CCC32: Too Long on the Road

Crimson’s Creative Challenge

It was love at first sight
The place was just right
For a love-torn toad
Too long on the road
He hopped straight in
And settled down with a big wide grin

Written for Crimson’s Creative Challenge #32

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Crimson’s Creative Challenge #32


Welcome to my weekly challenge—open to all—just for FUN, FUN, FUN

Here’s how it works:

Every Wednesday I post a photo (this week it’s that one above.)
You respond with something CREATIVE

Here are some suggestions:

  • An answering photo
  • A cartoon
  • A joke
  • A caption
  • An anecdote
  • A short story (flash fiction)
  • A poem
  • A newly minted proverb, adage or saying
  • An essay
  • A song—the lyrics or the performance

You have plenty of scope and only two criteria:

  • Your creative offering is indeed yours
  • Your writing is kept to 150 words or less

If you post a link in the comments section of this post I’ll be able to find it
If you include Crimson’s Creative Challenge as a heading, WP Search will find it (theory)
If you tag it #CCC others should be able to find it by ‘Searching’ in the WP Reader (fingers crossed)

Here’s wishing you inspirational explosions. And FUN.

Former Water Tower on outskirts of village. The sign of gate reads: No Junk Mail

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Cold Hands, Cold Heart

Glacial – the place you called home
Glacial – the love you claimed you bore me
Glacial – the heart you said was devoted to me
Glacial – the smile you seldom turned on me
Glacial – the looks that you gave me
Glacial – your hands when you touched me
Glacial – the knife I used to slice through the cords that bound me
Glacial – your body now laid in the morgue

Word count 66

Written for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt


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Finish the Story: The Locomotive Part Four

Teresa’s bit:

Every summer since Charlie turned six was spent on Grandpa’s Iowa farm. Charlie loved to run through the fields chasing butterflies and spent his nights laying on the cool grass, watching the fireflies and Milky Way. Life was perfect until the train arrived.

“I don’t believe it,” Grandpa said, shaking his head. “Are you sure?”

Frank, a family friend from the other side of town, nodded. “Saw it myself two nights ago out by Cooper’s Ridge.”

Grandpa pulled his old handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “What are we going to do? We can’t let it happen again. Charlie… I can’t… I won’t.”

“What’s the matter, Grandpa?” Charlie walked into the kitchen when he heard his name.

Grandpa’s face turned white as he grabbed Charlie by the shoulders and shook him. “Don’t you ever get on that train. You hear me, boy? No matter what he says, or what you see happening inside, you never get on that train.”

Charlie was terrified by Grandpa’s expression and could only muster a whimper.

“I’m going to let you go,” Grandpa said, hugging Charlie as tears streamed down his face. “He’s not going to get another one.”

Later that night, as Charlie laid in bed and imagined the mysterious train that had terrified his Grandpa, he heard a whistle in the distance. Slipping on his shoes and bathrobe, Charlie stood at his window and watched as a train appeared through the night’s mist and blew its whistle again. Charlie rubbed his eyes and gulped.


“You get out of here,” Grandpa shouted as he ran out the front door carrying his rifle. He fired twice and screamed at the train. “You can’t have him! You can’t!”

A well-dressed man stepped into the doorway of the train, looked at Charlie in the window, and said, …

Fandango’s bit

“Boy, you come over here. Don’t make me come and get you, Charlie.”

Charlie was conflicted. He remembered his Grandpa’s warning to him to never get on that train. But the man calling out to him looked so dapper and debonair, just like those men in the fancy magazines his mother would look at back at home. And inside the train he saw other kids playing and partying, having what seemed like a lot of fun. And where was Grandpa?

“Charlie,” the man called out once again. “It’s time to go. You need to come out here and join us on the train before we leave for the next stop.”

“I need to get dressed,” Charlie called out to the man, stalling for time as he tried to figure out what to do.

“No, come as you are, Charlie, you’re fine,” the man called out. “Your Grandpa is already on board, and we have new clothes for you here.”

Charlie grabbed his stuffed teddy bear and slowly walked out of the house and approached the train. The well-dressed man had a broad, welcoming smile on his face and held out a hand of encouragement to Charlie as he neared the train.

“Come on, boy,” the man said, his hand still reaching out to Charlie. Charlie was still hesitant as he thought about Grandpa’s warning, but he couldn’t resist the draw of the man and the train. Charlie reached up and grabbed the man’s hand and was gently assisted onto the train.

“Welcome to the Soul Train, Charlie,” the man said. “Go inside and meet the other children.”

“Where’s Grandpa? Where does this train go?” Charlie asked.

“Relax, Charlie,” the man said, his smile now appearing more sinister than welcoming. “We’re headed straight to ….”

Michael’s bit:

Boomtown where all your dreams will come true.”

Charlie thought that sounded a good idea and looking around found himself in a small room in which there was a tiny window that looked down the corridor of the carriage he was in.

He expected to see the many children he saw when he was being lured to the train, but instead, there was no one apart from the scurrying of a few rats.

Then unexpectedly a rat’s face appeared at the window he was looking through, and he stepped back in fright.

The rat looked at him and shook its head as if disapproving. Charlie found himself against the far wall of the small room as the rat continued to gaze at him.

Then to his amazement, his body shrank down to the floor. His nose grew, his body was wracked by a momentary shudder as a tail grew out of his rear end, and he realised he too had been turned into a rat.

The man responsible for luring him onto the train reappeared at the same time the train gave a jerk and moved along its invisible tracks.

Charlie looked up to see the man standing over him a pleased look on his face as he opened the door of the room and beckoned for Charlie to go through into a room filled it appeared with rats similar to himself.

“Good boy Charlie,” he heard the man say, “you will all come in handy when we…

My bit …

“…thread the labyrinth.”

Charlie looked up with questioning eyes.

“The labyrinth,” the man said as if Charlie should know what that meant. “The labyrinth … you’ve had your short life to learn how to thread it. Ah, don’t remember?”

No, Charlie did not remember, and he was sure that he would.

“Done in your sleep,” the man explained. “Done in your dreams.”

But wasn’t this a dream now? It couldn’t be real. And he wasn’t alone in his confusion. Thousands of sniffing rats all scurrying and turning in circles.

The rattle-chunt of the train changed; became sharper and developed an echo.

“Ah,” the man said, “we’re into the mountain won’t be long now.”

But on and on that train rattled along. And Charlie grew tired. And sleepy.

He woke with a start.

“Labyrinth Station. Labyrinth Station. All rats disembark,” boomed a voice that seemed to thrum in the air.

A door opened, the rats streamed out, Charlie amongst them. But where was he? Everywhere, all around him, everywhere so bright …

And I pass the thread to Padre’s Ramblings, who I’m sure will develop the story further

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Oh, Yawn, Yawn, Yawn

Image by Bryan Hermans on Google Maps

I am bored, said Tal-a-pus, and stretched and yawned and farted and grumped. Nothing to do but to watch people cavort in the calm rolling waves beneath me. Morning till night, night till dawn, day after day, year after year. Oh, yawn, yawn, yawn. Tal-a-pus grunted and scratched at his pits.

Then, one day, he had an idea.

Atop the mountain beside the calm sea, he created a fire. And into the fire he plonked plenty of rocks and waited till they glowed fiercely red.

Then he laughed and clapped. What fun to hurl the rocks into the sea, to hear them sizzle, to see the sea thrash. Such fun to turn the placid blue sea – oh yawn, yawn, yawn – into great heaving waves that played catch-me all day.

Word count: 129

Unfortunately, Google features no photos of waves playing catch-me.

An old Nehalem legend, retold; written for What Pegman Saw: Cape Disappointment, Washington State, USA

[see Claire Warner Churchill, Slave Wives of Nehalem, Metropolitan Press, Portland, OR, 1933. P. 32]

The Nehalem were part of the Tillamook tribe who traded along the Oregon Coast.


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Sunday Picture Post: Big and Bold

Some wild flowers shout of their presence from a great distance.

Ox-eyed Daisies: 4th June 2019

The Poppy: 4th June 2019

Alas, this has been a week of almost continual rain. So the camera stayed in. These were taken the previous week

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The Yellow Flag

I look at the list of titles Maria has given me for the #2019picoftheweek challenge. Which to use this week?

The Yellow Flag lost amid greenery: 4th June 2019

Pick a Colour

Though, is the colour green? Of which there are many shades here. Or is it yellow?

You might know the yellow flag under its other name. The iris.

For details of #2019picoftheweek challenge see MariaAntonia

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