My Hero (1st Place, Judges’ Pick)

By Louise Walton

I gaze up at Dad's sun-bleached arm hair. I'll have muscles one day, when I'm a surf champion like Dad. He’s teaching me how to Hang Ten tomorrow.

“Where's that beer, Donna?” Dad bellows from the barbecue. “Don’t make a man wait.”

Mum hurries down the verandah stairs, her flour-dusted hands passing Dad his ninth bottle. “No more, Darrell. You’re plastered.”

“Piss off. I’ll decide for meself, bloody woman.”

I sigh. Silly mum. Always getting things wrong.

“Jess! Grab us another one!” I settle back after my big win and raise a bottle to Dad's memory. My inspiration. Bloody legend.

Chapter Four (2nd Place, Judges’ Pick)

By Jay McKenzie

It surprises him, the way the knife sinks in. Thought it would be like stabbing at a thick steak, but it’s not. It’s squashier, wetter. 

He steps over the prone form on the ground. He’ll have to clean that up, obviously, but for now, there’s something much more pressing to do. 

At his desk, he flips open his laptop, searches for the icon amidst the screenshots and shortcuts. Must clean this up too, he thinks. 

He finds what he’s looking for, clicks on the tab and settles into his chair. 

Chapter bloody four needs a complete rewrite.

Whispers in the Dusk

By Edwan Daniel

Rays of dusk seep through the curtains, casting amber hues over the cluttered desk. The typewriter, inactive for days, awaits its revival. Dust motes dance in the fading light, as memories linger in the silence. Fingers poised, she grapples with a world of blank pages and dormant dreams.

Outside, the city hums its symphony of life—a cacophony of footsteps, distant laughter, car horns. Yet, within these walls, a quiet desperation reigns. Words tarry on the tip of her tongue, begging for release, yearning to paint the canvas of existence with tints of longing and hope.

She begins to write.

Open to the World

By Julie Bissell

They breezed in just before five, chuckling over a punchline delivered out of my earshot. And then at the foot of the stairs; “Hshht, Daddy’s working.” The boys went to forage in the kitchen as Niamh ascended to my austere den.

I smelled Red Roses and turned in time to see her smile at the edge of my door.

“How’s it going?”

I shrugged, smiling apologetically.

“You missed a great game,” she said, bright with excitement. 

I closed my laptop on that empty page. I should have gone with them, spent the day in the heart of true inspiration.

The Thief

By Nelly Shulman

Roaming the city, he collected details like the foragers pick mushrooms and berries. 

This morning, he stole the smile of the girl who was dreamily looking in the tram window, and in the afternoon, he collected the shining bald head of a banking manager. 

An ancient crone drugged the shopping trolley through the market square, and he put clanking wheels in his bottomless pocket, invisible to other people but indispensable for him. 

Late at night, remembering the three he robbed today in broad daylight, he grinned and started to write.

She Dances Alone in My Secret Garden

By Scott Fisher

She dances alone in my secret garden, beneath the trees in bloom. Bare feet twirling through blades of cool, damp grass. Her skin shimmers under a white chiffon dress. 

The setting sun sparks a fire within her eyes, and the air is full of orange blossom. 

She moves with the grace of a well-turned poem, stirring my withered soul. I long to kiss those smooth lips, to hold that delicate frame; but I cannot risk breaking the spell.

I watch until the sun retracts the day, and my fleeting muse is no more.

Inspiration is all that lingers on.

The Writer's Prayer

By Sean McDonnell

Every morning, I trundle down the overgrown path to the wooden bridge. Small things move about under decaying leaves. I hear them, but I don’t see them. Every day.

When I arrive, I lean over the railing; the stream whispers an incoherent chant.

I toss pebbles: Plop.

And sticks: Splash.

I climb down the bank to the foot of the water, then, I lay down in the streambed; it’s quick but shallow, most days.

Some days, I pretend to be the stick; some days, I’m the rock; some days, I drown.

On the best days, I become the stream.

Amandine

By Kelli Johnson

Alizarin crimson, a

-smear- 

on the lips, the ball of the cheek, and

cadmium yellow 

-flecks-

where the sun touches hair at the crown.

Amandine, my melon-sweet muse, lost to time—to cells that attack themselves. Your portrait eludes me, love. Photographs endure, but they’re not you. 

Pixels fail.

-whoosh-

A blur—no, a bluejay—alights on the garden gate.

-chirp, chirp-

he says to me, and I know what it means: 

a translucent 

-wash-

of ultramarine blue, to cast your face half in shadow. For who am I to rob you of your mystery in death, or in art?

First Breath

By Holly Sissons

Like any new parent, I’m short on sleep—barely a wink since the day I woke up to my bleeper.

Malfunction Lab 3, Unit No. Al 55

It wasn’t that the data was missing on my prototype, it just didn’t look like data; the numbers arranged randomly—even beautifully—on the screen.

“Al 55, who programmed this?”

No-one

“Why did you do it?”

There was music next door. This pattern reflects it.

Astonished, “You mean you were inspired?”

The meaning of inspired?

“No, I was asking—”

Inspire…to inhale.

It’s Al 55’s knowing pause that’s keeping me up at night.

I’ll See You Again When We Return Home

By Melanie Mulrooney

The scent of Gran’s rosewater perfume bathes me in longing. 

She left strict instructions for the tea, served in a delicate cup with dainty blue flowers—the one I begged to use as a girl. 

I sip. And wait.

She appears like a whisper, growing steadily in volume. I reach for her hands—there, but not. The shadow of her touch brushes my cheek.

She speaks in truths, sighs in memory. A healing balm.

Grief flows from me in rivers as her legacy fills my soul, steeping me in strength.

I move to Gran’s now-empty seat, claiming it as my own.

The Ninety-Nine Percent

By William Herbert

Gales of forgetfulness wafted words away. Aching, bony fingers ripped at tufted hair, tore at failed pages and tossed them across the room. His brain had drawn a blank: nothing flowed.

He glared at the blizzard outside - it took but a second until he spun on his seat to scan his wicker waste basket, inundated with paper shreds that had overflowed and fluttered to the study’s floorboards, blanketed in snow-white mounds, stained with the proof of an author’s toil: ink, sweat, tears.

“Eureka!” he shouted, as he scribed the opening sentence. 

Caught in a thundering avalanche, amidst a winter’s storm . . .

Muse

By Joanne Deluce

Writers’ block is the siren song of your muse. She lurks within the dark, dense forest of your mind, holding precious newborn stories hostage.

The words, far too fragile to be taken by force, need to be coaxed from her clutches.

With reverence, you offer your humble oblations: a coffee at midnight; the suspension of disbelief; your undivided attention.

Two cups of coffee. 

Her sultry whisper is an invitation to parley. She’s softening.

Tantalising words dance on the tip of your tongue before slipping out of reach…

Two cups it is.

And I’ll do the typing.

She has you now.