Showing posts with label 2025 Prompt #1. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2025 Prompt #1. Show all posts

Thursday, 19 June 2025

The Write-In 2025: The Complete List

2025 Prompts

 

2025 Responses 

 

 

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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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'Bitter and Sweet' by Suzanne Hicks

In winter we showed up to school with thrift store snow pants, cheeks smeared with Vaseline, and when someone saw the beige handle of the plastic grocery bags Mom used to line our leaky moon boots sticking out, everyone laughed at us.  At home we cried, and Mom told us a story about some girl who stunk so bad no one wanted to sit next to her at school, so she did because of how you could always see where tears had streaked her dirty face. We didn’t understand her point because we had squeaky Noxzema-clean skin, and all the girls at school smelled like Love’s Babysoft. 

When the snow melted in spring, Mom grew rhubarb along the side of the house, which she made into just about everything she could. Jam, dumplings, pie. One time Nicole from class came over after school and we plucked some out of the dirt, dipped the stalks in sugar and chomped on ‘em. The next day after we found out she only used us to make Jessica jealous, and she made fun of us in front of everyone at recess saying rhubarb was poor people food because it grows like weeds. But when the notes about the lice outbreak got sent home in everyone’s backpacks, we all were itching our heads, sharing stories about the shampoo and tiny comb. Nicole showed up to school with a bob because her hair got so tangled up, and when the other girls made fun of her, we sat down next to her at lunch, spread out the contents of our three lunchboxes, and had a big buffet. 

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'Seasonal Defiance Reorder' by Adele Gallogly

Since December, Essie’s brother Cal has been calling her shifting moods “she-asons,” dragging out the she. He means this as another insult, a way to needle her for weather sensitivity. But she leans into it, tips it sideways as only she can. Shivering down the wooden stairs on face-meltingly icy February mornings with a full grin becomes an act of war. She treats even the white coated wheat squares in her cereal bowl like rafts of sweetness, signs of winter’s sustenance. When two of the rectangular pieces stick together like waterlogged pages in a book, like soggy Ten Commandments tablets, like milky conjoined twins, she gobbles them up. 

April eventually melts everything into thick mud and birdsong. Bud-lined branches slap the kitchen window. One morning, Essie greets Cal near the toaster dressed in a rough wool sweater the colour of asphalt (screw pastels!). Smoke starts to ribbon up from his slices, and he yells and stomps, a teenager in the dumb clutches of a tantrum. She stays as cool as the first frost, as silent as the iceberg roses in the yard spotted with pink fungal rot. All days are hers, now – me-asons. She’ll tease him about his outburst later. Plan her words while slurping steaming cider. Tell him to stop being so goddamn temperament-Cal. 


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'The Last Hunt Before Winter' by Noah McWilliam

Roars echoed as I trudged through the lush, green forest. The sun blazed through the canopy, UV rays stinging my eyes. I scratched at the trees as I swirled through the woods, the light blinding and wild. It was hot, buzzing with insects and bursting with the smell of life.

To cool off, I waded into the river and caught fat catfish with my sharp, deadly claws. I tore into them, scales flashing, water splashing. Then I stumbled back toward my cave, tripping over roots and rocks, belly full, fur dripping.

But the warmth didn’t last. It was freezing now. The air turned sharp, biting at my nose and ears. The forest that once buzzed with heat was quiet, covered in frost. Leaves, once green, had turned brittle and brown, crunching under my paws.

My breath came in thick clouds. I moved slower. I needed food and fast. I lumbered from bush to bush, gobbling up the last of the berries, their juices cold against my fur. I plunged into the icy river once more, my claws flashing through the water, catching fish while I still could.

The trees creaked. Wind slipped between the trunks like a whisper. The forest had changed becoming quieter, older, ready to sleep and so was I.

My belly was full. My body was heavy. I crawled into the cave and curled into myself, the cold pressing at the entrance but never reaching me. Outside, the last leaves danced. Inside, I was still. Season to season. I slept.
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'Fresh Canvas' by Lenny Eusebi

We stride through the shuffling leaves, letting their crunch and shoof speak into our silence. Our eyes travel up the path, each on our own side, sliding along the trunks to puffs of color. Dabbed on leaves that remind us both of our sponge work that time we tried PaintNite. No need to mention it or even share a little wink or nod, but we dwell in the memory. For several paces it hangs between us with its thick paints and brushes like day camp supplies, its layered canvases and smocks as we dipped into each other's palettes. Then we crest the hill and a checkered spread of reds and yellows rolls out below us, pricked with evergreen flourishes. We sigh in unison. Stretching legs and backs, we linger there at the top, admiring the climb behind us as much as the valley ahead. To one side, the well-marked trail leads to parking lots and her packed-up bags; to the other side, a vague break in the leaves meanders down below that gorgeous layer. 

And now I stand atop another hill, boots caked and heavy from the trudge. The canvas below has been brushed with fresh white, deep and thick enough to remove all trace of prior art. Up here there are no paths, no single obvious way except the one line of boot prints I brought with me. The rising sun glitters across the slope with the cold beauty of unsold diamonds. Soon it will be crushed and plowed by hundreds of toboggans, inner tubes, and laughing children, but for this one moment it hangs below me, steep and fast, a blinding rush. I lay out my bit of plastic sled and tumble awkwardly inside, my rear in the air as I gather speed, breaking a new trail.
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'Persephone in the Forest' by Birgit K. Gaiser

Spring

For now, I sleep. When the days grow longer, I will meet her, wrapping my arms around her, welcoming her, basking in her life, her light, as plants bloom and birds sing. I smile: A red squirrel excitedly pokes its head around a tree, wondering where its nuts might be stored. Its whiskers quiver as it smells the air. A wildcat, eager to fill its belly with unsuspecting prey, patrols the borders of its realm. The seasons are too short to waste a single day. I feel it, too: Too soon, the world will be cold and brown, lonely and sleepy. A final rebellion of reds and yellows, of spiders carried on the wind, trailing silk like old women’s hair. Too soon, always too soon, she will leave. I wait.

Autumn

I wait. Too soon, always too soon, she will leave. A final rebellion of reds and yellows, of spiders carried on the wind, trailing silk like old women’s hair. Too soon, the world will be cold and brown, lonely and sleepy. I feel it, too: The seasons are too short to waste a single day. A wildcat, eager to fill its belly with unsuspecting prey, patrols the borders of its realm. Its whiskers quiver as it smells the air. A red squirrel excitedly pokes its head around a tree, wondering where its nuts might be stored. I smile: When the days grow longer, I will meet her, wrapping my arms around her, welcoming her, basking in her life, her light, as plants bloom and birds sing. Now, I sleep.
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'Seasons of sound and silence' by Sarah Oakes

Summer is a season of sound. And it's always my favourite. Music fills months with magic, making summer evenings shimmer and late afternoons sparkle, full of swing and jazz and sweet cider, of laughter and friends and fun. But it's not just music. The world thrums, with its own melodies; rivers ringing, trees humming, birds calling, suitcases rolling, friends chatting, kindness chiming. Storytellers add their tunes; fingers tapping on keys, pens scribbling on paper, tales dancing on ears. Slowly, it becomes a symphony that I adore every year. 

In winter, the world packs up its melodies, leaving only soft silence behind. I struggle with it, every time. It has its beauty, a quiet time after months of sound. But it feels lifeless. Empty. Frightening. It suffocates, and makes every move uncertain, as the obsidian shrouds deepen. Concerts feel forced, choking winter's silence with cheery carols. Nature loses songs and chatter fades, birds fly south, and storytellers stop pens. Months drag on without dynamics, and I ache for them to start again. With its pianissimo nature, I hate winter, and always wish it had more sound.

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'No one sings carols any more' by Chloe Cook

We share a meal across speakerphone because you still cannot centre yourself in the camera for longer than three seconds and I refuse to be the only one on screen, sharing an intimate conversation with the ceiling or a flower frozen in bloom on wallpaper. You’ve made honey roasted turkey, mothering an empty nest. You joke about the leftovers you’ll construct your meals from during my absence. I send you a photo of my seat on the balcony, the sun heavy in the sky, crystalising sea. I have never spent Christmas in a strappy dress before or been alone for it. But I needed this. I needed to not force a smile. He is smiling, I am sure, another woman being called love. After you say goodbye, I will go to the beach and swim until I feel free. The sea wind medicinal, rattling palm leaves, anointing head. I think I might be healed here.

Christmas in London is like living in a pocket. Streets stagnate, dust builds. My girl on the beach whilst I roll amongst lint. The heating in my flat has run out and I have opened every window to enlarge my self-pity. Body itching and bulging in wool. I watch my breath curl out the window and imagine it turning through the winter sky until it reaches summer in Chile. I wish my body could follow. I wish my arms were wrapping her in a hug. Instead, egg sandwiches turn stale on the table behind me. I smoke a cigarette for warmth even though I haven’t smoked since I was in my twenties. It is instant peace. This time of year, for most people, is instant peace: family returning home, everything paused. I take a drag, another second closer to reunion. I live inside an interval.

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'Unclear Cache' by Scaramanga Silk

Grey haired, head up, along the branch she returns. Descending the trunk, reward claimed, a hole is dug, and her later lunch is earth hidden. Onward squirrel ventures.

At the perimeter of the wood, man gathers, for the time of savoured sunbeams adorns the field. Soon, the revellers are many and the glistening green disappears underfoot. Union, community, the celebration of the human spirit proceeds. The splendour of song abounds across the air. Arms wave, bodies sway. Joyous moments echo into the ether. The cheer is dear.

Bass reverberates, treble permeates. To man, magnificent music. For her and them, unfamiliar noise. The thud-a-thud-thud pulses from the speakers, while the stomp, whoop, and hoorah usher in the lady moon and campfire haze. By now, the feathered flocks have fled, squirrels scattered, and nature’s life giver lays marred.

Lunches left, dinners discarded, a tip of triangular tents lived in for a weekend. Beer cans, plastic bottles, flyers, disposed vapes, cigarette butts, all planted into the land which does not know how to grow them. Smoke stench, excrement entwined, is a further intruder where there should be fragrant flora. Footprints are forged, of boot and carbon. Tyre treads tear unnatural trails that tire this once abundant plain. Sacred soil, scarred and soiled.

As the days of shortened sunlight surge, human hubbub is long gone. A former inhabitant returns. Squirrel stares across this space. There’s her large oak tree, but all around, a difference to the ground is haunting. She relocates the spot where her later lunch was hid and dig-a-dig-digs. Eventually, her tiny paws uncover a hard-shelled reward. But what is this? Much bigger a treat than she did cache. And why is this meal transparent bodied? With empty belly, gnaw she must on this treasure. Man’s water vessel, forever it will nestle.

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'Four Years' by Allison Renner

“I’m not going,” Marissa insisted, tilting my head this way and that. “Can I put some darker eyeshadow on you? And maybe trim your hair? You’d look adorbs with bangs.”

“Only if you go with me to the party. Please? I want to scope out everyone before starting high school. You know, suss out the cliques. And maybe even try to find some friends.”

“You don’t need friends,” she said, bumping my shoulder with hers. “You have me. But if it means I get to cut your hair… I guess so.”

***

Graduation couldn’t get here fast enough. I was sick of seeing the same people at every party, especially Marissa with her friends, whispering behind my back, snickering when I walked past. No matter how hard I tried to ignore them, the rumors they spread followed me everywhere. I couldn’t wait for orientation… a chance to scope out everyone before starting college, suss out the cliques, and maybe even try to find some friends.
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'When Life Gives You Bitter Hellas Planitia Fruit...' by Lisa H. Owens

Spring had sprung and Martin the Martian packed his bags and gassed-up the flying saucer. He packed his binoculars—bird-watching was best done in the spring, and he had yet to spot a Magee Marsh Cerulean warbler. His swimming trunks went into his travel pack next. There was nothing quite like an early Spring cold-plunge in Lake Superior. Martin set his course, then flew a tight circle around Mars to test the old clunker’s rotational-wazoo. Still listing to the left, but good enough to make it to Earth, although he’d fly her manually, else he’d end up in the boondocks on the left side of the galaxy. Before heading home, he’d swing by the in-laws’ in Georgia with high hopes the peaches were ready. Dickey Farms for their famous soft-serve peach ice cream was always on his “to-do” list.  

It was December and in all of his 116 years of life on the frigid fourth rock from the sun, Martin had never been so cold. His short visit to Earth had turned into an eight-month frozen tundra nightmare. Before his saucer had even broken through Earth’s atmosphere, the old clunker shot off to the left and he found himself stranded in some godforsaken town in the Nunavut region of Canada, where it was always winter. As his mother always said, when life gives you bitter Hellas Planitia Fruit, make Hellas Planitia Beer, so he got a job at Santa’s Workshop, where he’d spent 237 days making realistic toy flying saucers… and falling in love. His salary? A ride home—with new wife Elfvira in tow—on Santa’s sleigh, once Santa slept off his after-party spiked eggnog hangover. Martin was nervous about bringing home another Earthling wife. He hoped Mother liked this one. At least this one wasn’t an American.
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Wednesday, 18 June 2025

'Sudden Season Change' by Meshv Patel

One hot  summer's day a boy named Calvin went for a little stroll around the park, it was burning hot that day, but he was committed to walking. So slowly but surely he dragged his legs along the path. He was thirsty so he reached behind him to grab his water bottle from his grey little bag on his back. He quickly drank his water as he instantly coaghed. he put his water bottle back but that's when...

Suddenly, it started to hail very hard on him, he ran around trying to find shelter but he couldn't see anything as it was so foggy. Just when the hail stopped the wind started roaring loudly at him. He was terrified so he tried running but got lost in a nearby forest...
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'Fall and Spring Semesters' by Jean Feingold

Jody showed up for his first class of the fall semester. Now a college senior, school had lost any allure it once had. He had to grind through two more semesters and he’d be done. This was PR 410, a required class in his major, public relations, so he’d expected to see students he knew. Instead his classmates were strangers. When the professor entered he understood. It was old Dr. Magnusen, the hardest grading teacher in the whole school. There was a good chance Jody would fail and have to repeat the class to graduate. Why hadn’t his friends warned him to wait a semester? Magnusen called the roll. When he got to Jody, he looked at him oddly. “Why aren’t you female?” he said. “Where I come from, Jody is a girl’s name. I’m going to call you Joe.” Jody was flummoxed. “It’s the name my parents gave me,” he stammered. “Maybe they wanted a girl, but liked the name so much, when I showed up, they used it anyway.” Almost to spite the tough professor, during fall semester he was the best Joe he could be and got an A. 

When spring semester started, he chose Magnusen, who still called him Joe, for his final PR course. He continued his intensive study techniques and enthusiastic class participation, wrote his best papers ever, and again earned an A. Somehow his enjoyment of college had returned. At the last class before graduation, he asked Magnusen whether he’d ever changed another student’s name. “No,” he said. “You were a special case. You needed something outrageous to break through your college burnout. Worked, didn’t it?” 
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'The Perfect Season' by Abida Akram

She starts in autumnal September. First lists. ‘Presents’, ‘Christmas Cards’ and ‘Food Shopping’. She adds another list, ‘Cooking Days Breakdown’. She really wants to write another list, ‘Expectations Everyone Has Of Me’ but resists. She knows what they want. She will do without sleep and then recover in the quiet months of January and February. So, she becomes Durga, the goddess with the ten arms, letting autumn colours pass her by whilst she multi-tasks. She shops, cooks, cleans, decorates, all whilst burping the baby and feeding the other three children and the cat. Online shopping saves her. She is creative in where she hides the presents, in the garage and the garden shed on high shelves. In spaces where her husband rules and the children dare not play.

In December as winter starts to bite, yet still hiding behind colorful lights and tinsel trees, she sends out a Christmas photo card of the whole family and the cat, all posed. The postage cost a shock. The father sends out a smug TikTok family sketch to that song by Slade, with glowing family faces singing Season’s Greetings with the cat dressed as an elf. The scratches from the cat he wears proudly as his contribution. The mother laughs and laughs before putting ointment on his arms and hands. He emails and WhatsApps the sketch to all. She loads up Instagram photos of the excited children, all smiles and goofy teeth. On Christmas day Google Pixel tacks best birthday party faces earlier in the year onto the necks of their Christmas jumpers. He tweets a photo on X and Blue Sky, of a table laden with Christmas food she had cooked with wishes for world peace and plenty for all. After New Year's, she finally starts to enjoy winter and sleep.
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'One Day, I will Climb a Mountain' by Marzia Rahman

I get through the days. The nights. A long and lonely winter. A few Christmas cards are still scattered on the floor, waiting to be trashed. I see my psychiatrist. She says things I don’t follow. She knows that. Her fat cat, Chichi knows that too. 

I have holes inside me. Some big, some small, a few are getting bigger. A few looks like planets. Planets have beautiful names. Mars, Saturn, Pluto. When I was young, I had a dog named Pluto. One sunny afternoon, Pluto died. Run over by a car. I couldn’t sleep that night.

Sometimes it feels as if I’ve not slept for a long time. Every night, I lie on bed and stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks. And I try to dream.

I dream of packing my bags and going to the mountains. I have this strange notion that the mountain air will lull me to sleep. 

*

It’s spring and the air is filled with the scent of Hasnahenna flowers. Yellow and orange marigolds fluttering in the air. It’s spring and I have finally gathered courage. I have booked my tickets. I have packed my bags. It’s spring and I am heading towards the mountains. This time, this time, I will climb a mountain. 

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'You, Change, Me' by Madeleine Armstrong

Pumpkin spice everything. The smell of bonfires in the air as the darkness surprises me, like it does every year. Kids roaming the streets as polyester ghosts and vampires, knocking on doors, gathering sweets. Fireworks going off at random, scaring me shitless, because I always think they’re bombs or gunfire. Still can’t get used to being safe, even this far from home, in this city of trees and spires. I meet you in the union bar, another mature student, on the edge of things like me. Your eyes are blue as the Danube, yet you approach me, just to talk you say, which makes me think you want something else. I assume you’ll be like the others, but a month passes and you’re still around. No one’s ever stayed, I tell you. I’m different, you say. I shrug. Let’s see.

Daffodils. The smell of cut grass. Kids wearing bunny ears, baskets slung over their arms, searching the park for chocolate eggs. Ducklings on the pond, chasing their mothers with panicked cheeps. Somehow, you’re still here. Each morning you bring me coffee, strong and black like you’re used to. We study together, testing each other, and I’d keep working through the night but you always know when to stop. You kiss my head and put on a record, pour me a glass of wine. At nights you hold me, shielding me from the nightmares I can’t shake. It’s love, you say. I’m not so sure about that, but we’ve made it through the darkest days and the light is coming, the sun shining like a beacon as we walk towards it, hand in hand.

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'Calida and Frigida' by Lucienne Cummings

Frigida was born 10 minutes after her sister, and gave the midwife frostbite instantly. Everything she grasped with her childish fingers turned to ice – not that digitally-enhanced, sparkly, trademarked ice that crystallises into songs, but the sharp, grey, bottom of the freezer ice that ruins fish fingers and makes midwinter miserable. Now, Frigida’s home at the Pole is desolate, her only visitors are scientists. Long ago she tried going out wearing special gloves, but contrary to what the stories would have you believe, she still froze large parts of northern Europe, just by handing over her passport.


Calida exploded into the world ten minutes before her sister, burning the delivery room curtains to ash. She had flames at her fingertips – not the marshmallow toasting, cockle-warming, camp-fire kind of flames, but the flames that thirst for forests in wildfire season, blacken summer skies, and start stampedes. Regardless, she’s recently been stepping out from her volcano more. Her latest grand tour took in the sights of Canada, the USA, Peru, and New Zealand, to name just a few. She was ever so careful to keep her hands to herself, but some trees and houses were so beautiful that she couldn’t help but touch. Returning home, she was so impatient to see more of the world, that her volcano overflowed, her pent up feelings taking several herds of goats and the last wind-blown shrubs with them. 


The summer that Calida finally reaches the Pole, Frigida meets her at the edge of her shrinking ice garden, scowling. Calida offers her hand, expecting fireworks, but when they shake there’s only steam. Her sister opens her mouth, ready to sing her surprise.

‘Want to come travelling?’ asks Calida hurriedly, still holding hands.

Frigida looks down at the first green grass she’s ever stood on, and nods.

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'Home' by Jackie Hales

Winter
A cold coming he had of it, that day, the motorway a tractor-towed tunnel of terrifying white-out. The car had finally been abandoned beyond the barricades — snow drifts blocking lanes, as if human-kind had been declared the enemy of the world, to be confined at last. He could no longer feel his feet, as he hauled himself through miles, barely able to wade through soft, wind-blown hills that wrapped him in their chilling embrace. Strangers stood sentry as he rolled his too-short legs over the last hurdle between the biting cold and the warmth of the waiting hearth. He staggered down the road, icicles hanging from his frozen beard, red-faced as Santa Claus, triumph his gift. There were no bugles or applauding hands, as he crossed his finish line, fist in the air, his silent snowflake crown a hero’s welcome. He vowed to go to the sun in the spring.

Autumn
“It’s cooling down,” they said, as the Australian heat crept below 35. He didn’t believe them. Surely not, when he could feel his body crying out for English rain, and desperate trees drooped as if gasping their last. Air con purred, as they finished their meal and rose to face the early afternoon. Outside, children played in the fountain, squeals of delight matching the squawks of strange birds. He longed to join them. The beach, resplendent in its golden glory, lay waiting, but the jetty offered shelter from the searing sun, so not even the foolish gathered like a British crowd, on deckchairs, under umbrellas or stretched out on towels to toast themselves. The sea seemed to whisper temptation, “Come to me”, as it softly lapped the empty sand, waiting for the brave to venture out. He was glad he had come, but it was time to go home.
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'She Was No Wellspring of Ideas' by Sravanthi Challapalli

Anu was one to run away from a challenge. You read that right. Anything that did not appeal to her, that she felt diffident about, she would find several reasons to not do it. She despaired over her life, her work at the design studio, her boss. It took much agony and many Internet searches for inspiration to strike.

Her boss Vasanth wanted to launch a line of linen that somehow interpreted the meaning of his name. “The quirkier the better,” he declared, sweetening the deal by adding a cash prize of Rs 50,000 for the best rendition. 

Vasanth meant Spring. Anu was not only diffident, she was cynical. In India, the season was merely a springboard to torrid summer. There was little of the romance associated with it. Vasanth should have planned months ahead if he’d wanted the launch now, in March. Ugh! 

Anu tossed about, and her bed creaked gently. How should she interpret spring differently? As a water body? As a movement? She thumped the bed and it squeaked. The old bed was noisy, its metal springs …  but of course! In came flooding visions of bright-eyed bees built on spring bodies, kids with a literal spring in their step, springs stylised to look like clouds … Hurrah! The prize was in the bag, ka-ching!


In October, Vasanth called Anu: “Sharad, my partner, infused a lot of money into our company recently. He too wants a collection with his name on it. I’m sure you know it means autumn. Get cracking, Anu! No red and yellow leaves falling, please, but I know you don’t do clichés!” 

As Anu went back to her cabin and flopped into her chair, she saw the glorious autumn moon rising in the evening sky, and sighed.

 

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