The untold stories of Christmas live not in carols or cards, but in the fierce battles fought around kitchen tables, where sisters wielded needles like swords and pins like daggers. Here, in the soft glow of December afternoons, my mother and aunts transformed simple beads and thread into legends, each ornament a testament to their competitive spirit. I watched them wage their gentle wars, year after year, until these glittering spoils became my inheritance – not just glass and glue, but crystallized moments of love disguised as rivalry. Their laughter echoes still in these precious, gleaming treasures. Come, let me tell you their story.
Lavender pauses, but for just a second. She’s pointing at David now, her right index finger punctuating everything she says.
“If you care a whit about Gracie or Jenna or me, you’ll keep your mouth shut forever. And if you dig into what happened to me on the night of May 17, 1918, and if you ask anyone about it, talk to anyone about it, you will have me to contend with, and I will be worse than a ghost in your most frightening nightmare, David Fowler. I will haunt you forever. We are talking about my life here."
Everyone was trying to speak. And that's why no one was able to say anything. On the ground, a bloodied victim, a man, with a long but neatly trimmed beard. A handsome, expensive-looking guy. The crowd gathered around him ran over with letters and syllables that never became words. A slight glow that didn't disturb the first spring heat. The man on the ground, the crowd around him, the clouds in the sky slightly covered the sun. The man's dreams, potentially shattered. He kept listening, but he couldn't speak. This is death, he thought, this impotence. The rest remains untold.
Late to this prompt today… off to have a go now. Just thought I’d tell you that, though I could have left that unsaid.
But then you’d have known less about me today and in a passing moment, as you sip your cuppa and pause for thought, you might have wondered how much you actually know about me. And how much is left unseen, hidden, rearranged, curated and edited for your consumption.
I come to you as a collage – dash of this, some of that, pasted together into a whole that you hold.
She would have to tell him. The truth of the deceit burned like acid bile. Her hands shook as she set the table, as she stirred the stew he loved, the one he thought she made just for him. The door burst open, his boyish grin belying the years passed. He wrapped her in his strong, safe arms. She felt his love and it settled her. No edge, no danger, no risks. Just calm, steady. He broke away, sniffed the air. “You made it?” It was her show of love for him. Perhaps she would tell tales. Just not today.
He clicked the job title: Night News Editor and, as always, searched for the salary first.
Recession and the proliferation of soulless “content” produced by equally soulless bots; a tough world for a new journalist. Any job which promised regular reviews and rewarded cut-throat editing spoke loudly to him.
He regretted applying now, sitting in a shadowy newsroom, vacant of all activity. Left alone to guard readers from the darker, untold stories of the night. A filter to ensure they didn’t see how the world truly looked and the sheer horror of what really happened in the shadows.
The untold story where by chance my friends meet hiking a couple on a mountain trail. They are dressed for the beach in sandals and shorts, tee shirts and have bottle of wine. They planned to climb up a slippery rock face to get a better view. We waved them good luck the unexpected storm arrived. We ducked under a fallen tree. Hailstones pelted, wind blew; lasted an hour. Our hike finished, we returned to rental cabin, warm chilled bones. Watched news with warm wine. “One man fell from Mammoth cliff to death; woman survived, suffered hypothermia dressed in shorts.”
Jenny gripped her elbows, grave fog exhumed from her mouth.
“I’m just saying, there’s two doorbells, Jesus.”
Jenny rolled her eyes and said things internally. The door opened, cheap greetings exchanged with a radiant Sandra. Jenny watched her eyes blow a fuse when they met her husband’s, whose face oozed lust.
“Will, Jenny! Hi!”
Sandra’s husband stood latched to her, painfully happy.
“Sandra’s pregnant! Sorry! Couldn’t wait to share the big news!” He emotionally air-horned before Will even crossed the threshold.
In the millisecond before Will’s plastic excitement, Jenny saw her husband's face fill with terror.
I’m the same, or at least it’s the aspect I feel least confident about. I’m always on the hunt for inspiration. Like you, I use the short form to sharpen my writing. It’s really helped with my editing.
The untold stories of Christmas live not in carols or cards, but in the fierce battles fought around kitchen tables, where sisters wielded needles like swords and pins like daggers. Here, in the soft glow of December afternoons, my mother and aunts transformed simple beads and thread into legends, each ornament a testament to their competitive spirit. I watched them wage their gentle wars, year after year, until these glittering spoils became my inheritance – not just glass and glue, but crystallized moments of love disguised as rivalry. Their laughter echoes still in these precious, gleaming treasures. Come, let me tell you their story.
https://gloriahortonyoung.substack.com/p/the-great-ornament-wars
Untold (from novel, Hiram Falls)
Lavender pauses, but for just a second. She’s pointing at David now, her right index finger punctuating everything she says.
“If you care a whit about Gracie or Jenna or me, you’ll keep your mouth shut forever. And if you dig into what happened to me on the night of May 17, 1918, and if you ask anyone about it, talk to anyone about it, you will have me to contend with, and I will be worse than a ghost in your most frightening nightmare, David Fowler. I will haunt you forever. We are talking about my life here."
my 100 mg of Untold
-------
Everyone was trying to speak. And that's why no one was able to say anything. On the ground, a bloodied victim, a man, with a long but neatly trimmed beard. A handsome, expensive-looking guy. The crowd gathered around him ran over with letters and syllables that never became words. A slight glow that didn't disturb the first spring heat. The man on the ground, the crowd around him, the clouds in the sky slightly covered the sun. The man's dreams, potentially shattered. He kept listening, but he couldn't speak. This is death, he thought, this impotence. The rest remains untold.
“One of the things I love about you is that you’re open,” I tell you.
You’re embarrassed, awkward. You don’t love me. That’s well understood by both of us.
“Thanks,” you say.
I know much more about you than you believe I do. But not more than anyone who loves you would discover.
There are many things you haven’t told me, but I have never caught you lying.
Do you believe that if I knew your secrets I’d stop loving you?
I look at you, and wonder, if you do, why you haven’t told me.
I hope you know I won’t.
Untold, a thought by Matthew
Late to this prompt today… off to have a go now. Just thought I’d tell you that, though I could have left that unsaid.
But then you’d have known less about me today and in a passing moment, as you sip your cuppa and pause for thought, you might have wondered how much you actually know about me. And how much is left unseen, hidden, rearranged, curated and edited for your consumption.
I come to you as a collage – dash of this, some of that, pasted together into a whole that you hold.
I am a greatest story, ever untold.
I'm glad to know whole lot of nothing about you now. :D
Untold (100 words)
She would have to tell him. The truth of the deceit burned like acid bile. Her hands shook as she set the table, as she stirred the stew he loved, the one he thought she made just for him. The door burst open, his boyish grin belying the years passed. He wrapped her in his strong, safe arms. She felt his love and it settled her. No edge, no danger, no risks. Just calm, steady. He broke away, sniffed the air. “You made it?” It was her show of love for him. Perhaps she would tell tales. Just not today.
@Miguel
Prompt: Untold, 100mg
It wasn’t a lie and it wasn’t the truth.
No one asked, so why tell?
She just carried it like a pack animal
Crossing a lush forest turned to desert.
Now, it is buried. Deep.
“How are you today?”
“Fine.”
The proper answer, the expected response;
The not-truth, the near-lie.
Might this thing
Fester like a wound untended,
Or would it simply cease to be,
Desiccated under a thousand grains of forgetting -
Not even a kernel left to tell?
Somewhere in the distance
The forest still lingers
And its fertile soil
Awaits the long-lost seed
Of a thing Untold.
Delightfully written Tracy.
Microdosing - 100mg of the Untold
===
I sat down, taking in the hundreds… no, thousands of books on the shelves. This private library was impressive.
The lady of the manor came out. She was as elegant as I could remember, despite her silver bun.
“I’d rather convey you the message directly,” she said. I thanked her for letting me author her memoir. We shook hands and parted.
When I left, the family’s lawyer said I’d been entitled to unlimited visits, as the lady mentioned me in her will.
I confronted him about the will, thinking it was rude.
He told me about her funeral last week.
He watched the edges of the diary curl in the roaring fireplace. He felt a tingle at the back of his neck.
The sister was there at the doorway with a half-melted candle.
He smiled at her, even though he knew that he killed her sister, his wife, after years of abuse. Why wouldn't he smile? He'd get away with it.
She brandishes a paper. A letter. Her hand shakes with fury.
Her brother appears beside her.
He hadn't known his wife had sent a letter before her final night.
The siblings knew everything.
He won't get away with it.
Ha! Karma!
PROMPT: UNTOLD
THE DEMOLITION
The old library had been empty for a while, and the decision had finally been made to demolish it.
“It seems a shame”, I said, “It would’ve made a great block of luxury apartments.”
“They tried”, said our Foreman, over the sound of the bulldozers starting up, “But no one wanted to move in.”
“How come?”
“Probably because of all the untold horrors that took place here.”
“Murders?” I said.
“No”, he replied, “It used to be a Polling Station…” 👷♂️😎👷♂️
Some great takes on this prompt.
Untold
He clicked the job title: Night News Editor and, as always, searched for the salary first.
Recession and the proliferation of soulless “content” produced by equally soulless bots; a tough world for a new journalist. Any job which promised regular reviews and rewarded cut-throat editing spoke loudly to him.
He regretted applying now, sitting in a shadowy newsroom, vacant of all activity. Left alone to guard readers from the darker, untold stories of the night. A filter to ensure they didn’t see how the world truly looked and the sheer horror of what really happened in the shadows.
A nice one!
Thanks!
The untold story where by chance my friends meet hiking a couple on a mountain trail. They are dressed for the beach in sandals and shorts, tee shirts and have bottle of wine. They planned to climb up a slippery rock face to get a better view. We waved them good luck the unexpected storm arrived. We ducked under a fallen tree. Hailstones pelted, wind blew; lasted an hour. Our hike finished, we returned to rental cabin, warm chilled bones. Watched news with warm wine. “One man fell from Mammoth cliff to death; woman survived, suffered hypothermia dressed in shorts.”
I have secrets...
I have feelings...
Emotions crowd my screaming soul.
I have lived and loved,
some true and others fantasized.
Emotions crowd my screaming soul.
I have words,
stories, some true others fictionalized.
Do I share, or keep them all…
UNTOLD?
That's beautiful Diana!
thanks
Don contemplated his future. Flunked out of another school, he was at a loose end.
Satan appeared. "Young rogue, I have a proposition. Would you sell your soul for riches untold?"
Don knew a mark when he saw one and agreed readily, eagerly signing the contract.
The devil laughed, "Greedy fool, there are no riches. They are untold, there are none. You've sold your soul for nothing."
Don leered. "That's okay, I have no soul."
The Father of Lies hesitated, then stuck out his hand. As they shook, he said, "Donnie, my boy, we will have a great future together."
nice one!
Thank you, I had a bit of fun with this one.
Microdose The Untold 100 words
“Just knock, it’s freezing.”
Jenny gripped her elbows, grave fog exhumed from her mouth.
“I’m just saying, there’s two doorbells, Jesus.”
Jenny rolled her eyes and said things internally. The door opened, cheap greetings exchanged with a radiant Sandra. Jenny watched her eyes blow a fuse when they met her husband’s, whose face oozed lust.
“Will, Jenny! Hi!”
Sandra’s husband stood latched to her, painfully happy.
“Sandra’s pregnant! Sorry! Couldn’t wait to share the big news!” He emotionally air-horned before Will even crossed the threshold.
In the millisecond before Will’s plastic excitement, Jenny saw her husband's face fill with terror.
“Tell you what, those boys in Lurgan Police Station make a hell of a fry-up.”
“What’d you do this time?”
“Criminal damage. CCTV camera off the side of the barracks. Blaming Jonty. He gave me one of those college books. Orwell.”
“Yeah? The one with all the pigs or the one about the hunger strikers?”
“Hunger strikers?”
“1981, I think it's called.”
“To be honest, it was all a bit beyond me. Skimmed most of it, but I went away with an awful distaste for cameras.”
“So how did you get caught?”
Muldoon burped. Eyerolled.
“That’ll have to remain untold.”
this is superb mate. a story told in banter. grand.
Haha..thanks Nick! A little bit of banter goes a long way! Cheers for your comment.
Excellent!
Thank you!
Enviable dialogue. Very happy to share.
Dialogue is normally my weakest point, but the word constraints really help to tighten everything up..thanks again 👍
I’m the same, or at least it’s the aspect I feel least confident about. I’m always on the hunt for inspiration. Like you, I use the short form to sharpen my writing. It’s really helped with my editing.