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.

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

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)

***

I’m old and swollen

Cold and tired

Unreceptive

Uninspired

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.