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 ….

We don’t do spring break

We don’t do Spring Break here in Oz. We take breaks whenever we feel like it, instead.

But, having posted absolutely nothing over the last few months and inspired (as usual) by others – in this case by J-dubs, I thought I would add a little pic from long long ago that features my very long term (and long-suffering) partner in life in her natural state (so to speak).

The picture was taken before we had met, in fact, but it captures a cheerful positivity mixed with a healthy cynicism that I have long treasured.

The picture itself also captures the playfulness of young women in general, when they are relieved of the burden of expectations from their elders as well as the restrictions of self-consciousness placed upon them when too many boys are around.

Technically it is not a particularly good photo, I suppose – and it has faded with time – two facts that make it all the more endearing for me.


Weekend writing prompt #95

I decided to post a few things … quick fire … minimum thought or editing. Pick prompts at random (I’ve only missed the first 94 of this one) and see what popped out.

Very little, I’m afraid.

It’s just a notion

Not devotion

But I like you quite a lot

It’s magic potion

This raw emotion

And I find you really hot


OK …. I know there’s a lot to be said for self-restraint and moderation. I get it.

But, holy shit, there’s a lot to be said for absolute fucking decadence as well.

We were fortunate enough to have Josh Lipps (who none of you have ever heard of) drop around yesterday and do some lunch for our friends.

I never refer to myself as a ‘writer’ because I read a lot, and I know what a real writer can do. I aspire to achieve, one day, a piece of work that may allow me to be confused with a writer.

And I enjoy cooking a bit too. And I’m, like …. OK at it. Better than my mother was. But I will never be mistaken for a chef. I watched this all happen in front of me yesterday and I was blown away by the ease, and the confidence, and the beauty (and, of course, the taste) and the sheer art of it….

Isn’t it just wonderful to observe a artist at work?