I almost forgot.

I now have 2 entries in the NYC Midnight competitions awaiting judgement. The second round of the Flash Fiction Competition was some time ago and I had almost forgotten about it but, in the interests of honesty and self reporting, I do so here.

I should point out, lest anyone think ‘second round’ implies success in the ‘first round’ that, in this particular contest, it is impossible not to get to the second round. After round one I am placed equal last, so round three will not be happening.

In this instance the prompt was Drama/An Archery Range/A Diamond Ring.

The Arc of an Arrow

Forgive me Lord, for I have grinned.


That was a terrible pun. Although I find the concept of God (especially the Christian one) absolutely laughable I do try not to laugh about it all that much. Sort of.

Sometimes things get the better of me.

Cyranny wrote a post dealing with the idea of a ‘Fallen Angel’ and I thought I might run with that idea by creating some lyrics for a sort of teen love song (a former specialty of mine) that ended up in the back seat of a car.

But I got a bit off track. So the accompanying picture is irrelevant. But it is special to me, nonetheless.


Fallen Angel. Rising Star

Tell me where you’ve been so far

Tell me all that I might see

If I should be so heavenly

Tell me of your God above

Tell me of His boundless love

But. Tell me. Did you have some doubt?

Is that why He cast you out?

Did you look, but could not see?

His precious holy trinity?

Did you think, but could not say

That there might be another way?

Did you touch, but could not feel

Everything He claimed was real?

Did you see the acrobat?

Angel. Did you smell a rat?

You felt Him here. You felt Him there

You felt him in your breath. Your air

You felt Him in your heart. Your core

You need not feel Him anymore

That was His night. This is your day

You didn’t need Him anyway

For He was never there at all

So. Angel. Let me break your fall

Life is a wide open road

Wide Open Road

William over at a1000mistakes was talking about ‘The Triffids’ today, who are an old, but still iconic Australian band and ‘Wide Open Road’ is, for some of us, something of a national anthem.

Kate also told me of a sad event in her life (and I thank her for entrusting that to me) and somehow it seemed like a good time to play the anthem again. Tap the link if you wish.

And make of it what you will.

NYC Midnight ‘Microfiction’. A short form of humiliation

I keep doing this. Why? Do I enjoy failure that much?

The nature of this cruel competition is listed above.

Anyway …. here’s what popped out.

Waiting to be Saved

(Lovers sail away from their lives only to become marooned on a tiny island to contemplate the meaning of rescue.)


The wind had blown with a gentle warmth from the east during the day but now, as the sun began melting into the ocean, it had shifted to the south and soon it would become a freezing gale.

She moved closer to him such that the bare skin of their shoulders touched, and they shared their warmth whilst looking out from the clifftop at the rising seas.

There would be no rescue tonight.

Out on the edge of the reef the splintered ruins of the hull were occasionally visible between passing swells, but the mast stood defiant above the waves as a monument to foolish love.

From the wreck they had salvaged only a single blanket, food and water, the ship’s telescope and an emergency flare. At night they shared the blanket beneath a thousand miles of sky.

“It is over,” she whispered to him. “Either we will be saved, and I will be forced back to my marriage … or … we will die together clinging to this rock.”


During the morning watch, as she slept, he looked through the telescope again, searching the horizon for passing ships to signal. It had been a week, so far, and he had seen nothing. But he could not rely on such good fortune to continue.

He stood atop the cliff and dropped the telescope and the flare. He watched them fall and shatter against the rocks before disappearing into the ocean.

He smiled.

For he was prepared to die.

No more. I promise.

I began the day with the challenge of writing bad poetry. Now I can’t stop.

Kate writes very sweetly, and all about the purity of true love. So I grab the moral high ground and then desecrate it.


Love me. Love me. Love me do.

I’ll love you back. I’ll love you true

By spending every night with you

I’ll love you in the morning too

I’ll treat you special. Treat you nice

At other girls I won’t look twice

I’ll take you shopping. Pay the price.

For you will be my only vice.

Other boys will gawk and stare

I won’t be jealous. I won’t care

I will be with you everywhere

Lurking in your underwear.

Pumpkin Slice. Mashed Poetry.

Any challenge to write terrible poetry seems ready made for me. That’s what I do. I can’t help it. So any such challenge is not really a challenge at all. It’s just another day at work.

But that is the challenge that Chelsea set – and I have given it my best worst shot. It is a ‘tanka’ (5/7/5/7/7) … a term I had never heard of 5 minutes ago. And it’s not supposed to rhyme. But if it ‘sort of’ rhymes in all the wrong places does that make it extra terrible?

It is supposed to be about Pumpkin Slice which is, of course, a subject that I write about regularly. Chelsea hints that it should include a reference to scented candles … and little wonder. I have never read a poem about pumpkin slice that didn’t wax lyrical about scented candles.

So this is just like every poem you have ever read on the subject of pumpkin slice. But worse.

I have entitled it…..

Terrible Cook. Look. Worse poet.


Peel it. Slice it up

A cup. Of sugar or two

You. Boil it to hell.

For smell? Scented candles get.

Yet more spice. Pumpkin slice. Nice.