Category Archives: Essays

Twittering Tales #106 – 16 October 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 #105 – The Roundup

img_3105 Photo by Matt Artz at Unsplash

Starting us off…
“I’m a moron,” Brad groaned.
“It’s all the rage!” she said. “You have a chance to get in on the ground floor.”
He’d spent his savings on the very first plein air writing kiosk. It became a favorite spot for texters and gamers.
“Cool sculpture,” they’d say, smart phones in hand.
278 Characters

By Martin at Martin Cororan:
You Maniacs
After years of churning out gibberish the apes finally typed the complete works of Shakespeare.
The boffins in their lab coats seemed very pleased with themselves.
Many moons later Charlton Heston rode along the beach and encountered a semi-submerged Statue of Liberty…
Bloody boffins!

By Hayley at The Story Files:
Working Air
It was a crazy idea, an office set up outside wouldn’t work! Mr.Cooper believed his team would be more productive without the ‘shackled desk’ atmosphere. It did improve things for awhile but then it rained and nobody wanted to work outside anymore.

By Reena at ReInventions:
Tickety-Tac ….. the fingers din’t stop rattling the keyboard, and dropping white sheets stained with stories on the sand.
But what were the stories?
The great drama unfolding on the horizon, of the meek winning battles….
They did not live long enough to witness it on Earth.
(276 characters)

By Willow at WillowDot21:
It was the same nightmare that he’d had for years. He’d arrive at work and not only had the office and carpark gone. In their place, among the weeds were five desks and five typewriters. He pinched himself on the arm as Dr Capaldy had suggested. But this time he didn’t wake up.
(280 Characters)

By The Dark Netizen:
A madman once read that monkeys typing on typewriters are bound to produce a novel. And so, he made monkeys type. Everyone mocked him. But, they were all proven wrong. The monkeys produced a masterpiece!
The madman stood triumphant, the typewriters stood as relics of his victory.
Character Count: 280

By Michael at Morpethroad:
In the house of lost story the keyboards sit idle, awaiting energetic fingers to restore them to life.
Each machine is overflowing with tales gallant and brave.
They sit idle ready to pour forth the next best seller.
A word escapes flops momentarily but gasps a lack of inspiration.
(279 characters)

By Deepa at Sync With Deep:
Eye Love You
for hours
we sat in silence
me and my typewriter
my heart was
his typewriter
and he typed
his love
through my eyes

By Ramya at And Miles to Go Before I Sleep:
Unwritten Fate
News headline read –
Want to change your fate? Then excellent opportunity for you!!!
Be the writer of your own destiny.
Write your own fairytale.*
Write the unwritten.
*Conditions apply – Fate once written cannot be changed back.
Character Count – 223

By Deb at Twenty Four:
With care Lola sprinkled the last grains of sand and then, finally satisfied, took a step back, it looked perfect.
“What is it for though? Old beat up typewriters in the desert?”
She scowled, tourists, they just didn’t comprehend artistic vision.
(247 characters)

By Anurag at Jagahdilmein:
The Writers Shall Inherit the Earth
“Are you sure these were the last of them?” I asked my General.
“Yes Sir,” he replied.
I sighed in relief. We’d managed to extract the last group of writers too.
Now we could safely go ahead with the invasion & annihilation of Planet Earth as per our plans.
258 characters.

By Peter at Peter’s Pondering:
The Sand Fly Typing Pool
The experiment had been tried before with monkeys.
Now, working with sand flies, it was thought that, eventually, their landing on the row of keyboards must lead to a work worthy of Shakespeare.
What a pity Charlie, the office junior, had forgotten to load the platens with paper!
(279 characters)

By Jan at Strange Goings on in the Shed:
Ancestral Burial Grounds
The ancestral burial grounds were a place of pilgrimage
And reflection.
An echo of great literary undertaking
And beauty.
And now,
The ancestors lay shrouded in memories and silence,
For the age of typewriters was all but gone,
A distant memory in the minds of the ones that came after.
(280 characters

By the Universal Unionist:
You already know about the SAS but the existence of an even more secret elite force that fought in WWII has now been revealed by a blogger known only as “agent Kat”. The STS or Special Typewriter Service played a crucial role in undermining and interfering in NAZI signal traffic, I could tell you more but agent Kat has restricted me in revea…..

By the Indie She:
The keys on the typewriters rusty as no one touched them.
Relics of history,they were consigned to the arid plains of oblivion.
Epitome of grander times,when you ruled the keyboard.
Time has turned.
The travesty of our times that keys rule us ,more smaller and smarter.
(267 characters)

A late entry from week #103 by Soul Connection:
Ur View On Dis?
May Be Ancestors Prediction On Future.
Dey Wr More Intlgnt Den V R 2day.Till Date Almst Evry Prdctn Is True.May B Dis Is Smthng Imprtnt Dey Predicted Abt Future Tht Need Attention n Thts Y Its Dfclt To Decode As U Can C It Includes Almst Evrythng Frm D Univrse.

Well done everyone! I was surprised by all the monkeys (and sand fleas) that made their way into this week’s tales. I guess I’m a bit out of touch. But they were great. Very entertaining, some nostalgic, some that made me think.

This week’s odd photo is by Buzz Anderson at Unsplash. I hope you have fun with it. In 280 characters or less of course, and I’ll see you and next week’s roundup! Have a great week!

Twittering Tales #106 – 16 October 2018

Photo by Buzz Anderson at

The Great Christmas War

“This is the Christmas War exhibit,” droned the tour guide.

“What’s a Christmas?” asked a wide-eyed boy.

“Well,” the tour guide winked, “50 years ago, Christmas was banned because it drove people nuts! Filled ‘em with greed, hate, envy, rage!”

“Sounds scary!”

“It was buddy. It was.”


280 Characters

Sunday’s Week in ReVerse – 14 October 2018

We are swept up in whirlwinds these days. Fractured relationships, fear of the bogeyman, politics, religion where emotions run red hot, firing on all cylinders all the time. Our tendency is to lock ourselves in our houses to ride out the storm. But as we learned this week from Mother Nature, we cannot hide. It is foolish to think we can ride out the storms, be they weather related or otherwise. If we do manage to make it through to the other side, the world we are left with in the light of day is not the one we hid from behind our shuttered doors.

I get it. It’s tempting to turn reality off; to stay in one’s happy place. But eventually we all have to wake up, grow up, open the door and take responsibility for the mess we’ve made. And if we haven’t made the mess, we still need to roll up our sleeves to clean up the mess if we hope to have a future.

I know I talk moments a lot. And don’t get me wrong, I’m a big proponent of savoring precious moments. I am grateful for the occasional interlude from the chaos…for the eye in the storm. But I also know it’s important to remember that the eyes are temporary. Sometimes the back half of a hurricane can be worse than the first. With it comes the surge…the aftermath.

I’ve been scarce this week. I managed to scratch out at least a monostitch a day, a tweet, a haiku, but I have to admit I’m clinging to the moments right now. I’ve worked my muse to exhaustion and I sense she needs a rest. So it is fitting that this week’s reverse is contained within two lovely moments. I’m paying attention. The words will come. It is autumn after all.

Sunday’s Week in ReVerse – 14 October 2018

until next time we meet
the simplest of pleasures are gifts beyond measure
clusters of cumulus clouds bloom, raindrops to nimbus
let me love you
I’m a moron
he said, she said, stale-mates should try listening instead
enough, enough I say of this rain, rain go away
speaking of it…the weather…we’re a bit under it
tempest remnants scatter in heaps…we sow what we reap
Autumn dawning hush, jasmine flush gilds Gaia’s awning.


A ReVerse poem is a summary poem with a single line lifted from each entry of a collection of work over a particular timeframe and re-penned in chronological order as a new poem. Unlike a collaborative poem, the ReVerse features the words of one writer, providing a glimpse into their thoughts over time. I use it as a review of the previous week.

October 13-31 Poem #11

speaking of it…the weather…we’re a bit under it


True story….730 miles from landfall, Michael, now a tropical storm, continues to wreak havoc here in the Blue Ridge valley. We had a deluge of rain in a matter of hours, with catastrophic flooding sweeping through our neighborhoods, rivers and creeks rising. And as a special surprise, when I arrived home from work, the ceiling in our mud room had fallen in. Things could be worse. They could always be worse. I think about the joy I felt as I left the office…the air was cool and there was a wind blowing. I love the wind. We need to savor the good moments. Things can change in an instant.

Sunday’s Week in ReVerse – 7 October 2018

It’s been an exhausting week. Without planning it, today’s ReVerse sums it up quite well. Too well.

Oh I know there are those who see the culmination of this week’s events as a victory. It’s why they voted for trump after all, knowing full well what a misogynistic, racist, greedy, narcissist he was. He was a means to an end. This end. The highest court of our land is now stacked in their favor. It’s a gift from their god, surely. The one who judges and condemns women, minorities, foreigners, the poor, the sick, children, the weak. Yes, that god, praise Jesus. They are reaping the just rewards for their idolatry. One step closer to the heaven on earth they dream of and pray for each night.

I know you’re thinking, tell us what you really think, Kat. Ha! Am I right?!

Well, I’ll tell you. What I really think. What I know. The god they so piously claim to worship? He is not god…his son is not Jesus. The Jesus I know loved the outcast, the sinner, the poor, the weak. He gave women a voice and included them amongst his disciples. He listened to them, confided in them. It was a woman he first appeared to when he returned. If you believe in the stories written about him. It’s okay if you don’t.

I’ll admit I do not believe in the god of those who call themselves christian. I stopped warming a pew long ago. I could not stomach the lies, self-righteousness judgment, and hate that spewed from the pulpit and festered in the hearts of loyal congregants who gratefully thanked god, their god, for saving them from being like… well, you know, us…the others…the fallen…the lost.

In fact, I feel lost right now. I like to think that there is a god somewhere who cares. That Jesus is real. That all the sages of the ages who speak of love and mercy and forgiveness were on to something. That there is a god who asks us to love one another, to help the foreigner, to visit the prisoner, to feed the hungry, to heal the sick, to welcome the outcast…because that’s the kind of god he (or she) is. Yeah, that would be a god worth following, worth believing in.

As I write this I am sitting on my porch in the cool darkness listening to crickets and city sounds droning in the distance. I think about those who are suffering tonight. Those who were hurt this week. Those whose memories of injustice were dredged from the darkness, laid bare, and trampled upon by those who are celebrating a win this weekend. My heart breaks for us all, and I know I am not the only one who feels this way. And that gives me hope. I still believe in the goodness of those of us who feel. I believe in that spark of compassion that I see in those around me. God may not be some white haired dude sitting on a throne smiting the unchosen after all, but I’m more than okay with that. I see god in the gentle, the compassionate, the weak, the outcast, in all living, breathing things; I feel god in the wind. I can believe that god. The one who is. I can believe in us. I can believe in you. There you are. I see you.

Sunday’s Week in ReVerse – 7 October 2018

i rise like air
listen…there is birdsong
I hearsay, hearsay’s not proof for true seekers of truth
no one would know
weaving threads of silken lace she lies in wait and waits
face toward the light so shadows fall behind, out of sight
death interrupts our planned existence in an instant
trust is fragile, easily lost, regained at great cost
when justice declares her verdict…
saying you believe, but…reveals a mind that is shut
She was a bitch.


A ReVerse poem is a summary poem with a single line lifted from each entry of a collection of work over a particular timeframe and re-penned in chronological order as a new poem. Unlike a collaborative poem, the ReVerse features the words of one writer, providing a glimpse into their thoughts over time. I use it as a review of the previous week.

October 13-31 Poem #4

death interrupts our planned existence in an instant


Death has visited my corner of the universe thrice this week. Firstly, taking our beloved old tortoise, Flash, who succumbed to kidney failure.

Secondly, it claimed a lovely pear tree ripped asunder by a wayward moving van who edged too close, depositing her beautiful limbs across the street, blocking traffic, tearing down cable lines and shutting down power for several of my neighbors.

And thirdly, while the city assessed the damage done by the felled tree, a block over police stormed the home of a poor soul whose demise was the likely result of an overdose. A neighbor, fearing the worst, reported his repeated attempts to contact them to no avail. Death is a disruptive interloper leaving sorrow and destruction in its wake with no regard for our well-planned routines. It does what it will leaving us to clean up the mess. I do hope it is finished with our little neighborhood for a while. Not that I would wish its arrival to anyone else’s neighborhood. But it is a sobering reminder of how fragile life is. A reminder to live each moment to the fullest. Live long and prosper my friends.

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