Who doesn’t like a bit of nudity?l

Well … not me, anyway. And when Nortina (Naughtyna) made reference to the subject it was like honey to this bee. And so I ran with her idea (though not with, it should perhaps be stressed, her consent).


Show me every inch of you

Show me how you’re made

Expose to me the hidden bits

The secrets you won’t trade

Show me what you’re hiding

From your head down to your toes

Show me all the special things

Those things nobody knows

Show me where you’re going

And where you’ve been so far

When you show me what’s inside of you

You’ll show me who you are


I have no idea who Dawn Robinson is, by the way. A little more high-brow than the authors I normally read, perhaps.

The Rhythm of the City

Another day.

So he rises from his house of cardboard and rotting blankets to greet the dawn. He lights the remainder of a cigarette discarded in the gutter overnight.

Slowly, slowly the rhythm of a city envelopes him and a tune comes to life in his mind. A song is singing in his ear ….

‘I’ve spent my days just chasing shadows
Looking for a winner
Set in my ways I have become
An unrepentant sinner
Surrounded by the also-rans
My fans are full time losers
They’re junkies, drunks and prostitutes
But beggars can’t be choosers

Such is life.


Carrot Ranch Challenge

99 words – no more, no less.

Miss Queensland Country 1954 – NYC Midnight SS 2019

Some of you may be familiar with my fractured relationship with the NYC Midnight Challenge writing competition. This year’s Short Story Competition has transported me into new territory in that I have broken with tradition and actually advanced to the second round by placing 3rd in my heat. A clerical error, no doubt.

The second round prompt was Romance/A retirement plan/ A jogger, and so I wrote a remarkably trite and boring story about football. They weren’t expecting that, I hope!

If you have time to waste …. here it is Miss Queensland Country 1954

The Bastard Dory

Aguycalledbloke has created a game which I (foolishly perhaps) agreed to be a part of. The details are Here

Essentially the idea is to write fictional pieces and then have the credibility of those fictions judged by one’s peers. There is a 300 word limit on each bundle of lies.

The game, at this stage, is being tested . It’s a sort of pre-season match.

And the topic is as follows …

“I caught a fish … it was THIS big?!”

So …. here’s mine.

The Bastard Dory

On a surfing trip long, long ago I was emerging from the shore break and turned to see my girlfriend, her board no longer under her arm but floating behind her, wearing an expression that I still can’t quite put a name to. A mixture of bemusement and alarm might best describe it.

As she stood there I watched as she pulled the bottom of her bikini outward and stared down into the cavity that she had thus created between the fabric and her skin. I interpreted such an act as an invitation of sorts and so I moved back towards her only to see her own hand plunging downward.

“That would explain it,” she said, grinning as her hand emerged. I was beside her by then and I watched as she used both hands now to form a cup – opening them like a magician to reveal a stowaway – a tiny live fish flapping about in her fingers and beginning to regret its curiosity.

We studied the little creature for a while before returning him back to the ocean. And then he was gone in an instant.

We walked back to the house where we looked him up in a book. He was, in fact, an ‘enoplosus armatus’, also know as an ‘old wife’ or ‘bastard dory’. Considering the nature of his trespass I decided that the ‘bastard’ title was best suited to this particular individual.

And I wrote a little poem about it all in an attempt to impress her.

Today whilst swimming in the sea

A fishy made a meal of me

Arriving on frothy wave

He then began to misbehave

Being where he shouldn’t be

Seeing what he shouldn’t see

He made me shudder. Made me dance

When I caught the bastard in my pants.


I am supposed to ask this question …

Out of Ten, how believable do you think my story is? (0-10)

Another Ode to failure


I’m old and swollen

Cold and tired



Life pulled away

Was pushed for time

Each day I’m drifting past

My prime

I miss the boat

Each night she sails

And as I float

My vision fails

I barely breathe

I dare not think

I pray to God

Please let me sink


Originally this was inspired by Kate here but I do tend to take a rather less optimistic view of things than does my estranged daughter, so I thought it more polite to post it separately – rather than detract from the sunny disposition reflected in her own poetry.

Impervious? Not really …

Getting a poem to fit exactly into a 99 word space poses something of an obstacle for artistic integrity. That’s my excuse, anyway.

For Sammiscribbles

The sun descends

Behind the night

Fading feelings

Dimming light

Hide my sorrow

Cancel debt

Might I forgive

But not forget?

Might I stand tall

Against this wind

Might I not fall

With you, who’ve sinned

Erase the memories

Change my step

And not relive

What I regret?

Did you think

I felt no pain?

Your clever insults

All in vain?


To your attack

Your lives … your knives

Behind my back?

Did you hear

That last goodbye

Did that tear

Escape your eye?

Or were you looking

From above

For that’s no way

To look for love.

Signs of life down under.

The above photograph was recently posted locally in celebration of women’s advancement in traditionally male-dominated sports and illustrates the incredible athleticism displayed by those at the elite level.

Those of you who, like me, may have kicked the odd football in years gone by, would recognise this as an absolute text-book example of what coaches are looking for and used to scream about us at. And if you are over the age of 35 I strongly advise you not to try this at home – it is, I assure you, not as easy as she makes it look.

Unfortunately the publication of the photograph gave birth to a tide of trolls (sad little men in front of computers making wired love to other sad little men in front of computers) – I will not repeat the vile things that were said. The result was that the photograph was taken down. Literally millions of inappropriate comments were erased.

BUT …. Tayla Harris herself, the footballer concerned (it might pay to remember that name, by the way), chose to put the photo back up. “This is a picture of me at work,” she said, simply.

The network that had removed the image also put it back up, acknowledging that to have removed it in the first place was to send the wrong message.

And the support for Tayla Harris – from other elite athletes, from football fans, and from the world in general, has been tumultuous.

It is a happy day.

And …. for those of you interested in the important stuff …. I can report that the football that has already departed from the picture above came back to earth between the goal posts 50 metres away. Exactly where she had intended it to do so.

It’s not a one-off either ….