolate cake and glass tables were naturally a speedy way to kill two “prompt” birds with one stone.

As for other more unique takes on the “table” prompt, these were plentiful – we loved the creative takes. From the classic dining rooms, boardrooms, restaurants and cafes to the cold hard autopsy slabs and interrogation rooms. Other tables of note included massage tables, tray tables, grazing tables, baby change tables, Table Mountain, poker tables, chess tables, ping pong tables, and Arthurian “round tables” as well as some more abstract concepts like tables being turned, learning your times tables, the periodic table of elements, spreadsheet tables, tables of contents and the ground's water table, to name just a few!

So naturally, when we spread all the stories out on our own table, it was a tricky decision, but  this month’s Top Pick belongs to Eilish Forwells. You can read that story immediately below, followed by other showcased stories that turned our judges’ eyes and our longlist at the end. As always, congratulations to all those who took part in this month’s challenge!

AUGUST TOP PICK:

THE RED BIRDS AWARD FOR STEADFAST SPIRIT (2025) by Eilish Forwells, UK

The sewing machine ate through the material, lining the edges with tight teeth. Sadie had perfected feeding it with one hand while using the other to hold her wine glass—she’d chosen the large one tonight, for the sake of efficiency.

Her husband hovered behind her. She could feel the worry leaking out of him. More often than not, he reminded her of a slowly deflating balloon, vomiting all his dry breath into the room.

With another sip of wine, she said, “Yes, Franklin?”

“I brought you tea, love.”

“Just set it down,” she replied, not shifting her eyes from her task.

She heard the soft clink of compliance. Sadie knew the mug would now be huddling with its predecessors, each one revealing its stagnant fate.

Prepping her masterpiece for its next adornment, she ran her hands over each badge stitched into the blanket, the thread rough against her fingertips. It had become a ritual. To examine each award, each achievement, and then commit it to history with thread.

You can’t unpick history.

There was no shortage of badges to immortalize. She pulled the next one from the mound beside the sewing table. She’d snagged a good deal on eBay, and the current supply would keep her fuelled for at least a month.

The new badge read, in rich red letters: Red Birds Award for Speedy Seeding (1982).

Who knew Henry had such a green thumb? she thought. This would be the third going onto the blanket.

The stench of worry drifted back into the room.

“Hasn’t Henry done well, getting all these badges? Such a clever boy,” she said, before Franklin could say something that would infect her peace.

There was a soft sigh before he replied, “Yes, dear. I think he would have loved the Red Birds.”

“He does love the Red Birds.”

She smiled as she thumbed the one she thought Henry ought to be most proud of: Red Birds Award for Furious Fundraising (2022).

“I’m going to visit Henry,” Franklin said gently. “I thought you might like to come.”

“Just tell him I’m busy with his blanket. It'll be ready soon. He’ll be able to use it to earn his camping badge.”

She swung her wine glass toward a badge in waiting: Curious Camping (1963).

“Sure, love. I’ll leave him some flowers for you.”

The door clicked closed. The air of concern stomped down the stairs, out the door, and was swallowed by the oblivion of the outside world.

Sadie didn’t care much for the outside anymore—or the sickly people who populated it. She wished the world would keep Franklin. But every day it spat him back into the hallway, so he could fuss and fray at the edges with fret.

The outside only kept what was worth devouring, and she wouldn’t let it have Henry’s blanket.

It had already taken too much.

She lined up the next badge and pressed down on the pedal. One stitch at a time, she was weaving the story of Henry.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

People deal with grief in different ways, and here, sitting at the sewing table, we are introduced to Sadie – processing her own loss by keeping busy on a crafty project. Of course, as concerned husband Franklin can see, she has gone beyond merely grieving the loss of her son Henry. With a slew of random fabric awards taken from other times and other lives, she is desperately trying to stitch together not just a life that he could have had (as Franklin sees it) but HAS had. The years do not align, but that’s not important to this mother. Nothing makes sense anymore. It’s a heartbreaking study of loss and the myriad ways it can manifest.

FAREWELL, MY ALLOY by Ryan Butta, NSW

Gold was gone. Ripped from the Table like a tooth from a rich man’s smile. No note. No trace. Just a smear of scorched metal and the sour smell of reaction.

So they called me: Carbon. I don’t rust, I don’t bend, but under pressure? I get hard.

The room was full of suspects. They looked at me like I was a low-grade isotope. Unstable, suspicious, and fading fast.

I started with Neon. A flashy cat. Glowed like ego in a dark room. “You’re noble,” I said, “but not incorruptible”.

He flickered. “I don’t get involved.”

I looked him over. He reflected everything but guilt, so I moved on.

I clocked Arsenic skulking in the corner. She didn’t look the type, but they never did. And the way gold vanished. It was fast. Almost like he was reacting to something toxic.

“What about you?” I said, staring up at Helium hovering high in the corner like a balloon at a wake. “You see anything?”

He shrugged. “I’m inert.”

I should’ve known better than to expect a reaction.

Maybe I would have more luck with Mercury. A slippery little bastard, slicker than a greased beaker.

“You knew Gold,” I said.

“I know everyone,” he oozed, dripping surface tension.

It was then I noticed Oxygen. She stood cool and collected. Too cool.

She’d fuelled every fire I’d ever known. But now her stare was frozen. I said, “Don’t tell me you’ve turned cold.”

“You’ll never solve this, Carbon. You’re wasting your time. You’re just a pencil on legs.”

“Watch it,” I said. “I’m combustible, but not stupid.”

I moved on. Fast.

Platinum leaned against the wall, like a plot twist waiting for a story. She had more dangerous curves than a mountain road and I felt like speeding. She looked a million dollars, and she knew it, and she knew I knew it too. If I wasn’t careful, I’d wind up with a diamond in my pants. And that was no way to crack a case.

“I hear you hang around the Table,” I said.

“Periodically,” she replied, giving nothing away.

I knew that wasn’t true. She was a regular, but I wasn’t about to let on. I made to turn away when a flash at her neck caught my eye. A chain. Soft yellow. Too soft.

She bristled. But I’d already seen what I needed.

“Gold wasn’t stolen, was he?” I said.

“Electrum,” she said, smiling. “He never said no.”

The pieces clicked, loud as a dropped glass. Only then did I see there was something missing. “Where’s Yttrium?” I asked.

Yttrium. Stable, quiet, the kind of element that you forget is in your Table. He was gone too.

“Why?” I asked Platinum.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

This wasn’t a theft. It was a fusion.

Case closed? Hell no. Not in this lab. You solve one bond, another breaks.

And me? I stay Carbon. In everything. Always solid.

But God help me if I start reacting.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This is the first of a few ‘inanimate’ showcased stories this month and here, the periodic table of elements is brought to life with tongue firmly in cheek. From the first isotopic insult, there is a lot of fun to be had with the names and properties of many of the players, as inspector Carbon investigates a precious disappearance. We did receive some other fun periodic table stories also loaded with plenty of zingers and wordplay, however here we particularly enjoyed the gumshoe-style narrative voice, dramatic tension and easy dialogue that bounces around the ‘table' in search of the culprit. This is comedy Gold – it wasn’t missing after all! Elementary, my dear reader.

IT’S NOT YOU IT’S ME by Ryan Klemek, USA

“It's because I'm a zombie, isn't it?” Rich asks, his cloudy eyes welling up with what looks like raw sewage.

“Of course not,” Clarissa says. “Do you really think I'm that shallow?” She winces as a flake of gray skin falls from his cheek and lands in his glass of water.

“Then, what is it?” he asks. “What did I do wrong?”

She stares at a stain on the otherwise immaculate tablecloth. Anything to avoid looking at his exposed septum. “People change, Rich. I've changed. And I just don't think we're compatible anymore.”

He leans back in his chair. “Seriously? You're giving me the old ‘It's not you, it's me' routine?”

“Don't be like that. You know I'll always care about you. I just think we'll be better as friends.”

She's hoping they become the kind of friends who never hang out and never comment on each other's social media posts. She's prepared to quit Facebook if that's what it takes to keep from seeing pictures of him.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket. She sneaks a peek under the table and sees a text from Todd asking if she wants to come over. She's about to answer “yes” when their food arrives.

“Here you are,” the waiter says. “A chicken Caesar salad for the lady, and cervelle de veau for the… gentleman.”

“I'm almost too sad to eat,” Rich says, shoving the entire portion of calf brains into his rotten maw.

“Me, too.” She suppresses a gag and pushes her salad away from her.

He stops mid-chew and gazes at his empty plate. Sludgy tears stream down his leathery face. “God, I'm hideous. Who could ever love me like this? I should just crawl back into my grave now and get it over with.”

“Don't say that,” Clarissa says. “There are plenty of fish in the sea. Hey, maybe you could try speed dating.”

She realizes the irony as she's saying it. Rich is more of a Night of the Living Dead kind of zombie —there's nothing “speedy” about him.

In any case, she's said all she has to say, and she knows if she doesn't get to Todd's place by eight-thirty, he'll end up playing Call of Duty all night instead of bending her over his couch and having his way with her.

Todd's not perfect, but at least he has all of his appendages.

“Keep your chin up,” she says as she gets up and tosses her napkin onto the table. “You'll be ok.”

“You're leaving?” Rich says with a lump in his throat. “But we haven't even had dessert yet.”

“Good-bye, Rich. Have a good life, or… whatever.” She walks away from the table without looking back.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Ahhh, why are zombie stories just so fun? Although (bracing for a slew of undead September submissions), they still have to be well-written – and this is a gem. Cleverly poking holes in the classic ‘break-up’ tropes, we were hooked from the very first line as Clarissa gently attempts to reassure Rich that their relationship is rotting away. The fact that she is trying to say that SHE is the one who has changed is hilarious, as is the inconsolable Rich who tucks into his meal (brains, of course) and pleads for another chance. Even the classic ‘have a good life’ line hits different when it’s a zombie. Silly but oh-so fun!

THE MEMOIR by Rachel Kirk, Vietnam

THE NEWSPAPER KING

The long-awaited tell-all memoir of Albert Durer

[Mr Durer, I wanted to leave a quick comment to thank you for the opportunity to assist with your memoir. Obviously you don’t need assistance – I’m sure it’s already brilliant – but since I’m your assistant now, that’s what I’m here for!]

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ONE: My childhood as an unappreciated genius

TWO: Going solo: Starting my first newspaper with no help from anyone

[Just a quick note here – you know much more than me, of course – but I’m pretty sure there are lots of public documents about your co-founder, Mr Brenner? I guess I’m worried about libel claims here. Can we loop Legal in? Just a suggestion! No worries if not!]

THREE: Getting rich is easy: Making my first billion

FOUR: The terrible and mysterious death of my great friend Elias Brenner

[I should have realised you’d cover everything – you’re the genius! My sincere commiserations for your loss, too. It must be hard knowing his murder was never solved.]

FIVE: The tragic disappearance of my first wife

SIX: It’s never too late: How I learned to love again

SEVEN: The even more devastating disappearance of my second wife

[Mr Durer, let me just say how inspirational it is to think of how much you’ve achieved despite all your losses. And if you’ll forgive me for saying so, I know there’s been a lot of public interest around the disappearances. This book is going to fly off the shelves!]

EIGHT: What’s so bad about phone-tapping? How the media blamed me for an innocent mistake

NINE: The easily-explained accidents of all those journalists

[You know, I actually hadn’t heard of those accidents before. What a lot of bad luck! It looks like not many of those journalists found jobs in media again, for some reason. Looks like a couple are still around – would you like me to approach them for quotes for the book?]

TEN: Stand your ground! How I bravely pushed back against criminal charges

[Do you mind if I flag this area for Legal to take a really speedy look? Again, you’re the expert here, but just to protect your interests. No worries if not.]

ELEVEN: Wrong time, wrong place: I was nowhere near that prosecutor when he fell through that glass window

[Me again: Legal?]

TWELVE: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer: A traitor at my own company

[Oh wow! Do you think someone here is working with the authorities? I bet it’s Doug. He was so furious I got this job over him, I could tell.]

THIRTEEN: How I solve loyalty problems… permanently

[Mr Durer, I can’t tell you how excited I am to read the full manuscript. I know you’ve set that meeting for the two of us late tomorrow night, I assume to discuss my notes? Anyway, I think you’ve got a real best-seller on your hands here. Hope my comments help! No worries if not!]

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

The idea of setting a story around a table of contents is a fun take on the prompt – and this wasn’t the only story to attempt to do so, as you’ll see below. Where we think this succeeded was in its ability, through the gushing editing notes, to give us delightful dramatic irony as we tour through the clearly corrupt life of media mogul Albert Durer. The eager and naïve assistant provides exposition to colour what to everyone else should be obvious as to this evil-doer’s life story. As a reader, we simply get to enjoy each increasingly-absurd milestone as it tumbles towards its inevitable but still satisfying final unlucky-for-some chapter.

CHAPTER AND VERSE by Claudia Nicholson, Greece

The chapters had gathered again — as they always did — around the Table of Contents.

Bound within the velvet-dark spine of a half-finished novel, they sipped ink from delicate glass tumblers and debated their place in the story.

‘Frankly,’ said Chapter One, flipping her crisp collar, ‘I shouldn’t be first. A murder mystery should open in medias res. Drop the body. Skip the weather.’

‘You would say that,’ muttered Prologue, nursing a bitter preface. ‘No one ever wants me anymore.’

Chapter Three cleared his throat. ‘Can we keep it civil? The Author’s watching.’

They all glanced skyward, where the margins shimmered faintly with indecision.

‘Let’s talk structure,’ Chapter Five began, adjusting his plot arc. ‘Currently, I reveal the big twist — the villain’s identity. But what if we delay it? Build suspense?’

Chapter Ten, ancient and dusty, stirred. ‘No. The story speeds up after you. I’m the reckoning. The confrontation. Delay the reveal, and you delay me.’

‘Not everything’s about you,’ snapped Chapter Seven, whose subplot had recently been slashed. ‘I lost a whole monologue yesterday. Gone. Just…cut.’

‘We all make sacrifices,’ murmured Chapter Eight, who was nursing a quiet romance. ‘Do you know what it’s like being tender in a thriller? I’ve got two pages.’

‘Lies,’ Chapter Four barked, banging the table. ‘You said three pages last week!’

‘That was before the rewrite.’ Eight cried. ‘He merged my dialogue with an action beat!’

Chapter Nine, calm and glassy-eyed, twirled a quill. ‘I’ve always said there’s richness in brevity.’

Everyone groaned.

‘Enough,’ came a quiet voice.

All heads turned. Epilogue stood at the far end of the table, pale parchment and knowing smile.

‘We’re not here to rewrite ourselves. We’re here to listen. Someone has lied.’

Chairs creaked. Plot threads trembled.

‘I heard it,’ Epilogue said. ‘A change in tone. A misremembered motive.’

The chapters looked from one to the other.

Chapter Six shifted uncomfortably. ‘This is nonsense.’

But Prologue leaned forward. ‘Is it? You said the butler killed the heir for revenge.’

‘So?’

‘You told me last week it was greed.’

Silence.

Chapter Six hesitated — then smiled, too smoothly. ‘Motives evolve. Stories change.’

‘You’re full of plot holes,’ said Chapter Two, lips thin as margins. ‘You’re trying to steal the twist from *Five*.’

‘That’s absurd!’

‘You’re speeding towards the climax like you own it.’

‘I deserve the climax.’ Six shouted. ‘I’ve got the flashback, the glass shattering, the blood —’

‘You rewrote yourself,’ Epilogue said softly. ‘You’re not the chapter you once were.’

The table held its breath.

Somewhere above, the author paused — perhaps sensing the story shift.

Then Chapter One leaned back, folding her pages with satisfaction. ‘Well, well. Looks like we’ve found our unreliable narrator.’

‘Plot twist,’ Chapter Five whispered.

A soft rustle of agreement.

Epilogue rose. ‘Shall we begin again?’

The Chapters nodded, and one by one they reordered themselves, line by line, beneath the gleaming title: Table of Contents

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

In a rare double act, we’ve decided to immediately showcase this different but also highly original take on the ‘Table of Contents’ idea. Yes, there are still murders, but this time they’ve gone fully meta and inanimate as the chapters of a murder mystery book themselves are the characters. Astutely observed, the story within this story gets busy trying to reorder itself, along the way poking fun at all the classic whodunnit tropes and the way in which things must be revealed to keep a reader engaged. Even small details like sipping ink are fun and the plot twists, turns and thickens in a fun back-and-forth to reach its ultimate climax.

A DIFFERENT KIND OF ‘MEET CUTE’ by Emily Shallcross, VIC

Ding!

Carl, the pharmacist whose eyes haven’t left her cleavage, stands with an absurd grace for someone his size and shuffles toward the next lucky lady of the evening. Tanya swirls her glass of wine and sighs. It’s slim pickings tonight. Everyone here is boring and nice. It’s unacceptable.

At their worst, speed-dating events at least amuse Tanya. At their best… well, Tanya did meet Gordon here last Friday, and he was divine. She can still taste him on her lips.

As the latest offering sprawls in the chair across from her, she is assaulted by Linx body spray. “Neal”, reads his nametag.

‘Hey there, baby,’ he says.

Tanya glances around for the infant he’s referring to and… nope, not a rattle or sleep-deprived parent in sight.

‘Have we met?’ she asks carefully.

‘I think I’d remember a face like yours,’ he replies, smoothing back all seven strands of greasy hair. ‘You’re like, who was that beautiful naked woman? Godzilla?’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘Godiva?’

‘Nah.’ Neal shakes his head. ‘Someone else…doesn’t matter. Do you work out?’

‘I can deadlift ninety kilos.’ Which isn’t an answer, but he doesn’t notice, humming in approval.

‘I practically live at the gym,’ he says, and one of his biceps pops up like a jump scare. ‘It’s hard to find time outside work, but well. You make time. You must find it the same, being a lawyer and all.’

Tanya takes a sip of her rich, red chianti. His eyes follow her drink. She hasn’t mentioned being a lawyer. He shouldn’t know her profession.

‘And what do you do for work?’ she asks, heart hammering in her neck.

‘Insurance agent,’ he says, a twinkle in his eye as he leans forward. ‘Working for DTA out in Croydon. You ever heard of us?’

The practice has just taken on a case for the company, and Mrs Crane mentioned an insurance agent moving in down the block. This must be him. Her new neighbour, who knows who she is and where she works. Who has been watching her drink, waiting for an opening.

Well. This evening has certainly improved. Neal’s neither boring nor nice.

‘I believe so.’ She smiles seductively. ‘You know…an insurance agent and a lawyer, we could make quite the power couple.’

She plucks his information card from the tabletop and scribbles “Roxanne” to match her name tag. He’s practically vibrating.

‘We could get dinner?’

‘I ate earlier,’ she lies. She always comes here with an empty stomach in case a meal presents itself. ‘But I could do with another drink? Afterwards?’

Ding!

Tanya stands to embrace him, and Neal scrambles to return the gesture. In one deft movement, she divests him of his Rohypnol (why waste her supply when he brought his own?) and slips it into his drink.

She’ll find him later. Wobbly. Pliant. Easy to manoeuvre into the boot. All she has to worry about now is whether there is enough room for him in the freezer next to Gordon.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

Ding! The kill-two-birds prompt idea of a speed dating table as the setting for a story was explored by a number of entries this month, and this one seemed to best weave a fun story in between the ‘dings’. In addition, speed dating is most certainly a place where lies are told in the search for love – another prompt sorted. And here, Tanya seems to have met her match with Neal. The way that he mansplains his way into the story, hilariously mistaking ‘Godiva’ for ‘Godzilla’ is deliciously off-putting – making Tanya’s ulterior motive all the more intoxicating. Some of the other speed dating stories this month cleverly revealed the woman as a detective searching for suspects, however this couldn’t be more opposite! Okay, next story. Ding!

THE GOLDEN YEARS by Malwina Strutt, NSW

Dinner time doesn’t look like how it used to. On-sale napkins, flimsy plastic cutlery, and chipped glasses on a foldable table. I more shuffle than slide into the booth. Across from me, Robert is busy mapping out the next day’s route. Tomorrow means more road. More red dust that would filter through the cracks of the rickety windows and choke me as I slept at night on the lumpy mattress, my arthritis flaring.

Marge bustles in, interrupting nothing but nonetheless unwelcome.

‘So, where to next?’ she asks nosily. Their neighbouring caravan was a shining Spinifex Electrex Premier with waterfall benchtops and sleek Italian leather lounges. Not a speck of red dust to be found.

She sidles in next to my husband, and I feel my steak stick in my throat.

‘Down to Kakadu,’ surrenders Robert before I can jab my useless fork into his thigh under the table.

‘Oh, you may want to be careful with this old girl in those rocky parts. Do you think she can handle it?’ she says sweetly, and my utensil is now torn between victims.

Marge yaps on but my mind drifts to our antique mahogany dining table at home where our adventure began a year ago. The number of place settings halved, and the joy did too, when the kids, now adults, moved out to pursue their bright futures. Left alone for the first time in 25 years, we discovered that not only did we have nothing to say to each other, there was also no comfort in the silence.

‘Do you want to road trip around Australia?’ Robert blurted out one evening at a particularly muted dinner.

Ah, the great Australian dream – retirement edition. But the thought of sitting down to eat night after night in a dingy retirement village food hall to the sound of swirling bingo balls made me panic. I found myself saying, ‘Yes.’

Before I could admit the truth, we had exchanged our life savings to become free-spirited nomads in search of rich experiences. We sent postcards to our children with grand declarations about living out our twilight years in nature’s backyard. In reality, over 5,000 kilometres, we had seen balding men oozing in the hot springs of Moree, lazy, docile crocodiles in Darwin, and a collection of bizarre ‘big things’, including a banana and a rather formidable-looking sheep.

‘Toodle-oo,’ Marge chirps, interrupting my thoughts. ‘It’s hair-washing day.’

‘Rob, if you ever run out of hot water, you know we’ve got plenty to spare.’ She winks exaggeratedly and lets herself out.

My husband looks at me with an unusual spark in his eye.

‘Tomorrow, as we’re leaving in the half-dark, what do you say we ding the back of a certain deluxe camper and speed off down the road?’

I pause to see if he’s serious, and he is. We both erupt in laughter in a way we haven’t in years.

I smirk to myself. ‘Can’t put that on a postcard.’

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Most Aussies will understand the concept of the ‘grey nomad’ – citizens who reach a golden age and pack up for a lazy circuit of the continent in a caravan; no timetable, no worries. Here, this story beautifully captures the spirit of this endeavour and the people you meet along the way. It’s a humble folding camp table that sets this particular scene, with our narrator suffering serious caravan envy and reflecting on the figurative and literal roads that have led her to this dinner with the impossibly cheerful and flirtatious Marge. Beautifully observed and laced with lines far sharper than a plastic fork, this picture-postcard-perfect piece captures life on the road in all its glorious hues.

LET’S TABLE THIS SHALL WE by April Mae, WA

“Let’s table this, shall we?”

They were the last words I heard before being unceremoniously locked away in the tall grey filing cabinet at the back of the boardroom. The place ideas go to die. That was four years ago. And I am still here, tabled. We all are. None of us yet willing to accept that we have been condemned to a fate lost in obscurity.

I am a great idea. I have so much potential. The science is sound. The figures (although they may need some revising to align with current markets) are sound. The investors were sold, feeding off every word Clive said as he presented me to them. He was in his element talking as if his passion alone could save the world. His idea: me, I could save it. But not from here.

That fateful day, I was spread across the boardroom table at Brixdon & Co. I had sprung up in Clive’s imagination as a fragment of a dream. A magnet attractor for micro-plastics. Floating in the oceans, GPS enabled and collecting all the micro-plastics that the sea creatures inevitably devour. Once I reached maximum capacity, a signal would notify the company to collect and dispose more effectively of the materials. In its production phase it had been tested on glass and metals, but that required further development.

Clive was on the brink of making a real impact on climate change. Ingenuity to benefit all mankind, not just the rich. That unfortunately was the problem. Brixdon & Co had a filing cabinet full of great ideas that were permanently ‘tabled’ for one reason; they wouldn’t make money. I have spent years next to other ‘tabled’ ideas. Mary’s carbon-neutral firebricks. Danielle’s plastic-eating caterpillars. George and Jane’s kinetic roads creating renewable energy. All ‘tabled’ by one man: Roger Brixdon himself. It was his voice that overshadowed the science, the figures, the support. All by producing fabricated evidence that the ideas were dangerous or toxic to the environment. Fear drove the investors away.

I struggled to understand the why of it all, then it struck me with the speed of a freight train – Intellectual Property. He owned it all. After the failed bids, he discredited their creators and fired everyone, ‘tabling’ their ideas in here alongside me. Shelving their research and ensuring that the vital pieces of the puzzle were no longer available to be recreated. And he would sue if anyone tried. We were trapped.

I honestly believed that. Then this morning, the cabinet opened again, I assumed to welcome another condemned idea. Instead, we were all pulled out in great haste, handed back to our creators all seated around the boardroom table.

“The old man is dead. The company going under,” Brixdon’s son proclaimed with little empathy. “These belong to you, and I wish you well.”

Back in Clive’s hands I could feel the electricity flowing through him. My full potential restored. The world at our feet. We would never be tabled again.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We’ve already made no bones of saying that inanimate characters have ruled the roost in this month’s showcase – from shuffling chapters to bickering chemical elements and now ideas themselves, lamenting at being tabled. This is the ultimate ‘bottom drawer’ story, as our narrator reflects on a company that did not believe in innovation (insert any past or present workplace of yours in here) and the four-year prison sentence it has endured as a result. For those rolling their eyes at all the non-human characters this time round, it needs to be remembered that at the heart of all these stories are very human attributes – and this one in particular is a very human story, speaking of the world of IP and stifled creativity. So perhaps, as we conclude this story showcase, we suggest revisiting one of your own ‘bottom drawer’ ideas currently languishing in a dusty folder somewhere – it might be time to un-table it!

THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we include an extra LONGLIST (approx top 10%) of stories that stood out from the submitted hundreds, were considered for the showcase and deserve an ‘honourable mention’. Remember, all creativity is subjective – but if your story made the list this month, take a moment to celebrate! 

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

• HIGH SCHOOL CRUSH by Selby Warren, USA
• THE TIEBREAKER by Jamelia Writes, Jamaica
• SMALL SINS by Kevin Jayawardena, VIC
• THE INTERNSHIP FROM HELL by Freya King, QLD
• ROUND TABLE by Ailyn Koay, SA
• DINNER WITH ADOPTED KIDS by M.D. Smith IV, USA
• ADRIFT by Alita Parke, USA
• BROKEN DREAMS AND BUTTERFLY CAKES by Jo Skinner, QLD
• TABLE by Keryn McLear, VIC
• TABLE 15 by Holly-Jean McDonald, WA
• A TASTE OF DEFEAT by Phil Margetts, NZ
• THE LIE I WILL KEEP by Yash Gaikwad, India
• ALL IN by Pam Lonsdale, USA
• MISSY’S TEA PARTY by Sofia Blueman, UK
• LET’S TABLE THAT DECISION by David Jesson, UK
• SIMPLY THE BEST by Anna Bober, QLD
• HEAD OF THE TABLE by Immy Mohr, NSW\
• EVERYTHING WE’RE NOT SAYING by Sarah Kwong, SA
• TABLE MANNERS by Pat Saunders, WA
• BEING ONE by Lee McKerracher, NSW
• JILTED by Lorraine Brockbank, NZ
• SEARCHING FOR MR RIGHT? by Sandra Thom-Jones, VIC
• BUBBLES AND BETRAYAL by Angela McCormack, NSW
• SORRY, NOT THIS MONTH by Pam Makin, SA
• FOLLOWING SUIT by Bill Heather, QLD
• POTTY PORRIDGE PLOT by Jane Hodgkinson, QLD
• CHECKMATE by Marc Gijsemans, Ireland
• HOW THE TURN TABLES by Rose Coulter, VIC
• THE COLLECTOR by Annette Whitehorn, NSW
• HEAVEN by Kathleen Kassulke, QLD
• CERTAIN THINGS by Kathryn Wheaton Grierson, SA
• OLD LOCKS AND THE THREE BEARS by Farah Tael, VIC
• LET THE LIGHT GO OUT by L. Cook, ACT
• BROWN EYES, GREEN VELVET by Allison Cox, NSW
• THE CHEATER by Exeter Stevens, USA
• PERIODIC TABLE PARTY by James Maley, WA
• TIME OF DEATH by Megan Hippler, QLD
• MY MY, HOW THE by Marita M, QLD
• THE EXAGGERATED LIE by Kylie Maguire, QLD
• THE ORB by Rosie Francis, VIC