Marinated Goats’ Balls and writing competitions.
I’ve had great fun entering a couple of short-story competitions, Furious Fiction and Not Quite Write, as I kick-start my writing again. The competitions work like this – you get a set of prompts on Friday afternoon and by Sunday night you have to submit your short story of no more than 500 words. Sounds easy, but the pressure builds over the weekend as you strive to write something clever and compelling without wasting a word. The competition is fierce, and you know that you will be up against some great writers.
I was longlisted in the recent Not Quite Write competition but sadly did not make it to the shortlist. Still, I want to share my story, Marinated Goats’ Balls, with you.
The Not Quite Write July 2024 Prompts
I was challenged to create a story, of no more than 500 words, which
- included the word TABLE.
- included the action “stealing something.”
- broke the writing rule “avoid purple prose.”
I found the last prompt the hardest as in my story I wrote more descriptively than I normally do.
You can read the winning stories here: Results of the July 2024 Not Quite Write Prize for Flash Fiction – Not Quite Write (notquitewritepodcast.com).
I hope you enjoy Marinated Goats’ Balls.
Marinated Goats’ Balls
Jody stepped back and surveyed the abundant grazing platter with pride. All week she’d scoured delicatessens and farmers markets to select the freshest and most delicious produce to create the magnificent spread in front of her. She’d chosen only the finest food for her husband’s 50th birthday. Now the table was laden with fillets of buttery smoked salmon, rounds of Italian salami, aromatic ginger and fig jam, a dazzling array of soft and hard cheeses, and succulent lemon and chilli olives. Juicy red strawberries, tart green grapes and sweet orange mango slices gave the table a pop of colour.
“Mum, I’m starving. What can I eat?”
Jody cringed, and swore under her breath, as her 13-year-old son, Jack, lumbered into the room. This gangly boy had not yet learned how to manage his man-sized body, nor his man-sized appetite. Before she could stop him, Jack had plundered the table, grabbing 3 pieces of melon wrapped in prosciutto, a handful of sesame and sea salt bread sticks and a mouthful of roasted mixed nuts. During his raid, he knocked asunder the delicately arranged plate of crisp apple and pear slices and catapulted the spoon out of the spiced beetroot chutney.
Jack lunged towards Jody’s treasured gourmet centrepiece, a crystal bowl full of goat cheese she’d tenderly marinated in wild herbs and spices. The golden virgin olive oil glistened in the late afternoon light, and the oregano, mugwort and rosemary herbs clung to the rich, creamy cheese balls. Jody had already stolen and devoured one of the luscious balls, they were an explosion of deliciousness in her mouth. She knew they were the prize of the table.
“Jack, would you like to try the marinated goats’ balls?”
He paused, hand poised over the bowl, “You mean cheese balls?”
“No, these are goats’ testicles, not to be confused with New Zealand mountain oysters, which are lambs’ testicles. The outer white skin can be a bit tough but just suck them for a while, then bite through into the sac. The soft glutinous ball inside will fall out, roll it around in your mouth and savour the strong, salty, manly flavour. In the middle, you’ll find a peppery meaty core. Such a distinctive taste!”
“Stop Mum! You’re disgusting, I’m not eating goat testicles.”
Jack staggered out of the room, making ugly gagging noises, with one hand covering his mouth. A smile, perhaps even a smirk, hovered around Jody’s lips as she restored the table to its former glory and drifted off to greet her guests knowing the grazing table would be safe from the marauding Jack.
Fact or Fiction?
There is a fine line between fact and fiction, and I enjoy playing in this writing space. I did buy a jar of marinated goats’ cheese from Rusty’s Market in Cairns and told my son Mark, who was about 14 at the time, that they were indeed goats’ testicles. Poor Mark, twenty years later and he still can’t eat marinated goats’ cheese balls and he’s a cheese lover!


The theme of the festival is Growth and Resilience and I’m excited to share how, as a novice writer, I fought through the frustrations I experienced while writing 
Frank Moorhouse was on the periphery of my life.
Connecting with Frank Moorhouse
Franks Memorial
I have no post-retirement plans. I am delightfully diary free, and thankful that the relentless ring of alarm clocks and scheduling of appointments is no longer part of my life. There is now space to respond to whatever turns up. What I didn’t expect to turn up was a frantic desire to engage in a frenzy of cleaning and purging.

Grace has not had twelve people at her table for a long time. Hers isn’t the kind of family who share regular Sunday meals. But it isn’t every day you turn seventy.
It was quiet in the practice on Wednesday evening, some of my colleagues were away, and others were working behind closed doors. I finished my last session at 7 pm, closed my trusty laptop, picked up my raggedy pad with scrawled notes, untangled the cords to my old-fashioned earphones, and packed my bag. Took my favourite green teacup to the kitchen, said goodnight to Millie who was managing the reception desk and slid out the backdoor.
My son, daughter, and daughter-in-law celebrated my retirement by gifting me a bottle of vodka, Bloody Mary mix, lemon juice, a glass, and PJs. The Bloody Mary tradition was born while living in Papua New Guinea for eight years. I would board the plane to leave and order a Bloody Mary. It’s become our family marker of travel and transitions. Is this what they think I’ll be doing with the rest of my life?
I left Nowra 30 years ago and have not seen June on my visits back. My parents-in-law see her regularly and I know I have been a topic of conversation. Last week, a month out from my retirement, my book
yton later told me she felt great pride and satisfaction in being able to bring my image to life, knowing Samilya and I could now hold our book in our arms with the burst of pride I had hoped for.
When I started talking with Samilya and playing with the idea of writing her story I envisaged a historical novel. My fantasy included crafting turbulently romantic scenes and bold acts of heroism. I soon realised that this was not the pathway for recounting the abuse and neglect that had been foisted on Samilya. I needed to place Samilya’s story in a historical context and provide a psychological overview of the impact of trauma on her life. The reality became hours of library and internet research and ploughing my way through tombs of government documents.
I am blessed to be surrounded by a group of intelligent, educated, thoughtful readers in my life and so I reached out for help – I asked for feedback on my writing. Handing over my draft manuscript was terrifying. Here was my best – what if it wasn’t enough?
With great joy this weekend Samilya and I presented our reviewers with a signed copy of our book