The plus sign on the test gradually appeared on the pee stick. Since COVID, I’d gotten used to positive tests being two parallel lines. There was a sophistication to the process RATs. The challenge to see how far the swab would go into the nose before hitting resistance. The way the test fluid flowed up the strip like an ominous little river. I’d had many positive RATs.

My dad got custody of all the friends in the divorce. Most people might turn to religion or a walking group. My mother turned to Fox News and 4Chan and found comfort in conspiracy. She vowed to never vaccinate me again. She covered the windows in foil to keep the rays out and became shut ins. Public school was an indoctrination. The 5G phones were snapped and discarded.

Then with the COVID era came the fear of germs, another invisible monster to accompany all of her others.

My only escape to the outside world was the weekly grocery shopping, but that came with a cost. Decontamination was required each time. I’d be handed a RAT with the deadbolt still in. A hand would snake out with a temperature gun.

Clothes off at the door and washed immediately. Scrub in the shower until my skin was red and raw.

-the narrator meets a boy that works at the grocery store -eventually rebels and starts sneaking out to be with him -Discovers she’s pregnant and not only is that not ideal for obvious reasons, but will also reveal to her mother that she’s been going outside

For the first few weeks, the counsellors worked tirelessly to convince me that I was broken.

With Leviticus verses.

With sexual metaphors of plugs in sockets.

With reproductive diagrams and images of AIDS patients.

With ipecac porn sessions after breakfast and electric shocks before bed.

But I already believed that I was broken.

There were so many places to lay the blame.

A father who didn’t attend church enough.

A mother who’d allowed me to occasionally play with dolls.

The public school system.

The liberal media.

The counsellors traced on a timeline of my homosexuality on the whiteboard in red marker. I was the culmination of a million small mistakes.

But they didn’t need to try so hard. Most campers are forced to come. They’re kidnapped in the night and kept here until they’re cured.

Most have spent a long time as practicing homosexuals. ‘Entrenched homosexuality’, the counsellors call it, harder to treat.

I was a virtuous case, aware of the desire but never acting upon it.

I already knew I was broken. I had come to this place on purpose, not kidnapped but dropped off at the gate with a chaste kiss on the cheek from my wife. As we said our goodbyes, her eyes were brimming with hope that I might finally love her the way I was meant to.

This was our last chance and I was all in. I was the top student of our conversion camp. I poured over our workbook until the early hours of the morning. The camp director was my deity and his scripture was my path to salvation.

I was making progress until Adam arrived.

-Adam is very cool and very disinterested being ‘straight’ but also has never actually been with a man -He smokes joints and swears and refuses to comply with the ‘therapy’ -narrator cannot resist the love he discovers for Adam -they start getting up to immense shenanigans in the camp to sabotage the ‘therapy’ e.g., -decide to run away together -but they both have wives and children in the world outside, is their love worth losing their families and leaving behind the lives they have built back home?

not a story just keeping track of ideas despite not having time to explore them fully

I have many ideas for this prompt. They all relate to being transgender and making sense of being perceived as a man. Many ideas about being perceived as a man of wealth and slowly seducing another man who is cisgender.

i don’t not write rhyming poems - what a challenge this was

Growing old, yet much still not done. Many years of hard work and not much fun.

I have ridden the waves of the promised dream, But the world is what it seemed.

Many years of desk jobs at minimum wage That could have spent putting words to the page.

I have laboured so long to a heavy toll, Become hollow bones without a soul.

I have been blind to the moments that matter most, And failed to keep those that matter close.

I want to feel, I want to know. I want to love, I want to grow.

contains sexual and horror content

“Now. Let the debauchery…BEGIN!” Mitchel lifted a hand into the air like a gameshow host. Vivian launched from her chair into John’s lap, eyes hungry with desire. She grabbed each side of his face and kissed him deeply. Jamie stood, cock already hard, and ripped the tablecloth to the floor. Plates shattered as he threw Loraine onto the oak and straddled her. Mitchel sank back into his chair with a grin. He seemed unphased by the breaking of his fine China.

John and Vivian had progressed to fucking, their lips still glued to each other, moaning into each other’s mouths. Jamie had a tight grasp on Loraine’s head and was pushing his dick deep into her throat. The ancestral portraits lining the walls watched them all with dismay. Mitchel applauded them with glee, “Yes! Yes! Let go of the laws that have bound you and release the animal within!”

I remained paralysed in my seat. I was no prude, but I had no intention to join in, nor did anyone seem interested in me. I planned a polite exit. Excuses of work in the morning and needing an early night. Abba blaring in the car on the way home. A bubble bath to wash away the peculiar evening.

I could tell Vivian was close to climax from the growing volume of her screams. At the moment of orgasm, she peeled her mouth from John’s and sank her teeth into his earlobe. His moan of pleasure morphed into agony as the lobe ripped away. Vivian spat it onto the table, her mouth ringed with blood. I put a hand to my mouth to muffle the scream and hold back the bile. “Bravo!” Yelled Mitchel over the screams, “Let in the bloodlust!”

The encouragement seemed to overshadow John’s pain. He pushed Vivian to the tile floor and flipped her onto her stomach. He smeared the blood dripping onto the bare skin of her back as he fucked her. He grabbed a fork, forgotten on the floor, and stabbed it into her buttock.

I could stomach no more. I needed to leave. The earlobe felt like it was staring back at me. I pushed back my chair and stood. “I need to go,” I said to Mitchel, “Thank you for the meal.” I headed for the door. All the guests looked at me. Jamie removed his cock from Loraine’s mouth and stood in the doorway. He towered over me. “I’m afraid that’s not an option, my dear.” Said Mitchel. The rest remained silent. “I need an early night. I have work in the morning.” “We both know that isn’t true.” “What do you mean?” “You are Cynthia Jane Desmond of Rockhampton. 34 years of age. Never married. No children. Family all deceased. No close friends. And you have not had a steady job in the past three years. That is why we picked you.” “How do you know all this? Picked me for what?” My head was spinning so fast I thought I might faint. “Well, you told us some of it. The rest was our own reconnaissance. We needed to make sure there would be no one to miss you.” My heart pounded in my chest. I shoved Jamie with all my strength. He didn’t move a millimetre, “Let me out!” “Don’t worry. We aren’t going to harm you…yet,” Mitchel twisted his moustache between his fingers, “We have to give you a fighting chance. Sit down and we will explain the rules.” He gestured at my empty chair. “No,” I pleaded, “No, I need to go now.” “If you aren’t going to comply, we will have to make you.” The smile was still there, but his voice was a growl.
Shaking, I sat back down. Jamie stayed in the doorway. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?” I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling exposed despite being the only one clothed, “Explain, then.” I said. “You were invited to my home because you are…how should I put this? A deadbeat. Your life is worthless. Meaningless. Forgettable. You have lived your whole life poor, and you are destined to die equally poor. We are offering you a chance to change that.” Mitchel, always a showman, paused for effect, “We elites are offered very few opportunities for entertainment. Even the exceptional experiences become mundane when you have enough money. So each month, we host a little party. We pluck a peasant from their painful life and offer them a new beginning.” I wanted to be stung by his insults, but I was too busy searching for escape. A butter knife just out of reach. A steak knife on the other side of the room. “What do you want from me?” I pleaded. I tried keep my voice steady, but it emerged a terrified squeak. “If you make it to morning, you will be free to go home. And you will leave with one million dollars.” “And if I don’t?” My breath was ragged. “The same thing will happen to you as all the others,” Mitchel paced to a shattered plate. He pulled a piece of meat from the floor and held it towards me in his palm. I vomited on the floor beside my chair, thankful to purge the stuff from my system. “Now,” Mitchel clasped his hands together, “Our time is up. You better run.”

I grab my sister’s hand and pull her towards the cliff edge with me. She nods slowly in my direction. Then we jump. I can feel the heat of bullet around us as we fall, watching the ocean rise to meet us. We get into position just before we hit the surface, upright like toy soldiers to prevent broken bones on entry. I take my last breath just in time.

We sink into the water until we’re so deep the sun barely reaches us. The ankle weights beneath our jeans drag us towards the bottom. I cling to my sister’s hand like a lifeline, anchoring her in place. I pull off my backpack and remove the respirator. My lungs ache for air, but I clear the line and shove the mouthpiece into my sister’s face. Through the darkness and saltwater singing my eyes, I can’t tell if she is conscious. My heart pounds in my ears. My lungs scream and spasm for oxygen.

Finally, I see my sister’s limbs thrash to life. Bubbles snake from her face towards the surface. Alive. I am too close to unconsciousness to feel relief. I reach out my hands and wait for the feel of plastic on my palm. When the oxygen hits my lips, I am resurrected. I feel the bubbles travel from blood to brain. I can think again. I take a few deep breaths and give the respirator back to my sister. We alternate like this, suspended in the near-dark, for as long as we dare. The world around us is as alien as outer space. We are the only two people in this starless galaxy.

We hold each other close for comfort, connected by the umbilical of our oxygen source. Twins once again returned to the womb.

-on the run from bad guys -girl bosses thrown into a life of chaos figuring it out as they go -faking their own death to escape -identical twins using this to their advantage

contains adults themes

My ass was sweating into the suede cushion through my skirt. I sliced my steak and searched for a good excuse to leave. “So, Vivian, how is the practice going?” John asked, chasing a pea around his plate. His areolas were oddly wide.

“It’s thriving at the moment. It really picked up with the pandemic. Everyone was touched starved and carrying the tension in their necks,” Vivian talked more with her hands than her mouth, spraying flecks of gravy onto the ornate tablecloth. Her breasts bounced slightly, punctuating each point, “I’m not sure if I’m just getting older, or people are getting more anxious, but backs are getting harder to crack every year.”

“You’re getting old AND we’re more stressed than ever!” Loraine snorted. She downed the last of her champagne. Foam dripped from her lips and snaked down her body leaving a frothy trail. The group laughed, more etiquette than enjoyment. I speared some peas. One broke free and rolled down my shirt.

“Well, here’s to the housing crisis and the many bad backs it will bring you,” Jamie said in the seat beside me, lifting his glass. I tried not to stare at his cock. I tried not to think of how many of my childhood memories were set in the Centrelink office. I smiled, toothy and polite and clinked my glass to his.

Mitchel tapped a knife to his glass and stood at the head of the table. Everyone fell into a spellbound hush. My mind struggled to make sense of the sight. His nakedness seemed at odds with the opulence of the environment. The grandfather clock ticked above his head.

“Thank you all for coming,” He began. His voice had shifted to that of a toastmaster, rich and emphatic, “We have spent too much of our lives restricted by the chains of clothing. Suits. Ties. And so on. We’ve been forced to leave our instincts and urges behind in the name of civil society. But not tonight!” He sounded like a preacher trying to save your soul from the Devil of Denim Jeans. There was a light applause at the table, “Tonight! We devolve to our natural state. We give in to our base instincts. We return ourselves to the wild from whence we came!” They all howled in unison like wolves. Like everything else about this night, I had missed the memo. I was equal parts fascinated and horrified. It glued to my seat.

“Now. Let the debauchery…BEGIN!” Mitchel lifted a hand into the air like a gameshow host.

• At first there is just making out and sex and whatnot • But then violence. Jamie stabs a fork through Loraine’s hand. • Our narrator realises the reason she was not informed is she is the prey for their murderous games, chosen because no one will notice her absence. • She is chased through the labyrinthine mansion and must fight to survive. • Perhaps some cannibalism (the steak was not in fact steak but uninformed guest of their last party).

When you're dead, you get to notice everything. No longer limited by having a brain or eyes, the universe opens itself up to you. You can feel everything at once. You can see everything at once. You can exist in past, present, and future. I think this is why our lives are said to flash before our eyes as we die. It's the hors d'oeuvres of how the dead taste time.

Religion is for the living. When my heart stopped beating, I was not transported to pearly gates or reunited with lost relatives. I became a cloud of consciousness spread across the known universe like stars.

Funerals are for the living. I watched every tear fall in mourning. My mother never cried. She just slumped in the second row of the church, touching each expletive and cartoon penis carved into the backs of the pews like braille. I followed her through all her years until her own death, but she never cried for me. She anesthetised the pain with bottles of prosecco and woke up feeling feverish each morning.

“How did you get in here? How did you get past security?” “I couldn’t possibly tell you.” Noah had sauntered right up to the security in his new body and been waved right in. No ID necessary. His new body must’ve looked older. He’d never been to a gay bar before. Of course he hadn’t. He was 15. But while he was Freaky Friday’ed with Mason, he was going to make the most of it.

He’d gone an op shop earlier in the day and bought all the clothes he’d never been able to wear. He’d bought a white tee-shirt. A tank top. A black mesh shirt. He’d bought tight pants. Every moment in the store, trying things on, was euphoric. He’d never been able to stomach the sight of himself. Now the body in the mirror was his. Except it wasn’t. It was still weird to look in the mirror and see Mason staring back. It was going to take some adjustment time to get used to having a new face. A new body. A new life. But overall, Noah felt like he’d won the lottery. He wished his entire life to be cis. And now he had a chance to do it. He’d decided to try clubbing on a whim. He wanted to celebrate. To be around people. To get dressed up and enjoy this new life of his. So he’d painted in nails black, smudged on some eyeliner, and chucked on the mesh shirt.

A week ago, if you’d told Noah that he’d be wearing a mesh shirt, he would’ve laughed at you. Now look at how far he’d come. From being unable to breathe in a binder for all those years to a shirt that is barely there at all. He could breathe better than he ever had in his life.

Noah woke up before everyone else in the boy’s wing like he had done every day since he’d arrived. Usually he was a late sleeper, but he couldn’t risk someone walking in on him in the shower or seeing him without his binder on. So he had been setting an alarm for an hour earlier than the time the workers would come to wake everyone else up. “Morning.” Helen smiled at him. She was always very chipper for someone coming off a night shift. He instinctively curled the bundle of clothes to his chest to hide it. “Morning.” He muttered back.

He hurried off to the bathroom. He took a spare towel and draped it over the mirror, undressed, and showered. He had memorised where all of the soaps were so that he could shower with his eyes shut. When everyone else was up, they made breakfast. The service got a lot of donations of day-old bread from the local bakeries, so he’d gotten used to eating a lot of vegemite toast.

Then the mandatory morning activity began. The others were still in their pyjamas, rubbing their eyes, nursing cups of coffee and waiting for the caffeine to hit. James looked especially rough. Supposedly he’d disappeared to a party yesterday. That explained the faint weed smell emanating from his general direction. The workers took them through a card game this morning. They each had to pick a card and answer the question written on it. Noah noticed that all these morning activities were more like morning therapy sessions. His question was ‘what are you most proud of?’. He didn’t have an answer. He wasn’t sure what there was to be proud of in his life. He was a dropout. A weirdo. The other people living in the house didn’t seem to like him very much. He searched his memory and came up blank. Eventually, when the expectant silence of the others became too much, he just said ‘I don’t have anything, sorry.”

“It doesn’t have to be a big achievement. It could be something small. Maybe even just eating breakfast this morning.” Helen said. She smiled encouragingly. Eternally patient. Even when she was getting screamed at or threatened, she was always nice.

He thought some more. Little achievements. “Does being alive count?” “Yes.” “Then I’m most proud of still being alive.” Without thinking, he ran his hand over the scar on his arm.The staples had left an odd dot pattern along with the line. “Yeah. I’m proud to still be here.”