Are we there yet? Well, YES – the latest Furious Fiction creative showcase has arrived, and this month we played tourist in a round-the-world journey full of questions and consequences. Here were this month’s story prompts:

• Each story had to take place at a famous landmark.
• Each story’s first sentence had to be a question.
• Each story had to include the words LINK, ORANGE, VOICE. (Longer variations were acceptable.)

And so, passports and cameras in hand, we set off to every corner of the globe – and some even travelled back in time, as we flung our characters to the many famous landmarks of the world (or locally famous at least). Most popular? The Eiffel Tower. Close second? The Pyramids and Australia’s very own Uluru. (The Taj Mahal and the Sydney Opera House rounded out the top five.)

As for opening questions, variations on “are we there yet?” and “is that it?” or even “where am I?” featured heavily, often from weary tourists. But the most common, naturally, was “Will you marry me?” – makes sense really! (Something about combining a landmark and a question!) Special mention should also go to the MANY stories that opened with “Should I/we climb it?” – most taking place at Uluru (closed for climbing since 2019).

There were some memorable opening questions too, from the deep to the delirious. Together they read like the world’s most eclectic tour group. 

Enjoy this small selection of shout outs:

• What the actual hell was I thinking? (Mellany Lea, NSW)
• “Would you cross a street if there was a twenty percent chance you could get hit by a car?” (Tim Law, SA)
• “How many lives can be hidden inside a wall?” (Jameila Writes, Jamaica)
• “Did you know you can hear the voices of the beheaded prisoners at night?” (Ashleigh Meikle, NSW)
• Whose idea was it to visit in June? (Rachel Jennings, VIC)
• “Do you think this angle makes my cheekbones look sharper?” (Tania Bardsley, VIC)
• “Why is it so small?” (John Atkinson, Ireland)
• “So you’re sure Hitler stood right here?” (Bruno P Gordan, NSW)
• “Is the public ever going to let us rest in peace?” (Robert Booth, Canada)
• “Why is it called the Golden Gate Bridge if it’s orange and doesn’t have a gate?” (Barbara Thiessen, USA)
• “Santa, may I speak with you privately?” (Jenny E, USA)
• But why is it leaning? (John AD Fraser, SA)
• “Who thinks pineapples grow on trees?” (The Loaded Doggereller, NSW)  
• “Will you just shut UP?” (Sage Thornton, SA)
• “Can I take off the blindfold now?” (Scilla Wordsworth, WA)
• Why in God’s name would they build a castle like this so close to a major international airport? (Jane Connolly, QLD)
• Was humanity always destined to eat itself alive? (Emma Carter, VIC)
• “Does anyone have Legs Eleven?” (Marley Jane, NSW)
• “Where’s Percy?” (Ellen Auriac, NSW)
• “You sure he’s dead?” (Paula Benski, USA) 
• And of course: “Would you like fries with that?” (Rowan de Haas, NZ)

But enough chatter. It’s time to showcase this month’s stories, and without question, this month’s Top Pick goes to Exeter Stevens.  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, thanks and congrats to all those who took part in this month’s challenge!

SEPTEMBER TOP PICK:

118 by Exeter Stevens, USA

Why?

This question comes up time and time again. Why this river? Why this particular bridge?

From up here, the city folds into itself. The urbanity of brick and glass is softened by distance. The steam plant crouches on the east bank along with the skeletal remains of old mills. The waters of the Mississippi below are slow and dark, but they seem to move with purpose. Tonight, the wind feels deliberate, brushing past my face like it knows something I don’t.

You stood here a year ago. You looked out at this same view. Did it feel like a place of comfort? A place where the world narrowed to a single, final choice?

Unfortunately, Old Man River didn’t care about your troubles. It didn’t care that you wanted to be free.

Built in 1929, the 10th Avenue Bridge is open-spanned, rib-arched and made from reinforced concrete. Its deck is 118 feet above the water, making it the highest bridge over the Mississippi River in the Minneapolis metropolitan area.

Why?

Even though I’ve done the research and memorized all the pertinent facts and figures about bridges and water and death. I’m still left with that one burning question.

I look down into the swirling mass of inky black. It’s the kind of dark that absorbs dark thoughts. The kind that makes you forget there’s a sky above you. I can sense that the mighty Mississippi has the answers to all my questions. But it has no voice. Its unreachable secrets flow beneath the surface.

A fall from 118 feet into water is highly likely to be fatal due to extreme deceleration force. At such high impact speeds, water doesn't behave like a fluid but acts more like a solid surface, hence the comparison to concrete. While there are anecdotal stories of people surviving falls from considerable heights into water, a fall from 118 feet is in the range where mortality is extremely high.

Why?

It's true that Mom left us too soon. But would she approve of this conversation we’re having? I think you know the answer to that. Which makes the ultimate decision you made all the more baffling to me. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. Our favorite band was Linkin Park, and to paraphrase: I know you tried, but in the end, I guess it didn’t matter.

You were the one who taught me how to tread water. I remember the orange float you tied around my waist, just in case. You said the trick was to stay calm. To breathe.

But you didn’t stay calm. You didn’t breathe. You jumped.

And Old Man River just keeps rolling along

Patrick McPhearson, 54, passed away on September 7, 2024. Born in Minneapolis, he dedicated his life mentoring youth as a swim coach. He was preceded in death by his wife Gerta and is survived by his loving daughter Lana. In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations be made to the Webber Park Library.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This is the first of two stories in our showcase that deal with the darker side of landmarks. Because sure, while we had a lot of marriage proposals in this month’s batch of creative pieces, we had just as many people leaping into canyons and waterfalls, or from bridges and buildings. Here, the use of repetition and factual snippets provide an excellent three-act structure with which to overlay this study of grief. What is so subtle and brilliant about this story is how deftly it focuses the lens to share new information, both in slowly revealing details about the narrator but also through the italic details as they go from encyclopedic to deeply personal, by way of the physics of her father’s demise. And throughout, the same question of “why?” not only fulfils the prompt but, along with the river’s metaphor for the passing of time, poignantly captures the confusion and heartache of those left behind to pick up the pieces – perfectly capped off by the emotionless, factual title. Powerfully composed.

HELLENIC HANGOVER by Kevin Jayawardena, VIC

“Do you know the worst thing about living for so long?” asked the voice.

Tom groaned, as his senses returned to him. The voice spoke again, in a heavy Greek accent; Tom was momentarily confused, until he remembered that he was, in fact, holidaying in Greece.

“It's the boredom,” the voice continued. “The present moment stretches out forever. Eternity is your playground, and all you can do is play, without stakes, or meaning. I don't know how anyone does it without wine!”

The word ‘wine' triggered an ache in Tom's skull that almost made him throw up. He was suddenly aware of hard stone at his back, and the orange light of dawn seeping into the sky above him. Pulling his chin to his chest, he noticed a man sitting against the stone steps at his feet.

The man grinned. “Still. Some nights are good nights, brother. Maybe that's enough. Wouldn't you agree?”

Every muscle, bone, and nerve ending ached as Tom struggled his way to a sitting position, resting against the stone steps next to his strange companion. Even in Tom's compromised state, he noticed the man was uncomfortably handsome, as if he'd been carved by hand instead of evicted from a genetic pool with a roll of the dice like the rest of humanity.

The man turned, and looked up at the steps behind them. “A fitting place to finish a night like that,” he said. “Looking at this place makes me feel old.”

“Sure,” whispered Tom, hoarsely. “Listen…who are you? How did I get here?”

The man frowned. “You wound me. How could you forget? We're friends for life!”

Tom shrugged, and fought down another wave of nausea.

“Dion!” said the man, happily thumping his chest. “I'm Dion. You are Thomas. I've been around a long time, brother. A long, long time – but I've never seen a little man like you drink like that. And the singing! You sing with such heart, such passion, and without a single shred of talent or skill!”

Dion laughed. Tom had a hazy memory of standing on a table in a bar in Athens, and a microphone. His head throbbed with each attempt to link up the shattered pieces of his night, and so he opted to use his only lead.

“Hey Dion,” Tom croaked. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” said Dion.

“Why are we at the Parthenon?”

Dion shrugged. “You passed out, my friend. I don't know where you're staying, and so…I decided to bring you here. I suppose you could say I'm…fond of this place. Even if it was built for my sister and her alleged virginity. These temples are beautiful, but the inspirations leave a lot to be desired, if you ask me. Anyway…you're alright now. And you have my thanks.”

“Dion,” Tom whispered, closing his eyes. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Dion smiled, standing up to leave. “You have my thanks all the same.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Poor Tom. He represents so many tourists over the years (perhaps even you in a previous adventure?) as he struggles to firstly come to terms with where he has awoken, but then also who this strange fellow is talking to him. Of course, the clues are in the location, and anyone with a passing knowledge of Greek Mythology will be rewarded with none other than Dionysus, the Greek god of wine, festivity and basically having a good time – never fully revealed but a fun discovery for readers! The years seem to have mellowed ‘Dion’ in this single-scene story, as he becomes the therapist-like bartender to this poor lad’s recollections of a big night. Although, as we leave this unlikely duo and their effortlessly crafted dialogue, it seems that Dion is the more thankful of the two for a trip down ancient memory lane. A lovely combo of mirth and myth.

THE FORTY-MINUTES REVOLUTION by Ada, UK

“Will it still be me when I step off this wheel?”

The London Eye lifts our capsule above the Thames, each degree a reckoning. Below, buses ribbon red along Westminster Bridge; above, the sky dissolves into an orange seam where day is stitched to night. I press my palm to the glass and feel the city’s voice hum through steel: chimes from Big Ben, a siren.

I didn’t come as a tourist. I came with a deadline: forty days to reinvent, forty minutes for one revolution. My backpack holds a slim manuscript, part poem, part beginner’s guide to data analytics, dog-eared where fear tried to fold it shut. The last page is blank, waiting for a signature I don’t yet trust.

Across from me, a boy counts landmarks for his mother. “Shard, Parliament, St. Paul’s,” he says, confident as a metronome. His certainty lands like a dare. I open my phone and queue the post I’ve drafted and never shared. The caption reads, “Today I choose the high view.” Beneath it is a button, the link between who I’ve been and who I’m willing to become.

My hand trembles. I imagine pressing “share” and no one noticing. I imagine ten thousand noticing. Both futures feel like vertigo. The capsule creaks, and a guide’s recorded voice floats from the speaker, telling a story about engineers who believed a wheel could lift a city’s gaze. I wonder who had to say yes first.

As we rise over the river’s bruise of water, I catch my reflection, jaw set like a promise, and think of all the times I stayed small because the ground felt safer. The boy points at our capsule’s number and announces it aloud, as if naming locks reality into place. I whisper names: writer, analyst, maker. Strange and right.

At the apex, London steadies. The skyline becomes an index: cranes and cathedrals, centuries negotiating. I tap the button. The post leaps, then sinks, then lands on a planet of screens. For a heartbeat, nothing. Then a first heart, then a comment, then another, ripples tugging at the quiet like a tide.

I slide the manuscript to the mother. “Would you mind reading the first paragraph, please?” She scans, smiles, and reads the line to the boy. My words circle back to me in someone else’s cadence, shy and certain. The city nods, or maybe it’s the wheel. Either way, the sound inside my chest changes key.

As we descend, the lights along the South Bank wake in strings, linking dusk to evening. I sign the last page with a steadier hand and slip the manuscript back into my bag, not hidden, but ready. The capsule doors slide open with the hush of a curtain lifting.

“Will it still be me when I step off this wheel?” I ask again.

And the city answers in neon and river light, in strangers’ footsteps and my own rising pulse: Yes, larger, louder, unafraid. Yes, more than I ever let myself imagine.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Loaded with beautiful imagery and prose, this story catches and captures the narrator at a significant moment in their life – unsure whether to take the next step. The metaphor and literal movement of the London Eye as it rises and falls mimics the anxiety of the would-be wordsmith. With its queued social media posts and modern landmarks, this is a story of now – yet, it is also a tale as old as time; of believing in yourself and becoming someone new. By using this ‘bubble’, the story has visualised that moment where the change takes place, so that the title takes on a delightful double meaning. The exact details of the manuscript or even the specific future that beckons are not important – it’s the relatability of that moment of decision. Wheel good stuff.

ROCKY TIMES by Robert Booth, Canada

“Is the public ever going to let us rest in peace?”

The other three presidents sighed in exasperation. Teddy Roosevelt’s voice spoke for them all, but each was weary in his own way.

“The foundation we laid was excellent,” said Washington, “but the cracks in the building could be irreparable.”

“I did my best to bring our country together,” said Lincoln, “but now the divisions seem deeper than ever.”

After a long pause, Teddy turned to his right. “Tom?”

“Mon Dieu! Qu’avons-nous fait?”

“Please, Renaissance Man, in English?”

“Laws are meant to be building blocks,” Jefferson said. “Respect for laws is the mortar binding them into the democratic construct that governs us. Without that vital mortar, laws become loose bricks which can, in the wrong hands, become lethal weapons.”

As a crease crossed his rocky brow, Roosevelt said, “You and George and the rest of the Founding Fathers used different words way back in the day, but you made the same point then as now: Democracy must be nurtured continually to endure. Why is that so hard for the present crowd to understand?”

“Yes,” said Washington, “in my Farewell Address I called for our citizens to practice civic virtue—putting the public good above personal interest—and to value reason over passion. Look at them now.”

The four men gazed down at several thousand tourists spread throughout the viewing stands and restaurants below on a crisp, clear October afternoon. Many in the crowd sported red baseball caps.

“I understood the Redcoats before we turned them back,” said Washington, “but I just don’t get the appeal of those red hats.”

“Let me help you, George,” said Lincoln. “Can gratification be found in supporting and maintaining an edifice erected by others? We’ve managed to do that in the United States, linking together administrations from various political parties, for more than two centuries… but with increasing difficulty. When a demagogue appears, distinction will be his paramount object. Though he might as willingly acquire it by doing good as harm, if he sees nothing left to be done in the way of building up, he would set boldly to the task of pulling down.”

“That seems to be the game plan for the Orange Man,” said Roosevelt. “He’s turned his back on our oldest allies, gutted a number of federal agencies and developed a fondness for quackery over science. And I especially don’t like how he treats laws. They're either speed bumps en route to more control for him or weapons to be hurled at perceived enemies. He seems to spend a lot of time in court.”

“Why does he want to be up here so badly, anyway?” Teddy added. “Doesn’t he realize it can get down to 30 below during these South Dakota winter nights?”

“But it can be very pleasant, as well,” said Jefferson, “as it is today. If he doesn’t land here, the Orange Man may discover that his final destination could be incredibly hot every hour of every day.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Stories with a political angle are not for everyone, and to be honest, they are rarely to our taste, such is the changing nature of the world’s political landscape (just days after this story was written, the Charlie Kirk event took the US into a new chapter). But we DID ask for famous landmarks, and Mt Rushmore not only fits the bill, but by bringing its own stoney-faced foursome to life, we are presented with a “what would they think of 2025?” scenario that is equal parts playful and pointed in its prose. Since forever, the pen has been a mighty tool in commenting on the state of the world, and here, while it quartz controversy, we’re willing to granite the benefit of doubt.

ON THE EDGE by Paul Dunn, NZ

“What did you lose?”

The man’s voice startled Henry and he clutched the rail. Stupid, really, when the idea was to let it go. Before he could answer the stranger was edging past him on the cliff.

“Lens cap,” the man said, lifting a camera hanging around his neck. He peered into the chasm below.

“The missus always says it’s about the experience. Memories. But I like to do something. Contribute.”

The man paused. He was in front of Henry now, closer to the edge than even Henry had dared get. He seemed nonchalant, the void behind him no big deal, a massive rent streaked with gold and amber, orange and purple.

“What did you say you lost?” the man repeated. “I’ll get yours while I’m down there.”

“Uh …” How did he explain he’d lost his will to live? That he hadn’t climbed the fence to find something, but surrender it? It was here that he’d asked Sandy to marry him. A ‘grand’ gesture he’d joked. They’d stopped here on their honeymoon to recreate the photo. That link had drawn him back, after the years had created a canyon of their own, a chasm dug with careless words and thoughtlessness.

“I lost …”

“Car keys?” the stranger jangled a small keyring. He’d already descended a few feet onto another hidden ledge. “Looks like a rental. Someone isn’t getting their deposit back!”

Henry tried to concentrate. It was hard to find his resolve while the stranger prattled on.

“I reckon a lot of people leave stuff here,” the man said. He was gazing out across the valley now, a moment of reflection several thousand feet up. “And they’re not brave enough to come get it. The signs say ‘Don’t do that’ but hey, we know the risks, right?” He gave Henry a grin. “You don’t just give up and walk away. If it’s worth something, you take the risk. You get it back.” The man tucked the keys into his puffy vest and scanned the rock before him again. “I mean, look at this!”

He plucked a dusty cap from the undergrowth and slapped it on his thigh. “Red Sox! See, if you really loved them, you’d be down here getting this, not driving home with your bald spot showing. Some people.” The man shook his head, then slipped the cap over his own sparse hair.

Henry looked again at the sparkling river far below. He’d made this drive because this seemed … easier. But for whom? Not Sandy. Not really. What he needed to do was make the effort. Not step over the edge to give up, but go out on a limb to make it work.

“Wooo!” the man crowed, holding aloft a small plastic disk. The cry echoed off the canyon walls. “That’s me! What did you say you were after?” The man looked at Henry expectantly, and Henry tried on a smile, the first for some time.

“It’s ok,” he said. “I think I found it.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This is the second story in this showcase that dares to peer over the edge, albeit with a happier outcome. In the case of this story, Henry is literally and figuratively ‘on the edge’ when a stranger interrupts his plans. We particularly enjoyed the back and forth between Henry (and his thoughts of what led him here) and the stranger who keeps finding more and more things that have been lost over the side of the ledge. Whether or not you believe this is simply the good timing of an oblivious glass-half-full stranger or something more akin to a guardian angel, well, that’s for YOU to decide. But the final line beautifully gives us all the answers we need to Henry’s intentions. Deceptively well told.

BALLS by Fiona Murray, NSW

“But how are we going to cut them off?”

The shiny testicles hung effortlessly from the beast, dangling just above my face. I was visiting my childhood friend and he had brought me to the country town’s pride and joy – the bull statue.

It was a huge stone monument, set upon a platform that said ‘Welcome To Rockhampton.’ I gazed up and examined the strange monster, saw my friend grinning like a lunatic as he pointed to the over-sized balls.

“Come on – we have to do it!”

“And then what?”

“You stand in the back of the ute and hold them up while I drive up and down the main street.”

I sighed and took another sip of my beer. I always knew it would be like this. Whenever we met up Brent wanted to do ridiculous dares and stunts like we were kids again. It was funny when we were ten, but not when we’re grown men. In fact, I was about to become a father, which I hadn’t even been able to tell Brent because he kept swigging beers and yelling aimlessly at the night sky.

“Mate –I’m going to have a baby in a few months.”

“Whaaaat?!” he squealed.

“This is even more reason to do something craaaazy! You’re going to be so boring now.”

He picked up another beer, opened it with his eye socket and passed it to me.

I took a drink. He had a point. I used to be a pretty fun guy, until I got married and settled down. All I thought about was interest rates and the price of outdoor furniture and how to maximise efficiency in my work day whilst also consuming enough protein.

Then I thought about what would happen if we got caught and the police were called for vandalism. Then I remembered that Brent was the local police officer.

A cane toad croaked half-heartedly in the bushes nearby.

“This is your last night of freedom! And everyone in this town knows that if two people steal the bull’s balls, you’re linked forever!”

“Mate – I’m an adult now.”

“Exactly – your life’s about to be over, you’ll be fully impotent, no more virility, no more joy. The only way you can resist your inevitable decline is by the thrill of cutting the balls off this giant bull.”

“Yeah, makes sense.” I nodded.

Then suddenly Brent was crying.

“If you don’t have the balls to chop off the bull’s balls….then we won’t be best friends. You have to choose.” He said, his voice shaking.

He wiped his tears and held out a small saw, the bright orange handle glistening like a beacon of hope in the dark.

“Where’s your courage?” he whispered.

I felt my phone vibrate, probably my wife. I longed for spontaneity and the rush of youth.

Brent focussed his watery eyes on mine, waiting.

I reached out my hand towards the saw. Then it hung there as I desperately tried to make the decision.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

This story not only represents Australia's love of big things, but also that sense of mischief that so many people feel when confronted with a landmark. What is it about this kind of behaviour? Perhaps it's about leaving one’s mark on something famous, although in this case, it seems to be more about taking something away! And yes, it looks like it really does take balls to er… take balls. While Brent’s all in on the plan, our protagonist is leaving him hanging, so to speak. Is this a deep thinking story? Not really (although there are allusions to shaking off the folly of youth). But it’s an oddly relatable moment all the same. Some may lament that we never discover if the saw sunk its teeth into the shiny sack, but we’re happy that the story chooses to leave the balls in our narrator’s court.

THE HENGINEERS by Jane Hodgkinson, QLD

“What do you mean, we’re building a HENGE?” said Garun, eyeing the massive stones.

“So Wolf reckons,” said Klem.

“Not a pub, then?!”

“Look around. Clearly, it's a henge.”

Garun squinted. “I suppose, now you mention it. Aren’t henges wooden?”

“Wolf says it’s a next-gen henge.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Wolf,” said Klem, “tell Garun!”

“It’s a henge. I overheard the boss.”

“But it's STONE.”

“Built to last, apparently. For our children’s children.”

“Children?! We haul rocks. Who has energy for – that.”

“Let’s go on strike,” said Klem.

They downed tools, linked arms and began chanting: “Down with the henge! Down with the henge!”

Their supervisor, Aelf, turned up.

“Get back to work.”

“We’ve been conned,” said Garun.

“That’s a serious allegation.”

“I signed up to build a pub!”

“Signed? Where’s your contract?”

Garun sighed. It was a verbal agreement, and the witness was a donkey.

“Nobody wants henges!” said Garun, his voice squeaky, “And I bet they didn’t do community outreach.”

“We consulted the population of Sarum.”

“All ten of them?”

“Ten, including their goats, gave us the thumbs up.”

“Goats don’t have thumbs.”

“Regardless, we have the social licence to operate. Get back to work.”

“I want a child,” blurted out Wolf.

“So do we,” said Klem, clasping Garun’s arm. “Or the right to have children. Else, we’re not finishing it.”

“What if its an entertainment henge,” humoured Aelf, “that SERVES beer?”

“Seriously? It’s miles from anywhere. No one will come. Ever.”

“This is special,” said Aelf, “its progress.”

Other workers got involved. “We’ve been building a HENGE?” “That’s specialist work. I want back pay!” “And health cover!”

Aelf was out of his depth. The chants continued.

“We want a pub! We want pay! We want to have children! We want to work from home!”

“That one’s ridiculous.” said Aelf. At least a pub was sensible.

“I’ll arrange a meeting,” he said, knowing it would take weeks.

The workers entertained themselves. Someone brought beer. The stones used for rolling the bigger ones became a stage. Everyone got drunk.

“Look at that,” said Garun one evening.

The orange orb in the sky was perfectly aligned with the biggest rock. Garun clambered up, to get closer. Unsteady, he stood tall and spread his arms wide.

“I’m your loyal subject,” he shouted to the Sun. And then he wobbled. And fell.

Health and safety was unimportant in Aelf’s opinion, but even he gasped.

Everyone sobbed. They placed Garun’s pieces in the last giant hole they’d dug. Together they lowered the final stone above his remains.

Aelf was delighted. “I’ve decided to stop building the henge,” he lied, seeing they’d unwittingly finished the project. “Go home!”

So they returned to their homes to have children.

Except Wolf and Klem. They stayed and started a pub, just in case anyone bothered to visit Stonehenge.

The rest, as they say, is history.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

A next-gen henge! Hands up if you read this in the voices of the Monty Python team? (With a dash of Horrible Histories.) We certainly did, and it was all the more fun for it. Uncovering the mystery of who built Stonehenge is a hilarious angle, as is the back and forth bickering between the players involved. And as for the wordplay in the title, well that’s just icing on this rock cake. Silly, but delightful all the same. 

FONTANA DI TREVI by Jenny Lynch, WA

“Ugh, is that another American half-dollar that just lobbed in?” Antonio, the one-Euro coin said, his voice as smooth as an aged Italian Chianti. “They’re so loud, so brash, so opinionated. I don’t mean to sound like a snob, but I wish they’d only allow us classy Euro coins to be tossed in.”

“I say, old chap, that is rather elitist,” Thomas, the shiny new, King Charles version of the British one-pound coin, said in his clipped, cut-glass accent. “What’s wrong with the likes of us? Surely, we’re all here for the same good cause. I’ve heard we will all be scooped up in a day or so and donated to a charity called Caritas. We should all stick together, see it through to the end. You know, in for a penny, in for a pound and all that!”

“Cor blimey, Guv, I agree,” Terry, the British penny said, in his broad East London accent. “I mean, it don’t matter what colour we are, where we come from, or how much we’re worf. So, I fink we should just cut the bleedin’ Septic Tanks some slack and welcome 'em.”

“Too right, mate,” Davo, the Aussie two-dollar coin, joined in the conversation, his whiny, nasal inflection grating on everyone’s nerves. “We really should show some sympathy to those Yankee half-dollars. I mean, they probably used to be whole dollars, but crikey, their economy is a shit-show these days, thanks to that orange-tinted bloke. Oh, bloody hell! Do you all see what I see? Duck and dive, everyone. Two busloads of tourists just arrived. Give ‘em five minutes to hobble over the cobblestones, weave through the chaotic midday throng of selfie-stick-wielding tourists, and snap a few Insta-worthy photos, oohing and aahing over the Baroque-style travertine statues. Then they’ll turn their backs and start the stupid ritual. You know the one: One coin for good luck and to return to Rome. Two coins to meet and fall in love with a handsome Italian. Three coins, and you will marry that handsome Italian. Talk about gullible. And talk about a literal bunch of tossers!”

“Not for much longer,” Antonio said. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I believe our days are numbered. The joke will be on us in the near future.”

“How so?” Davo said.

“Haven’t you heard?” Antonio gushed. “Society is going cashless… in the not-too-distant future I believe. And I heard on the grapevine that they will soon be installing EFTPOS machines here at Fontana di Trevi. I read it online. I’ll send you the link.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Oh what a bunch of tossers tourists are! And what a clever way to bring all the various personalities and nationalities together. Rome’s Trevi Fountain is well-known as a tourist attraction where throwing a coin into its waters is a given. So, by giving a voice to each of these currency characters (after all, most already have a head on them), the fun unfolds in a splash of sarcasm, bubbling with banter. There’s even time for a riff on the future of cash – swipe a card and make a wish? Sacrilegio! 

THE IRON LADY by Rachel Loveday, NSW

“Will you marry me?”

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard that question being asked between two people in front of me, but if I had to guess, it’d have to be in the several thousands.

They call Paris the “City of Love,” and there are plenty of other places these “loved up” couples can go to have their romantic moment – they could get engaged whilst walking along the Seine, or on a picnic at the Jardin du Luxembourg. If they really insist on having me included in their photos, they should go to Place du Trocadero, then they won’t be so close to me, and I can have some peace and quiet from their loud and excited voices, once the word “yes” comes out of their beloved’s mouth.

I don’t get why I’m linked with proposals and romance.

I’ve heard from some people that it’s because I’m “iconic” or provide a “magnificent backdrop.” The ones who propose at night apparently do it because my golden, orange, glow makes the big moment even more magical.

I’ll never understand it.

I’m just a Tower.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We had to end this month’s showcase with something short and sweet that perfectly summed up not only the most popular chosen landmark this month – the Eiffel Tower – but also the most popular opening question! If landmarks could talk, oh the stories they would tell! Well, here we get just a small taste of that to conclude a fulfilling world tour.

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):

• CROSSING THE HARBOUR BRIDGE by Tim Law, SA
• A PROMISE TO THE SKY by Hilse Del Carmen Ricardo Morales, Chile
• WHISPERS OF THE COLOSSEUM by Suraj Gupta, India
• SACRED SELFIE by Dayle Fogarty, NSW
• MIGRATION by Emma Woodward, VIC
• UNDER THE EGYPTIAN SUN by Rachel Jennings, VIC
• MISERABLE MIKE by Peter Jordan, WA
• TO BURY YOUR FINGERS by Chelsea Chong, QLD
• SELFIES AT THE DEVIL’S THROAT by Tania Bardsley, VIC
• PANTONE 021C by John Atkinson, Ireland
• NIAGARA FALLS by Lucien R. Starchild, USA
• THE MATCHBOX by Michelle Cook, UK
• ECHOES IN THE ARENA by Janis Boguzs, Latvia
• PEEK by E.S. Sibbald, NSW
• L’ARTISTE ET LE GLOBE by Andrea Cavedo, USA
• VOICES by BebaBuddy, Ireland
• HOLDING UP by Gale Deitch, USA
• MILE 26 by Madeleine Armstrong, UK
• A MARBLE IMPEDIMENT by Shelley Dark, QLD
• BIGFOOT’S ASCENT by Ryan Klimek, USA
• A STRANGE CASE OF DÉJÀ VU by Dean Gaudoin, VIC
• NINETY-NINE TO GO by Jonathan Bird, NSW
• IT ALL HENGES ON THIS by Emma Greville, VIC
• LEANING INTO IT by Corey Picaro, QLD
• WHERE THE SAILS REMEMBER by Jade, NSW
• LAST WISH by Sally Simon, USA
• THREE SOULS by Gloria Latham, VIC
• SAND, SALT, AND SILENCE by John McParland, NSW
• SIGNS AT THE CROSSROAD by Pam Makin, SA
• FALLING by Kim Hoey, USA
• THE ICONIC AROUND AUSTRALIA ROAD TRIP by Ani Mocebo, QLD
• BLOOD AND BEAUTY OF SÁO TOMÉ by Paris Amos, Nigeria
• FINDING THE LIGHT by Athena Law, QLD
• THE SECOND GOAT by Phil Margetts, NZ
• THE BIG QUESTION by Sarah Kwong, SA
• MARRIED TO THE SEA by Ruth Rosenhek, NSW
• PONT DE ARTS GOES IN SEINE by Roger Leigh, NSW
• INTERVIEW WITH ULURU by Meryl Broughton, WA
• PACHAMAMA by Danielle Barker, NSW
• BIG IS DEFINITELY BETTER by Amanda Fisher, NSW
• A CURIOUS ADVENTURE AT MACHU PICCHU by Marley Jane, NSW
• BE KIND, REWIND by Michelle Oliver, WA
• ON TOP OF THE WORLD by Samantha Sutton, NSW
• SHADOW WING | OPERATION WHITE by Vignette Swanepoel, South Africa
• THE RED KEEP by Anna Rees, WA
• PICTURE by Kristiana Shkambi, UK
• THE STONES KEEP OUR NAMES by Rain Wicks, VIC
• DREAM WITH AN E by Sharyn Swanepoel, VIC
• THE WHITE CLIFFS OF DOVER by Kinneson Lalor, UK
• UNBOUND by Stacey Omeros, QLD
• ATTENTION by Petra Hughes, UK
• WHAT’S IN A NAME? by Fiona J. Kemp, NSW
• NYNGAN STYLE by Nicole Lee, NSW