Here is what Rollo Waite, who wrote the “snippets” of stories you will read below had to say about why he wrote them.

I previously titled this micro fiction, anecdotes etc. but am changing it to “Snippets”

Defined as small bits, scraps, or fragments: snippets of information. There are some that might purport to be tiny stories, some are anecdotes, memories, whatever. They are simply bits and pieces that are quick, easy and personally rewarding to write. They’re nothing much.    Rollo

The bet.

He was a bullocky who’d sworn himself dry. The lazy bloody bullocks refused to move the giant log another inch.

He struggled for spit, planted a tenner from his wallet, on the ground in front of them.

I’ll bet you a tenner you bastards, you can’t shift that bloody log.”

He won.


She was all woman—hot on a hot night—saw him to the gate and lingered.

She kissed him as he’d never been kissed. It felt great, although embarrassing.

Kissing cousins.

He was young and stupid—walked away.

He still remembers.

The man in the moon.

There was a beautiful full moon that night at Kingston.

He was somewhere comfortable and hospitable and back from the ball, having accompanied Alec’s sister Rachel—so attractive and desirable.

The moon seemed to smile on him through the starkness.

Rachel went back to her Tasmanian boyfriend.

Isn’t it always the way?


Grandfather lived a long and meritorious life.

Granny died so he came to us.

He sang a hymn in his sleep before Easter—then passed away.

I saw my father carefully carrying his bed linen down the stairs to bury it.

That’s all I remember of Henry Plantagenet Somerset.


Hector was a bit of a card—dry, drawling—knew his horseflesh…real well.

Mick was mouthing off about how fast his horse was.

Fast is he?” chortled Hector. “Not a real… bad… fault… in a race horse.”

Good dog

Oh! the tricks of dog racing.

Ivan was a champion dog, with a distinct distaste for stony surfaces.

Limped like hell when led across the gravel betting ring—blew out in the betting.

No problems on the track. Won like a beauty,

His connections cashed in.


The days of the joker have gone.

People have lost their sense of humour.

Just try the old “gun in the pocket” airport stunt.

Even Mae West’s, “Pleased to see you?”


The dance.

It was a June night, a moon night, a croon night—and he saw her alone, looking so pretty. Dare he ask her? “Can I have this dance?”

Sarcastically, scornfully, “You can have any dance you like, but not with me.”

He backed away, whispering, “You bitch. “

She sat there all night, looking pretty, not dancing.

Prince Handsome didn’t show up.

Mistaken identity.

Caloundra School of Arts Dance—lights turned low and ladies choice. She rushes me for the dance.

My lucky night, as she snuggled in really close—warm and delicious. More hugging than talking, but who cares?

Lights on. “You’re not the man I thought you were,” she screams and rushes away.

Another Indian bites the dust.


It was a melon moon that magic night— gorgeous green— floating high and wide and well it lit his way. He was lost in the deepest depths of a velvet valley, with meaningless mindless musings.

He had drunk himself into alliteration.


Pleasant plucker at Byron Bay.

Greg was a plucky Bird whose field flapping brought him fame—but off-field grogged-up high spirits caused him grief. Thus, for the dark sin of a night-time piss near his car, the virtuous NRL stripped him of fifteen thousand bucks and Titanic co-captaincy. He’s had to go to roost.


So there you have them, Rollo’s amazingly inventive mind has struck again!

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