Monthly Archives: August 2018

Finish the Story

Finish the story 8/25/2018. Blog Hop

This story started with Tessa at The haunted wordsmith.

Teresa’s challenge details can be found here:


1 Copy the story below as it appears when you receive it (and the rules please)

2 Add somehow to the story in which ever style and length you choose

3 Tag only 1 person

4 If you choose to not participate or finish the story, please comment/tag the original post here so we know.

Part 1.

After serving thirty-five years in the military, Austin retired to a quiet little town in the middle of the Catskills. He had saved money every month since he enlisted so that he would never have to work another day when he left. His plan worked, but now he found life boring and uneventful. Every morning he walked down to Jennie’s Diner for coffee and a little conversation, then over to the library where he would whittle away the day. Three months of this routine and he was going stir crazy. That was until a strange woman asked if he had ever considered writing a book.

“I never really thought about it,” Austin said, flipping through a magazine.

“I have a story to tell,” the woman said, “and I have a good sense about people. You are the right person to tell my story.”

“Um, I’ve never written before. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing I do. Meet me here tomorrow and we’ll start.”

She disappeared before he could even answer. He looked around, but she was nowhere. Austin shrugged. He would be at the library the next day anyway, maybe he would be able to ask more about what she wanted…and why him.

The next day, as the grandfather clock rang eleven, the woman tapped Austin on the shoulder.

Part 2 by Melanie:

“I’m glad you’re punctual!” the woman said. Austin shrugged. Years of military life had drummed that practice into him. He was never late. And to be honest Austin was intrigued. His precisely regulated life was beginning to gnaw at him. Sure, routine and order were important, but he had no idea they were so damned DULL.

Even though he’d lived such a life in his military service, there was always something to DO…some place to go, some orders to follow. As he rose in the ranks of the Army, eventually topping out at Colonel. His pension was substantial because he’d always given first rate service to his country. He was secretly really proud of this.

“Now about my story,” she began…but Austin interrupted her. “Might I know your name first?” he asked. She turned a little pale, but nodded. Hesitantly.

“I’m Rose,” she said and extended her hand to Austin. He shook it, noting that she had fine bones, he could feel them right through the white gloves she wore. A bit dated, a woman wearing gloves. Those hadn’t been the fashion since he was a boy in the 1950s he didn’t think. Austin wondered briefly why his thoughts kept rambling all over like they were…and he forced his mind back to the woman in front of him.

“I’m Austin” he replied, “and I’ve spent the greater portion of my life in the Army. They weren’t big on writing in the Army, at least not my branch. Only Administration ever did much of that! Are you sure you want me to tell your story?”

Rose smiled. It was wistful and rather sad. “Yes I’m sure,” she said. “I KNOW you’re the right one to tell my tale.” Austin noted the powder blue suit and skirt Rose was wearing, and the hat with the netting and little blue flowers across the brim. Again it struck him that her clothes looked really dated and out of place. Man, she really reminded him of someone….

Part 3 by Fandango:

Haunted by Rose’s manner and attire, and how she felt simultaneously strange and familiar to him, Austin went home that night, went up to the attic, and located his mother’s old scrapbooks. She had been the family archivists when she was still living and had meticulously placed old family photographs and documents, including birth certificates, marriage licenses, and obituaries, in dozens of scrapbooks.

After his mother passed, he had all of her scrapbooks boxed up and shipped to him at his home in the Catskills. He had never bothered opening the boxes and sorting through them before. But there was something about this woman who had seemed to approach him from out of the blue, told him that she had a story to tell, and that he was the one to tell it. None of it made sense to Austin.

He spent hours opening up the boxes and searching through the scrapbooks, not even understanding what, exactly, he was expecting to find. But he felt compelled to do so.

It was sometime after 3 am, his eyelids growing heavy and his mind weary, when Austin opened up the last scrapbook and began leafing through the pages. Suddenly he let out an audible gasp at what he saw on the page. Were his eyes deceiving him? Was his tired mind playing tricks on him? Was this even possible?

Part 4 by Michael

He was holding in his hand an old creased and faded photo of a group of people standing under an old Oak tree. Austin didn’t recognise any of the people in the photo apart from the woman on the end.

There stood Rose, a grin across her face and her arm around a good-looking man in his work clothes. The others in the photo all stared towards the camera and Austin could see they were a happy lot of people.

He turned the photo over to see if there was anything written on the back. In faded pen he could make out September, 1919, Horsefold. The name Horsefold did ring a bell with him and he scurried back through the scrapbooks until he found a series of photos depicting the family on holidays at Horsefold. From what he could find Horsefold was a popular family destination and in the post world war one environment the place where great colourful and loud parties were held. The Rose in the photos looked the same age as the Rose he had encountered. But how could this be? She’d have to be over one hundred years of age by now if it was the same person.

He determined that the next day he would seek her out and show her the photo and try and get some answers.

Part 5 by Di

‘Ah, I wondered if you’d find it,’ Rose said looking at the worn photograph Austin had handed her. She seemed to know he’d be looking for her and now they were sipping lattes in the library coffee shop. Rose was relishing hers.

‘How did you know I’d have it?’ Austin asked. ‘You don’t know me from Adam, though I must admit you are vaguely familiar but I can’t figure out why! Is that you in the picture? Are you a member of my family? How come you haven’t aged?’

Rose smiled sadly.

‘That is my great grandmother. They say I look like her. The man is your great grandfather, but they weren’t married.’

Austin didn’t understand.

Rose went on to explain that her great grandmother was The Lady of the Manor at Horsefold and having lost her entire family in the hostilities, had opened her home to the less fortunate to have a family holiday after the war. She enjoyed having the laughter and gaity of children around, and her grounds were sufficient to provide treasure hunts and other activities for all ages. She had become taken with the young man visiting one summer and they had plans to marry.

Then tragedy struck in 1922.

Part 6 by Iain Kelly

Austin couldn’t believe what he was hearing as Rose told him of the events that unfolded all those decades ago.‘The fire that ripped through Horsefold Manor in 1922 destroyed the building. All that was left was a burnt out shell. The windows and doors were boarded up and the ruin stood there for another forty years before it was demolished,’ she paused. ‘But that wasn’t the worst of it. On the day of the fire children from the local orphanage were visiting the Manor. Fifteen in total. They were playing ‘Hide and Seek’ when the fire started on the ground floor. Ten children managed to escape.’

‘And the other five?’ Austin already knew what the answer would be.

‘The inferno was so hot that only fragments of remains were found.’ Rose sighed and continued. ‘The cause of the fire was never determined. No one was ever charged with any crime. Five graves were added to the cemetery in the village churchyard, near to the orphanage. And that was the end of the Manor. My Great Grandmother moved into a small house in another parish, met my Great Grandfather and they lived out their days in humble surroundings. She never saw your Great Grandfather again after that day.’

‘Why do I feel their is something more you have to tell me?’

Rose pointed at the young man – Austin’s Great Grandfather – in the photograph. ‘He was there on the day of the fire at Horsefold Manor.’

‘Did he survive?’ Austin asked.

‘Unfortunately, yes.’

A puzzled look crossed Austin’s face, ‘Unfortunately?’

‘Rumours persisted about the fire that day. Many blamed your Great Grandfather. You see, he was in the military in World War One, fighting for his homeland, Germany. He was badly injured at Ypres and taken prisoner. When the war ended he eventually emigrated to America, where he volunteered at the orphanage in Horsefold and there met my Great Grandmother.’

‘They blamed him because he was German?’

Rose shook her head. ‘The war had left him damaged. These days we would call it Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Things he had witnessed corroded his mind, corrupted him, made him unable to see evil from good. After the fire he fled. I’ve managed to track his movements in the years that followed.’

She took out a piece of paper from her handbag. It showed a list of places dotted around America. Next to the place names was another column, with a date and a name in it.

‘What does this mean?’ asked Austin.

‘This is a list of all the children he murdered.’

My Contribution from James Pyles at Powered By Robots

Austin gazed at the list of five names, the five murdered children, penned on a scrap of paper yellowed with age. He didn’t recognize any of them, but then he didn’t expect to. “You said you wanted me to write your story, but you’re telling me about my Great Grandparents.” The retired Army Colonel, dressed in his usual flannel shirt and jeans, short salt and pepper hair framing a well-worn face, spoke to Rose who was still dressed like a woman out of time, a refugee from another era.

She didn’t look older than thirty-five, but there was something about her eyes, as if they’d seen the fall of Rome, the sails of the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria disappearing over the Atlantic’s horizon, the Conestoga wagon trains as they departed Independence, Missouri on their treacherous journey westward. But then, what about Horsefold and the fire? Had she seen that, too?

Rose sighed, her chest rising and falling within the silken lace of her blouse and the tailored powder blue jacket. White gloved hands clutched at her tiny handbag on her lap as the shadow of her wide-brimmed hat fell across her face. Long eyelashes fluttered across ocean-colored irises, and full, crimson lips pursed. “Austin, I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”

“In what manner?” He’d seen combat, led men into battle, faced death a score of times, and yet whatever secret Rose possessed frightened him more than any enemy’s rifles and artillery, more than any horror of war.

“Honestly, I was hoping you’d have guessed by now. How can any two people born a century apart be so identical in appearance?”

“You’re saying…”

“I didn’t know who he was at the time, not really. I carry not only the guilt of those five children with me, but the disgust of having consorted with a man so dreadfully evil, the man I have been hunting for countless centuries. I gave birth to his children and so I bear a certain amount of his shame. I know you won’t believe me, but I am the Rose in that photo, and if you will, I’m a good deal older than a century or even ten. I am a hunter. Like me, your Great Grandfather is an immortal, but unlike me, he is murderous and insane. The deaths of those five dear little children are the least of the crimes he’s committed across the ages. I need your help, Austin. He’s here, somewhere in New York. We have to find him, to stop him, or countless others will die starting with your grandchildren.”

“But I don’t have any children, let alone…” Then he stopped talking and Austin’s eyes opened wide with panic..

Part 8 from willowdot21

What is it Rose, asked studying Austin’s face. Shifting uneasily in his chair Austin looked her full in the eye and replied, how can he kill my children, and grandchildren, let alone my great grandchildren when I have never had or wanted any children.

Rose still sat quietly just watching Austin. Her eyes widened with horror as his last few words sank in. “Are you sure,” Rose asked “that you have no children?” “I am indeed” replied Austin.

Rose took a deep breath and then slowly said that somehow she had made a mistake and that she had obviously approached him in error.

Standing up Rose made to leave, Austin reached across and caught her arm. “Were are you going” he asked her gently. “I have already wasted two weeks approaching you I must get on I must find him! “

Austin looked deep into Roses eyes and he saw only beauty and kindness, he reached out and touched her cheek and said “Rose I am going to help you find this immortal. I may be a mere man but I see only good in you so I am ready to help in anyway I can.”

Rose smiled, it looked like she was about to turn him down when suddenly she took a deep breath and said. “Thank you Austin I would really like that”

They decided to have dinner at Austin’s house and he would show Rose all his mother’s photos and family records. Rose closed her eyes for a moment and thought, maybe this kind brave man could help her. Goodness knows she needed help and she was so lonely there had been no one special in her life for at least 75years.

Rose smiled at Austin as they looked through the old photos and thought “I feel a true connection with this man.”

Part 9 by Kat

Austin glanced at Rose who seemed to thoroughly enjoy looking at his mother’s photo albums. He couldn’t help feeling agitated. There was more to her story. The fact that she hadn’t been totally honest with him in the beginning made him uneasy. In fact he had more questions now than ever.

“I’m gonna grab a beer. You want one? Or a coke? I have some in the ‘frig. Some bottled water too.”

“Nothing for me,” chirped Rose, who was happily flipping through the photos.

“I promised you dinner, Rose. I’m a pretty decent cook. What can I whip up for us?”

“Oh Austin, how very sweet of you, but as I mentioned, I’m an immortal. I dine on, you might say, more exotic fare. Fix something for yourself.”

Austin didn’t feel hungry anymore. He took a long swig of brew and sat in the easy chair facing Rose.

“I guess it’s time to get down to business then. You said I can help. So tell me Rose, how do we stop this so-called maniac?”

Rose looked up from the photos in her lap. “I’m afraid that’s going to take some thought, Austin. You see, I have no idea why he is raging. Usually it is the children who draw him out. And since you said you have none, I’m not quite sure…unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless it is you that he is after…”

Her words hung eerily in the air as the lights flickered briefly, then snapped to darkness.

A deep voice echoed from the hallway, “Hello Rosie, old girl. It’s been too long, hasn’t it? You didn’t think I was going to let you have him all to yourself, did you?!”

I’m nominating Hayley at The Story Files.

August – Stanza 31 – Finit

I must say this has been an eye-opening month for me. I had the opportunity to delve a bit deeper into the names and faces that make up my family tree…and I even discovered a few new characters along the way.

Thanks to Jane Dougherty who inspired this month’s pem a day exercise. What we have below is more of an epic poem. Not sure if it makes any sense altogether, but then again, I suppose it makes perfect sense. It is reflective of me, a patchwork quilt made up of my ancestors and the times in which I live. Somehow it all works, because after all, here I am. Thanks for taking this journey with me. The story continues…

first to last, this August exercise in verse
reminds me I’m the sum of many parts
of sinners, saints, commoners and royalty,
generations come and gone, of my mortality,
legends of yore, centuries born, and then there’s me


August in Stanzas

August Gregorious, father
of my father’s father’s father left
Sweden’s shore, Amerika bound decades
before the harbor maiden raised her beacon
to refugees and immigrants seeking a dream

a dream of valkyries, sinners, saints,
pilgrims, paupers, royalty, generations
come and gone, sparks of light,
however brief, whispering tales from
where I hail, as I lay sound asleep

asleep, in graves, silent shuttered
vaults, eroded epitaphs, markers where
lay the bones, worm-stripped bare, no trace
but for their surnames penned on census
rolls, proof that they existed once 

once upon a time lived a viking maiden fair,
princess, Kievan queen, woman scorned, a saint,
who settled scores, who buried men alive,
set flocks affire, razed a town, my dear great
grandma, Olga, was the baddest fox around

around the time when separatists sought freedom
from the crown, a ship, the Mayflower, set sail across
the ocean blue, amongst its passengers, a girl named Mary,
of renown, so claimed, the first to step on Plymouth’s rocky shore

shore along the Biscay Bay in olde Aquitaine,
came first of many troubadours, Guillaume
was his name, a roving love philanderer
crusader, duke and count but his true call,
his legacy, the poems and songs he penned

penned in history’s tomes the story of a clan
who’s roots trace back to greatness, to the loins
of Charlemagne; a certain noble lineage
Trowbridge, one such name, of  Thomas and
Elizabeth, great grands from whence I came

came on horseback through the town, they say, naked
as the day that she was born, a selfless act, the debt she paid
to lift the tolls her husband waged on townsfolk, how she
pitied them, Lady Godgifu, whilst they hid, their windows shut
but for a tailor so called Thomas who rued his choice to peep

peep beneath Kyffhäuser hills where Barbarossa
makes his bed, alive for centuries, not dead
he waits to serve his countrymen, to unify
them once again, with ravens, circling
‘round his lair and flowing locks of ruddy hair

hair of red, and a rotten tooth of blue
Harald son of Gorm the Old built a bridge or two
one the oldest, longest known in Scandinavia’s
Ravning meadow; the other ‘tween Danes
and Norse; hence ended by his bastard son, poor fellow

fellow genealogists would certainly agree
that finding distant relatives, a generation,
maybe two, or if you’re lucky, three’s a testament
that most of us will fade into obscurity, i must
admit a lucky thread runs through my family tree

tree strong, sure, with roots meandering deep
elusive broken chains, some stories silenced
ever undisturbed to sleep between the lines
of history’s pages, glimmers only glimpsed
by those remembering, distant reminiscing kin

kin can be elusive, notorious in fact with
legacies to be recalled by generations hence
more curious than how they lived, accounts
of how they died, some of causes natural
while others met the sword midst battle cries

cries of horror surely wailed at William’s
messy burial beneath Abbaye aux Hommes,
his tomb, ‘twas found to be too small to hold
his corpse’s expanding girth; so ensued a gruesome
scene…they forced him in, until he burst

burst forth in salutations for these pious few of note
grace, humility, compassion stirred their hearts and
souls; some were royal born, some were royal wed,
a full life they all lived then to the nunnery they fled
sainted, miracles post-death, their legacies are legend

legend has it, have you heard, so they say…
from inconceivable to the absurd, tales
of the notorious evolve from voice to page
fantastical, believe it or nots, boring history
rewritten, embellished, ne’er to be forgot

forgotten? I think not! with these great monikers…
Offa, Wermund, Ermingarde, Gruffydd, Tilka, Rhys,
Ingilrat, Theobald, Helga, Poppa, Cleph,
Dode, Thibault, Ludmilla, just to name a few
Tom’s, Dick’s and Mary’s, though plain Jane, they’re in there too

too many links on this tree fade, obscure
with nary a flicker of those who’ve gone before
the only living proof of their existence,
their progeny, who share their dna, who’ll likewise
live and die, no answer for the age-old question…”why?”

why do I have eyes of blue and curly golden locks
what mystery meld of genes informs my flesh and blood
am I just the sum of kin who’ve lived and died before
wondering what makes me, me, and makes you, you
our histories’ hold a glimpse, hard to ignore

ignore the past and risk repeating it they say
the past is good well but I’m distracted on this day
one day i know i’ll be a fleeting memory
to this bundle in my arms,  we call her Ashby Quinn
a good old family name, and so a life begins

begins the life of Isabel, an heiress, good and fair and wise
wedded at age seventeen, King Henry’s ward, arranged
to William, a knight’s templar with no land to call his own
a power couple of their time, who made Old Ross their home
reviving castle Kilkenny, on River Nore, three towers

towers of history? Nay, they hardly made a blip
settling in Rutland, Mass, the center of the state
a preacher, he, a wife, who bore a strapping brood of nine
while revolutionary battles raged, a great awakening time
when Daniel lived with Sarah, my grand parents, eight great

great is the legend of Leudwinus, Sainted, Count of Treves
when young, wedded to Willigard, of children, they had three
a miracle occurred, they  say, while nappng on a hunt was he
an eagle spread it’s massive wings, providing him with shade
hence, on that spot, built he, a monastery to live his final days

days spent keeping house and raising her large brood
nine of them in all, ‘twas young Hannah’s lot in life
married at eighteen, known as Cotton Tower’s wife
the year was 1816 when summer went on strike
their farm likely covered midsummer with snow and ice

ice and fire don’t mix anymore than church and state
as learned by my great grandpa, Captain Anthony
the church held sway in Hingham, Mass
his commission challenged, led to excommunication
‘twas a dark divided time in this young nation

nation against nation, a story oft’ repeated
humanity’s a mean, contentious breed driven
by more than basic need, avarice and greed
power is a vile, demanding mistress, irresistible
to those who dare dip from her shallow well 

well-spring of life, informing cells that make me, me
eyes of blue, hair, curly blond, pale skin easily burned
my ancestors, from northern climes they came, Vikings,
Ottar, Eystein, Egil, Aun, their names, barbarians
from icy shores, the Nordic Swedes and Danes

Danes had nothing on my great grand Fredegund
a vile, vicious mistress determined to be queen
convinced King Chilperic to kill his sleeping wife
even her own daughter suffered from her jealousy
but her bitterest arch rival was, in fact, a Valkyrie 

Valkyrie, Brunhilda, from my many branch-ed tree
ultimately met her end by Fredegund’s own son
40 years of vengeance, in the end, nobody won
evil can’t sustain a never-ending terror reign
eventually the good will find a way to win again

again I am surprised to find more royalty
no less surprised than my great grand, Henry
who learned he would be king while hunting
fowl and thought it was absurd when he was told
Henry the Fowler, King, Germany’s first 

first to last, this August exercise in verse
reminds me I’m the sum of many parts
of sinners, saints, commoners and royalty,
generations come and gone, of my mortality,
legends of yore, centuries born, and then there’s me


Autumn – Stanza 30

again I am surprised to find more royalty
no less surprised than my great grand, Henry
who learned he would be king while hunting
fowl and thought it was absurd when he was told
Henry the Fowler, King, Germany’s first


For Jane Dougherty’s August Stanza Challenge. Read more about Henry “The Fowler” HERE.

August – Stanzas 28-29

Another two-fer for yesterday’s and today’s entries for Jane Dougherty’s August Stanza Challenge. As some of you know I’m visiting my two youngest grandchildren this week. To add a little excitement to my visit, as if a newborn and a two year old aren’t enough excitement, I had a nasty encounter with the screen door. It took a chunk out of my ankle. And so a dozen or so stitches later I am propped up with my foot elevated, a newborn napping on my chest while a rambunctious two year old is off to the mall for some special mommy-daddy time away from her new little sissy. Welcome to my life…believe me, I’m not complaining. I am soaking up this grandma time! 😊❤️😊.

It is fitting then to write about two very strong women from my past. One was a psychopath, and the other, her rival, was a Valkyrie, a mother and grandmother. Badass is a term I have often seen used in accounts referring to them both. I give you Fredegund and Brunhilda…you can read more about their rivalry and their lives HERE.

Danes had nothing on my great grand Fredegund
a vile, vicious mistress determined to be queen
convinced King Chilperic to kill his sleeping wife
even her own daughter suffered from her jealousy
but her bitterest arch rival was, in fact, a Valkyrie

Valkyrie, Brunhilda, from my many branch-ed tree
ultimately met her end by Fredegund’s own son
40 years of vengeance, in the end, nobody won
evil can’t sustain a never-ending terror reign
eventually the good will find a way to win again


Twittering Tale #99 – 28 August 2018

About the challenge: Each Tuesday I will provide a photo prompt. Your mission, if you choose to accept the challenge, is to tell a story in 280 characters or less. When you write your tale, be sure to let me know in the comments with a link to your tale.

A final note: if you need help tracking the number of characters in your story, there is a nifty online tool that will count for you at

I will do a roundup each Tuesday, along with providing a new prompt. And if for some reason I missed your entry in the Roundup, as I have occasionally done, please let me know. I want to be sure to include your tale.

Finally, have fun!

And REMEMBER…you have 280 characters (spaces and punctuation included), to tell your tale…and a week to do it. I can’t wait to see what you create this week.

Twittering Tales #98 – The Roundup


Starting us off…

It seemed to be the perfect hiding place. The thief lowered the satchel of cash into the sewer drain. He would retrieve it later.
Then the rains came. Days of rain. The sewers overflowed into the streets.
When the thief returned for his booty, a group of detectives was waiting.
277 Characters

From Reena at ReInventions:
Who forgot to place the lid?
What will emerge now –  a deep secret, a can of worms, reverse flooding? It will be fodder to Peeping Toms and Idle Minds. Curiosity makes you a business target.
I guess it was a deliberate move. Some people feed on dirt, and make money out of it.
(274 characters)

From Michael at Morpethroad:
The Dot
The dot had been there a long time.
One time the council had redone the path which meant under protest from the locals the dot had been ripped up.
Strangely the next day the dot was back.
Was it alien?
Was it a sign from on high.
Either way, you got a right jolt if you stood on it.
(280 characters)

From Willow at WillowDot21:
More Things That Go Bump in the Night
Marly watched as the drain cover opened. A man, or was it a woman emerged. The whatever it was did not seem happy. Cocking his head to one side Marly wagged his tail hoping that would endear him. Gabriel was not to be won over though. Satan’s laugh could be heard in the distance.
(280 characters)

From World of Wellness:
A Tale of 2 Cities
Susie hailing from Texas had just completed the worlds longest underground drain pipe exploration. She was thrilled to find herself in London.
She was upset that the media had ignored this adventure of hers. It is not often that a cockroach survives a transcontinental exploration!!
character count: 279

From Cara at Midnight Musings:
Cherry was horrified at the thought in her mind. If she put Myron out the airlock, she would be free forever of his threats. They were the only two living beings on the spacecraft; there was no jury to convict her.
“But I’d know, and living with it would drive me mad,” she mused.

From Peter at Peter’s Pondering:
The Rose grower’s curse
I’ve got it again, I’m fed up!
What’s the matter now?
That horrible disease that spoiled all my roses last year is back again!
I thought you sprayed them, and cut back the worst affected.
I did, but just look. It’s on every rose and has even spread to the pavement.
Bloody black spot!
(279 characters)

From Fandango at This, That, and the Other:
Hiding Place
Jack looked at the storm drain, at the narrow gap between the sidewalk and the street. He saw an orange glow, but there was no flickering, so Jack eliminated a sewer fire.
He walked over, squatted, and peered inside the gap. He was surprised to see Donald Trump hiding down there.
(279 characters)

From The Dark Netizen:
The Drain
He walked silently in the darkness.
Having memorized the location of the drain, he found it easily. Once the lights came back on, they would find him. He slipped the packet into the drain and quickly walked away. He was caught soon.
He would die, but the resistance would live on.
Character Count: 279

From Deepa at Sync With Deep:
Corporate Sewer
I’m dreaming of
a clear water stream,
greenery kissing the earth,
songs of birds in the fresh air,
a serene place to live.

concrete and steel
replaced the trees
corporate sewer line
covered the natural stream
noise of vehicles
ousted the song of birds
my lungs now, frantically looking
for fresh air!
(246 characters)

From Anurag at Jagahdilmein:
The Hiding Hole
The sewer was safe now, there were no more rats left there. But THEY didn’t know that, and so this was the safest place for him.
He opened the manhole cover, and got in.
Then, he started playing his pipe again, and as the kids followed him underground meekly, he shut the cover.
278 characters.

From Deb at Twenty Four:
He had set his chair on the sidewalk and waiting,
His patience was renown.
He watched as they passed by,
Consumed by thoughts of their own.
He hadn’t expected a long wait,
And his wasn’t disappointed.
She tripped and fell on the eve of the first day,
He filed the lawsuit when appointed.
(280 characters)

From Piyali at Piyali’s Blogs
The Secret Cult
After stepping on the asphalt, the hitchhiker quickly combed through the deserted area and paced down the sidewalk. On reaching the spot, he checked the contents in his satchel-vials of blood, a human skull, and some ancient manuscripts.
“Hail Satan!” A voice cried from the sewer
279 Characters

From Amritha at Igniting Hope:
Inside the Tunnel
“Food reserves are adequate. There is a connection between these tunnels in case of emergency”, boomed the army chief as the rat army was ready for war. A deaf rat got caught in the enemy’s trap in lure of cheese.
“Oh I cannot move on without my grandfather”, rued little Stuart.
280 characters

From Jan at Strange Goings On in the Shed:
What do you mean the GPS gave the wrong directions!
Look, those are the co-ordinates.
We’re in a sewer, and something’s touching my tentacles.
Just be thankful we didn’t go into a black hole.
We did. You should have checked the map beforehand.
There was no need.
Are we there yet?
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Good ones this week everyone. As always, thank you so much for taking the time to tweet a tale. We are at week 99! Can you believe it? I surely can’t. That is a lot of tweeting…and a lot of tales told. Though I wouldn’t even presume to assume that, even combined, our tales could ever rival the twittering tales that come from a certain reality star gone political who shall remain nameless! haha!

I headed back to pixabay for this week’s photo by Conquero. It could be a dream or a nightmare. Or it could be a tale about a horse. You decide. I’ll see you at the roundup…yeehaw!

Twittering Tale #99 – 28 August 2018



Prompt photo by Conquero at


It was 8.3 on the Richter scale. The town had never experienced an earthquake. Fracking had rendered the bedrock unstable. Aftershocks sent herds of wild horses and other animals through the center of town. The worst was yet to come. No one would live to tell, when the dam broke.


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