Finish the Story, Nov #4


The Secret Hymn

Pews were packed in the old church, just as they had been for the past six weeks. There was a new life breathed into the church when Father Gregory assumed his position. He was young, had longish blonde hair that brushed the bottom of his collar, and a way of speaking to a crowd that made everyone feel like he was talking just to them. He was the complete opposite of Father Baker.

No one knew Father Baker was leaving, or where he even went. Father Gregory just showed up that bright, Sunday morning and the town was memorized. Even the children behaved in church. Soon, everyone in town was clambering to come back to church.

Amie and Sarah sat with their parents in the back pew and listened as Father Gregory spoke of the Four Horsemen.

“At least that would give us something to do,” Sarah whispered.

Amie silently giggled. She was as bored as her sister was with New Hope and its old ways. A little excitement never hurt anyone.

Amie pulled out the hymnal and let it fall open to whatever page it wanted and gasped. “Sarah, look at this,” she whispered, pointing to ….

Morpethroad wrote:

….an old pressed flower hiding the words of ‘The Lord is My Shephard’. The flower had been laid out in a deliberate fashion and on closer inspection there appeared to be blood stains on the petals.

The drop of blood had separated the petals enough for the words: “He restoreth my soul” to be clearly visible.

Amie tried to lift the petals from the page, but they were old and so fell to pieces in her fingers. The two girls looked at each mystified by their discovery.

Father Gregory as if aware of the girl’s discovery stopped his homily and waited for the girls to return their attention to him.

“We are all sinners,” said the young priest, “some greater sinners than others but a sinner is a sinner in God’s eyes, and eternal damnation will reign down upon you if you refuse to repent and accept God’s love into your heart.”

The girls sat upright at this. They had heard Father Baker say the same things and in the same way and that sent a shiver down their spines.

Father Gregory raised his hands above his head and announced that those who recognised themselves as sinners should stand NOW! The entire congregation stood, and he applauded them all. As they collectively sat down the statue to his right turned on its axis and the young priest…..

I pass the tale to Good Sir Fandango at


Posted in Uncategorized, Writing prompt | Tagged , , | 3 Comments

Tale Weaver # 197 – Life’s Journey – 15th November – Cyril Rum’s Observations.


Cyril Rum, Angel on sabbatical, had come to earth for two reasons. One was to have a break from all things angelical, for after all eternity was a long time to be doing the same job and secondly to see first hand how complex mankind was.

Unlike Angels man had been given definite time periods in which to live.

To Cyril’s observations, man seemed to make the most simple thing into a complex matter.

Living, Cyril observed was fraught with danger. It was no straightforward event when you considered that from the moment of their birth, man was headlong in a rush to die.

Cyril had settled in a quiet street in a quiet town with a neighbour who provided him with a never-ending account of man and what he was on about.

Her name was Mildred Thrupp, a single woman, but one whose knowledge of those around her never stopped amazing him.

Cyril had discovered early on in his visit when asked to a social gathering by Mildred and asked the question, “Where have you come from?” that this might be a way into the community.

Cyril, however, with no concept of time started to tell his story and after the three-hour mark noticed most people had moved away to the buffet and the one remaining person had a glazed over look. Since then he had found a simpler response of, “Here, there and everywhere.” was sufficient to send the questioner on their way.

Mildred taught him much about life on earth, he found it sad so many died in wars and what he concluded were futile wars, with man being an organic being he understood that their bodies broke down and that fact led to their deaths.

He attended many funerals as an observer because he had no concept of grief or loss and the outpouring from surviving relatives never ceased to amaze him and make him realise how complex humans were.

There were moments when he saw man as being compassionate and loving when circumstances led him to believe man was capable of so much good. Those experiences gave him hope for the people around him.

The earth was a good place to live he concluded, it had so much going for it in terms of natural beauty he just wished man would take better care of it.

Each evening he sat in his back yard in one of the white wooden seats he had there. He watched the sunset behind the giant gum trees, and he marvelled at the beauty of nature.

Cyril Rum enjoyed his ‘life’ on earth. His neighbour Mildred would call to him and appear with a cake in hand and a hot pot of tea. Humans ate too much thought Cyril as he downed his third slice while Mildred prattled on about the people at the end of the street who much to her disgust had brought another child into the world when they struggled to feed the five they already had.

“Choice,” said Cyril, “Man has choice, you chose to live a single life, they decided to have children. Whatever you choose in your life there are consequences. You deal with loneliness, they deal with poverty. It’s all relative.”

There were occasions when Mildred wondered just who this neighbour of hers was.


Written for:

Posted in Uncategorized, Writing prompt | Tagged , , , | 7 Comments

Daily Writing Challenge, Nov 14 – Poseidon Ages.


Today’s three words: King, Power, Eternal

There was a problem with being a powerful King and living for eternity.

It meant you had a lot of time to yourself and at your disposal and in time you suffered the fate of having that fact to contend with.

Being a mythological creature didn’t make it any easier. In Poseidon’s case, there were expectations of grandeur, loudness and being constantly wet.

After several millennia he did grow tired of the wetness, the constant feeling that at any moment he might start to rust did bother him because he knew he had an image to uphold.

Rising up from the ocean depths to assert his power over all around him and creaking and squeaking as the rust set in hardly made him the character he once was.

He had to face it, as time went on, and he was beginning to get rather cross at time, in that it moved on, and he didn’t seem to be keeping pace with it, he was becoming less a figure of might and power and more an idle curiosity of the past. Such was life he thought as he rose up spitting out another fish caught in his teeth.


Written for:

Posted in Uncategorized, Writing prompt | Tagged , , , | 7 Comments

Crimson’s Creative Challenge #1 – Damp Spots


For a prison, it was old and forbidding.

It had damp spots, spots that appeared to move around the prison. At one stage the Governor complained about the damp spot in his office and ordered a major refurbishment.

Long time inmates used to place bets on where they might appear next.

The damp spots, of course, thought the prison was their domain and were not considerate of the inmates in any way. They moved about from boredom as much as anything else.

Lenny the Lag had a permanent damp spot in his cell. He was an interesting character, he’d killed four wives, and he was writing his memoir, “Innocent of All Charges”. Lenny’s damp spot conversed with the other damp spots, comparing notes, debating which spot might they move to next, except Lenny’s who was content, which in itself was usual for a damp spot.


Written for:

Posted in Uncategorized, Writing prompt | Tagged , , | 5 Comments

FOWC with Fandango — Advanced


I recall my parents speaking one night, and as a natural born eaves-dropper, I listened especially closely when my name was mentioned. The word advanced was mentioned in reference to me, and I was curious as to what they thought I was advanced in. I certainly wasn’t intelligence as my father would often refer to me having the smarts of a nailed down plank. I knew it wasn’t in connection with my failed attempts to join the school sporting teams either, and as for dancing, it was known I had two left feet.

I was relieved to discover it wasn’t in relation to some insidious disease that might bring about a premature death.

No, the answer lay in the size of my feet. For a boy of my age the size of my feet was an issue for my mother especially as each year I went up two sizes and how big were they going to be by the time I stopped growing.

It was at moments like these I remembered the words of my grandad: “You’ve a firm grip on the earth with feet like that.”


Written for:

Posted in Uncategorized, Writing prompt | Tagged , | 9 Comments

Weekend Writing Prompt #80 – Castle


If you knew where to look it wasn’t all that hard to find the fairy castle. Over the years the fernery had grown wildly due to my neglect of the weeds and the invasive plants that seemed to want to take over.

Gran had shown me the castle told me to keep it in order. The fairies once or twice invited me to join in their celebrations. But as I grew older I found life got in the way.

Today I found the fairy castle and all its inhabitants going about their business oblivious to my guilt from neglecting them.


Written for:


Posted in Uncategorized, Writing prompt | Tagged , , | 3 Comments

Sunday Writing Prompt – A Child’s Gift.


She held it in the palm of her hand

The most delicate of gifts.

Here eyes darted from the gift to me

Our eyes interlocking sharing an understanding.

She placed it carefully into my hand

The wrapping an old advertising brochure,

It sat in my hand pulsing expectation.

Her face broke into a smile

She waited for me to open it

I could sense her excitement.

My fingers trembled as I opened the tiny gift

She said: “I hope you like it.”

Opened in front of me it took my breath away.

“It’s my love,” she announced.


Written for:

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 8 Comments