Thursday, 19 June 2025

The Write-In 2025: The Complete List

2025 Prompts

 

2025 Responses 

 

 

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'Cleopatra' by Madeleine Armstrong

It takes me a day to realise you’re missing, because in the summer you barely come inside, preferring instead to roam the gardens long past dusk.

When you don’t arrive for your breakfast, I panic because I’ve known you since your paws were too big for your body, since I was little more than a girl, with everything spread out before me like a feast, and you’ve never disappeared, not even when I moved us hundreds of miles away and that feast started to look more like a picnic, then a ready meal, then a solitary Tesco sandwich.  

I print out flyers and stick them through all the doors on the street, pin them to all the lamp posts, while I call your full name, Cleopatra, because this feels too serious for anything else. I imagine the worst: a speeding car; a locked shed; a half-finished building site of a house.

I can barely sleep without you on the pillow beside me, where you’ve been for the last 4,550 nights, lulling me with your pneumatic purr. You’re not there the next night, or the next, and the posters begin to curl and yellow, and the darkness begins to creep, so slow I don’t notice it at first, then it’s September and it’s been 91 days without you and your demands for food and belly rubs.

I’m just starting to think about donating your Whiskas to a local cat rescue, crying in the garden while I deadhead the roses, when I hear a meow that’s more like a squeak.

I turn, not letting myself believe it until I see your face, your green eyes narrowing in a slow blink, then watch you slink across the flowerbeds like you’ve never been gone.

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'P.E.' by Melissa Flores Anderson

Mick sat between Joey Oates and Terence Perez during warm ups. Joey wore short shorts and when they did push-ups the pale white flesh of his upper thighs wobbled as Joey’s body tired toward the end of the 30 count. He wished it was one of the girls sitting next to him in their co-ed class, but the teacher made them line up alphabetically. Said it caused less chaos when the gym was filled with three simultaneous classes of 45 students each. He wouldn’t have minded having Lilly Suarez next to him, to hold her feet steady for her as she did sit ups in the white shirt that showed the outline of her bra.

P.E. was the only time their paths crossed because Lilly was in accelerated everything. Mick wasn’t into any of his classes and muddled through with Cs.

The teacher whistled to get their attention and told them to start their mile run. Mick knew the route, positioned himself to be near Lilly as they squeezed out the gym door.

“Hey,” he said, holding the door for her.

“Hey,” she said, brushing her hair back out of her face into a scrunchie. 

As soon as they were out on the asphalt, he pumped his legs in his green P.E. shorts. Lilly dropped to the back of the crowd. She wasn’t a runner, and if he slowed to her pace, Joey and Terence would give him shit. Instead, he ran as fast as he could and circled back to where she was at the end of the pack, alone. He paused. He could keep forward and take first in this non-competition, or run the route again and keep Lilly company, not worry about the pace and the opinions of others. 

He took a step.

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'Suds for Duds' by Lenny Eusebi

The ladies of the East Wilmington Crocheting Guild always assembled on July the 23rd, the possibly apocryphal anniversary of their founding (no one actually remembered founding the guild, but this didn't bother a membership that had mostly ceased serious attempts to recall what they'd had for breakfast), as they hosted a car wash in the Church Street lot to raise money for yarn and scones.

"Slide on in here, big boy," called Sheila Masters to the driver of a dusty old Buick, running her thumbs up the spaghetti straps of that lipstick red bikini her daughter had called "garish" when photos of last year's fundraiser enjoyed a brief notoriety online.

She could perhaps be forgiven for not recognizing the vehicle, as it spent time in the Kingsleys' garage, while she spent time elsewhere. But forgiveness was of little interest to Betty (written "Mrs. Charles Kingsley" on the return address labels in her roll top), whose suspicions had been fueling feverish scarf-and-mittens work, when Charles cranked the window and blurted an overly cheery hello.

The silence frothed as wrinkled bikini babes began to scrub at years of neglect. Charles hastily reversed the window crank. Betty and Sheila locked eyes. Betty, smoldering with the fire she usually reserved for those who dared suggest a cane, eventually closed the distance, bringing them nose to nose.

"The hat you presented on Tuesday," she said sweetly, "Was loose and sloppy."

Sheila's cheeks reddened. "Well," she replied airily, "I found a large head to fill it."
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'Check Mate' by Scott MacLeod

Her profile said independent. Well was that just talk? She’d spoken at length during the meal about various exploits at work. Defeating gender-based expectations. She’d actually mentioned her bonus, which if he was being honest was a bit of a turn on, but he was relieved when she did not mention the amount. The point is it certainly seemed like she could swing it. Half, that is, he wasn’t asking for the moon. He understood conventions. But he worried about setting a precedent. 


His profile talked about traditional values. Respecting women, but also protective. Alpha dog. Throwback. That appealed to her. He certainly seemed in no hurry to get out of here. That too was a good sign.  But as for the current situation, she needed him to get off the pot. Equality is non-negotiable, but who doesn’t like being treated once in a while. He didn’t get that watch at Kohl’s. 


Meanwhile the little leather folder holding the bill sat in the middle of the table. Untouched. The dishes had been cleared. The wait staff circled uneasily. 
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'August' by Angela James

My stepson, Caleb, has corralled his friends for a weekend of celebrating his 25th birthday. I can almost see the steam radiating from their bronzed limbs in squiggly little cartoon lines as they burst through our entranceway. 

Sweaty night air, pungent with plant gametes, infuses the space. “Close the door, boys,” my husband, Keith, calls out to them. “You are letting out the cold.” He doesn’t attempt to rise from the padded upholstery of his automatic sitting-to-standing armchair as the boys make their procession over to greet him. 

The boys detail weekend plans of beaches, bonfires and barbecued meat.

Keith smiles and tells them we have plans too. Dateline on tv tonight. Paul and Dianne’s 40th anniversary party tomorrow at the new Italian restaurant downtown. 

When I was 30, Keith was my debonair 50 year old fiancé. Did I truly have a thing for older men then or had I enjoyed the currency that came with being younger? Now, at age 50 myself, I can’t say I’m sure.

Keith urges them to enjoy the heat, the sun and whatever shenanigans the summer has to offer. When the boys leave, he reminisces about how it wasn’t that long ago that he adored soaking in the summer himself. Breaststroking against the lake currents. Boating through the channels. His skin browning under the sun. “That would have been a while ago,” he says. “Back when I was a lot younger.” Back when he was still older than what I am now. 
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'Missing Note: Wanted' by Kate Axeford

It wasn’t the headline,

Woman Freed After Getting Head Stuck In Bin In Auchtermuchty

that stopped me searching for your note, saying it was over.

It wasn’t an ASBO from the council promising prosecution if I didn’t refrain from  playing ‘Your Song’ by Elton John on a loop at full volume that stopped me broadcasting.  If you’d heard it, you’d have rushed home to give me my note in person. 

It wasn’t the café owners who chased me away down the tree-lined boulevard where couples sip coffees and shoot the breeze that made me desist from handing out fliers sporting your photo.

Reward paid for information leading to this owner of a missing note
being found and brought home, alive.

It wasn’t the shrink who gave me a felt-tip and instructions to draw two clear circles. One, I had to fill in with all the worries I couldn’t control, the other with ones that I could. It certainly wasn’t her — that witch wrenched her pen back complaining the court just paid her for an hour.

It wasn’t my adoptive mother that stopped me looking. 

‘Things often turn up when you least expect them to.’  

She’d wise-owled after I’d festooned her drainpipes with your underpants. Vast grey flags of surrender waving in the wind. If only you’d seen them, you’d have brought my note back.

No, it was the fireman, that handsome brute, Bill. Bill held me in his arms. Bill felt my heart beating. 

‘Stop howling like an orchestra of mating cats, hinny, and get your heid out that bin.’   

Bill asked if I was OK – if I needed help again, not to hesitate, just dial the three nines.

Now I don’t need your stupid note, I’ve got Bill’s number. I’ll call if I start to feel lonely.
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'Shantay, You Stay' by Elisa Dominique Rivera

The Drag Race audition was buzzing with queens: Sequins, make-up, flesh-coloured stockings with sheen all mixed with excitement and my demophobia, I pushed on for my son trying out as Meghan Lo Mania. Frantically walking, barely seeing through the crowd when I felt a stabbing pain on my toes and howled. “Shit, sorry are you okay?” said a frumpy lady with ash hair and a woody grin. 

Then I saw the damned heels she was wearing, and rued the day Louboutins became an “in” thing. I swore under my breath, she said she was only trying it for shits and giggles. We locked eyes and guffawed. She introduced herself as Sonia. That was Season 43.

Fast forward to Season 46 my son’s turn for his third audition soon. I searched for him before he threw a queen’s tantrum, but when I found him he’s already made up, “Mom, I had to borrow makeup from Princess Dye Verging!” I thanked Sonia who’s proud as punch with her Princess who’s become my second queen since we met in S43. I rolled my eyes while our queens preened each other. Sonia handed me a flask, as we sat down amongst the multi-coloured and multi-textured costumes. “Vodka?” Sonia nodded, “Next time I’ll bring soju.” I giggled and was thankful that I found a co-Drag Mum. We sighed, muttering under our breath, “Shantay, you stay.”  
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'Behind you!' by Jeremy Boyce

I was sitting at my desk, trying to write, something, anything, didn’t matter, but my fingers couldn’t hit the keys striaght. See what I mean ? Couldn’t hit them straight, couldn’t put one word after….. It just wasn’t... 

It wasn’t the beer, wine, spliff, the energy bills, price of petrol, wars, the end of the world as we know it or any other shit that was happening at that moment. 

“Will dinner be ready soon, Dad?”

She didn’t actually speak, but she was there, her cold back on the wintered-up radiators, mobile texting and whatnot, behind my back, not in view, present, in my space. Out of sight is out of mind? Out of sight is out of my mind.

“What’s she doing? Why is she there?  Do I have to speak? Is that what she wants? What do I say? What if she doesn’t hear, or answer? Would it be worth it?”

She moves in silence, a ghost of a ghost of a ghost, like mist, suddenly fogging your vision. Unheard footsteps tip-tap occasionally, but no creaky floorboards or staircase to warn you in this land of stone and tiling.

“What does she want, can’t she see I’m busy with this, that, and the other?”

It’s always been like that. Finding.The.Time.To.Fit.In.Some.Of.The.What’s.Wanted.Between.The.What.Needs.To.Be.Done.

“I’m here, Dad, and when will dinner be ready?”

She didn’t actually say it, but I could feel the words creeping and crawling across the open and closed space between us, like a ground frost.

“Are you going to talk to me, Dad?” 

Probably, but only when you stop asking, just leave me be and let me hit my keys striaght then I’ll live and love you forever more. Or at least ‘til next dinner time.

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'The News Anchor Read the News, but No One Watched it' by Marzia Rahman

except a couple of old men and an Italian Greyhound in a suburban old home who watched the news not because they enjoyed watching it, but because they had nothing else to do. 

It was Sunday, and the old men woke up early forgetting who they had been. They didn’t bother much, knowing memory often played tricks on them. Often, they could remember only half of their lives, the other half remained as elusive as Mars. 

After putting on hearing aids and false teeth. After swallowing hordes of pills. After a vegan breakfast and a non-vegan walk outside, they settled in front of the television and watched world affairs and the weather forecast.  The dog sat nearby, wagging its tail. 

They had a fondness for the weather broadcaster. They called her ‘Weather Girl’. A young pretty woman whose red lips and white flashing teeth reminded them of lost youth and sun-soaked summers. 

The pretty woman always smiled, but not today. Today, she wore a semi-black dress and looked super-sober. She looked like a forgotten guest at a late-night funeral. 

She announced that all life on earth would go into extinction very soon. Humans, animals, plants, reptiles, flowers, birds, butterflies …all might die out. As she said this, she shed a few tears. Her blue mascara smudged. Tiny purple veins popped under her eyes, and she looked almost poetic.

They felt bad not because the world might end or not but because the young pretty woman with red lips and white flashing teeth was sad. The world could go to hell. As their midday bowel movements bothered them more, they rushed to the toilet. The dog barked at the weather girl.  

[First published in Red Fern Review, Fall 2023]




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