#traintober 2025

[pepperher]

Traintober Day 5: Failure

Nancy and Rheneas the homework helper

[mwolf0epsilon]

Day 8: Gathering

[bladethehelicopter56]

I’m not usually in on participating in these monthly art/writing challenges, including Traintober. But I decided to jump in! The first prompt list I found had October 23 listed as “Rivalry”. Hero of the Rails was the first thing that came into my mind, even though I thought about doing something TATMR related.

[zocomotive]

Traintober Day 1: The Old

(My first traintober, going by my moot, the lovely @Lorainedoesthings. I might just do a few days, I dunno. I'm pretty busy so it will just be done when its done, I suppose.)

On a morning that, throughout Britian, slept as soundly as the engines who were locked in railway musuems did, one such engine was wide awake. Thoughts on the engine who would be lucky enough to be completed this day, Lord willing. 

But was that engine lucky? Thought the engine, whose name was Gordon, number currently 4 , who was sitting in the  Tidmouth roundhouse. The other all said that the engine would be lucky to be adored and held in high regard as the first steam locomotive built in this century, the pinnacle of what old designs could do with modern engineering.

“It was possible without modern engineering,” Gordon growled to no one in particular as soon as he had realized what Blue Peter was being measured for. Not he had one whit of say on the matter, as the Trust had this project in the works-literally- for years. Flying Scotsman, they assured him, had given his blessing on the matter, and well, that was that.

“Easy for him to say!” Gordon had protested, his stern, silent, demeanor for once put aside. “It’s not only going to be his half sibling!”

Or was it?

This engine, the newbuild A1, was of Class A1, which was developed from the Class A1/1, which was developed from Scot’s sister, Great Northern, making this new A1 a sort of distant half-sibling to the Scotsman, and a close cousin to himself, as he was Class A2. Still, the Scotsman could easily give his blessing, she was famous, her future secure and his days would stretch on forever. 

She was one of the immortals.

“Easy for him to say!” was the rallying cry of the majority of the engines in Britain’s preservation societies and musuems, or so Gordon heard from the last time he had seen Green Arrow. The V2 had told him her aquaintences- both her and Peter’s cousins at York had generally voted against such a ‘slight’ as Mallard had stated. Duchess of Hamiliton, though no one had asked her, had elected to put her opinion into the ring, and it was fully negative, Green Arrow sadly had related.

“Now, I’m not one to give orders on how other families should maintain their ways. You know this, Scotsman,” Duchess had began, dismissing even the famous A3’s protests. Everyone had rolled their eyes at that. What what they had known of the Duchess’ behaviours, she was certainly one to give orders on how other families should maintain their ways.

“-but my sisters and surbordinates-” she noticed one of the other LMS engines looking offended and hastened to correct herself. “-coworkers, i mean, would not stand for such a slight. Ould this money not be better spent maintaining ourselves and our siblings to running order?”

“Not you, I hope,” muttered Copperknob but they were nervously hushed by their friend. 

“We should have listened to the Halls!” cried Lode Star, always slightly hysterical. The building hummed in agreement. Everyone easily dismissed the former engines of God’s Wonderful Railway, as worthy of respect, being one of the Big Four, but little else. Truro was a bit of a theistic fanatic, who had been known to resort to violence, though, as he said following Rule Number Three of the Great Western Way: Only resort to violence after failing to convince others of their wrongdoing. Good thing he was with his kind! Green Arrow had remarked, the agnostic in her disgusted. 

Even more disgusting, was that some upstart people, calling themselves Westerners, had saved Hinderton and Maindy, two Halls, from Barry Scrapyard, only to write Maindy off to have her very essence stripped, to make her into something she wasn’t and would never be.

Hinderton Hall had tearfully told them of what had fate befallen their sister, but they only got from the ex-LNER engines doubtful, pitiful looks and jokes along the lines of: ‘a Hall, a Castle, and a Saint chuff into a shed, then switch places…” And now it was coming back to bite them, Green Arrow had warned. And the ex-Westerners, once again, had a grudge against them. 

Mallard, bouncing ever so slightly on their chassis, had agreed. Scotsman, who was there briefly, had seemed to deflate. No one now ever really considered her A4 cousin’s opnion important- breaking the speed record had seemed to shake a few of Malllard’s screws loose and now the a4 liked listening to Hamilton- the Duchess was the only engine who still complained about Mallard breaking the record before an LMS engine, and that acknowledgement-even if it was negative acknowledgement that only came when Hamilton was in on of her moods- made them feel relevant again.

Gordon decided somehow, as he stood at the Vicarstwon platform later that day, in one way or another, he would have to find the other members of their ex-LNER family, determine their opinion on the matter. And together, they could come up with some sort of consensus. Green Arrow, always the intellectual, had not offered up anything other than bare facts of the other’s opinions. Mallard, acording to her, was as always, easily blown by other’s opinions. Their siblings, the rest of the A4s, were bitterly against the entire idea, as he had scraped from what was said by his own shedmates. Particularly Union of South Africa, who found it offensive that the whistle of Golden Eagle, all that was left of his beloved brother, would be carried by a ‘doomed vanity project.’ 

The Scotsman, on one hand, had firm faith in the project. And why wouldn’t she? Human projects had carried her this far. Gordon, on the other hand-

“It’s nice to meet you!” 

Gordon nearly jumped out of his plating. ‘The matter’ was here, undeniable, and alive. He slowly turned his eyes to the right. There was a large express passenger engine.

6…

60…

601…

6016…

….3.

Impossible. The A1’s classifications never went that far…

“Well, aren’t you going to answer?” came a huffy voice. Gordon found himself staring into a face with a familiar long chisled nose, and laughing eyes.

“Fine, be that way.” the voice was familiarly snotty.

“Wait! Pease stay… sweetheart."

[weirdowithaquill]

Traintober 2025: Day 6 - Foreign

Flying Scotsman's Tales of Foreign Lands

The Island of Sodor was abuzz with news of Flying Scotsman's return. The world famous engine had been away in the USA for some time, and after a near disaster, he had been repatriated to England, repaired, and sent to the Island of Sodor to acclimatise to life back on railways that were more familiar to him than the giant trunk routes of the USA.

Or, at least, so Sir William McAlpine said.

It was - to those close to Scott - much more realistic to believe that the world famous engine's return to Sodor was at least in part to allow him the chance to speak to his last surviving brother as well as many of his closest friends, to recover from nearly being scrapped on a foreign continent.

The engines were all very excited to see their friend again, none more so than Gordon. "We need to think of poor Scott," the big blue engine said to all who would listen. "He has been through a very traumatic experience, and we need to be encouraging!" "An whit aboot us? We went throuch somethin traumatisin," Donald asked cheekily. Gordon sniffed. "You did not have to go to America." "An whit's wrong wi Americae?" Donald quizzed. Gordon winced. "Well! They are Yanks," Gordon replied. "Did you meet their soldiers during the war?" Donald had to admit he had not. "They were terrible! So rude, and womanising too. And their engines were so brash and callous."

Duck looked over, confused. "No they weren't," he said slowly. "We had a heap of them on the Great Western, and they were fine enough, if not a little blunt." In the background, Edward groaned to himself, not really wanting to try and explain to anyone the fact that the USA was not like England, and had a different culture where being at least a little forward was normal to them.

Not that the other engines would listen to him. Again.

But when Scott arrived, on a cool midsummer day when the clouds were white and fluffy while the breeze was cool and had just a hint of sea salt, he was not traumatised at all! In fact, he had a healthy tan and a beaming smile that lit up the sheds. Most of the engines - though not Edward - were stunned!

"Brother! You… seem oddly chipper for someone who's been through such hardships!" "Gordon! It's so good to — hardships?" "Yes!" peeped Percy. "Like meeting Americans! Gordon's been telling us how terrible and womanising they are!" He looked over to where Gordon was getting paler and paler. "Did you get womanised?" He grinned smugly at Gordon, and puffed away. Duck bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Scott took a deep breath, and burst out laughing. Gordon went as red as James' paintwork!

"Well Gordon?" asked the world famous engine. "Do you think I got… er… womanised?" Duck cracked up laughing, practically shaking on the rails. Behind him, James and Henry cackled and howled with laughter so hard they spat up lumps of coal! "No! Certainly not! I— well, that is to say—"

Scott took pity on his brother, and smiled warmly. "Nothing of the sort happened, I promise," he grinned. "It was actually a lot of fun - I'll tell everyone about it this evening. In the meantime, I do hope you have some coal to spare. I'm running low."

Gordon blinked dumbly, then led Scott away, not even reacting to the peals of laughter coming from the peanut gallery.

** ** **

That evening, almost every engine could be found at the Big Sheds. Even Daisy had deigned to wander down from Ffarquhar to see Scott and hear about his adventures!

Scott looked at all the expectant faces, a little stunned. "Um… well, this is a few more than I was expecting! How has Sodor been while I've been away?" "Who cares!" came a shout from someone - Scott suspected it to be either James or Thomas - they were shushed by a furious Gordon. "Who said that?!" "It's alright, Gordon!" laughed Scott. "I'm not surprised - well, maybe a little at how many showed up, but not at your excitement. It isn't every day an engine goes off somewhere foreign!" "It doesn't mean they can waltz on in here and make demands of you, Scott - you need to learn to stop being such a people-pleaser." "I am not a people-pleaser," huffed Scott. Gordon just raised his eyebrow, unimpressed.

Scott pointedly coughed.

"Well! It was a lot of fun over there - I started in Boston and wound up over in San Francisco, right on the other side of the continent! It is so beautiful over there, with scenery unlike anything you'd ever seen!" He paused, considered. "I remember being on the route to Slaton, Texas, and seeing a day clearer than any day I'd ever seen before it. There was not a single cloud in the sky, and it was so hot it looked as though the sky was no longer blue, but closer to being a light white. I was stunned by it!"

The engines all looked amazed! They very idea of a sky with not only no clouds, but where it was so hot that the colours themselves were beginning to drain away - it was beyond comprehension.

"I met a lot of wonderful engines and people over there two - the first was Hank." "Who," asked Gordon pointedly, "was Hank?" "He's our ancestor, Gordon!" replied Scott brightly. Gordon's jaw hit his bufferbeam. "Ancestor?! In America? What, was he sent over with Eisenhower?" "No," snorted Gordon, "he's a Pennsylvania Railroad K4 class locomotive."

There was a beat of silence.

"Sir Nigel Gresley used them as inspiration for our class, Gordon - though we got a different firebox and were built a little more sleek and a little less big." "Sir Nigel was inspired by an American?!" spluttered Gordon, stunned. Scott chuckled. "Oh yes indeed! Hank was doing railtours on his heritage line, so we visited and I even double-headed a special train with him. It was a lot of fun… Hank was a nice engine. Very nice. Real salt of the earth character."

Gordon blinked. "Right, because a steam engine whose class helped create our breed can be described in such terms." "Hank was nice!" Scott huffed. "Just because our siblings were about as pleasant as running into Jack the Ripper, doesn't mean their lot were." He paused, considered, then hummed. "Or at least, Hank wasn't. I didn't run into any other K4s over there. Hank told me most of them are nice enough though - they had their own fierce rivalry though, with the New York Central." "What, like you lot and the LMS?" quizzed Henry. "Surely there wasn't ever a railway rivalry as strong as that!"

"There was!" chuckled Scott. "Hank told me all about how they used to compete on trains between Chicago and New York, racing each other across the US North-East. Hank particularly remembers racing against a fellow called Connor - though, unfortunately, Connor was scrapped. There aren't many New York Central engines left anymore." "What, did they have a manager like Dr Beeching?" asked Oliver, astounded. "I know that the US dieselised faster than we did, but surely not!" "Surely so," sighed Scott, looking downcast. "While the Pennsylvania Railroad set up museums to remember their past, the New York Central scrapped all their steam engines as fast as possible, and now only eight steam engines survive from that entire railway. Poor Hank, he told me it doesn't feel the same, not being able to trade banter with Connor."

The engines all stared in shock - it was a truly horrible thought, to have a manager who would callously cut up and scrap hundreds of engines without thinking of preserving any of them.

"Well!" went on Scott, trying to keep the mood from plummeting further, "the next engine I should tell you about was the exact opposite of Hank. His name was Vinnie, and he was only a few weeks away from withdrawal, let me tell you! But he was the rudest, the nastiest, the most spiteful engine I'd ever met! And I met Spamcan!"

That got a snort out of Henry.

"Why do you say that about him?" asked Thomas. Scott grimaced, and looked very put out for a long moment before sighing. "Because he was a bully, plain and simple. He had absolutely no reason to act the way he did, and yet he loved to insult, berate and push around the smaller engines. He tried it with me! He came up and asked me if I was the shunter!" "The shunter?!" exclaimed Gordon, furious. "Let me at him! I'll teach him - shunter indeed, is he blind? You have a tender!" "In America, they use engines with tenders to shunt," Scott replied. "I didn't see one tank engine the entire time I was there… then again, I didn't see many steam engines at all."

Thomas smothered a snort, while Percy looked over at Gordon. "So, who doesn't shunt again, Gordon?" he asked. Gordon went as red as James' paintwork - again - and spluttered indignantly. "But a Pacific?!" he finally managed. "We're far too large! We'd derail! That's why tender engines of our size don't shunt."

Scott shared a look with Thomas and Percy.

"Well, Vinnie seemed to think that engines of our size do shunt, and he came storming over, smoke billowing everywhere - he looked like he was a bull about to go on a rampage! - and so I simply puffed out of the way. The idiot didn't slow down at all, so when the signalman changed the points he went roaring down a siding and crushed a boxcar into splinters! As you can imagine, the managers weren't happy with him, and even less so when he began spitting vitriol about me."

"What a rude engine," sniffed Duck. "I hope he got what was coming to him."

"He did," Scott replied. "They told him I was famous, and a privately preserved engine - and then he wasn't so cross. He wanted my former owner to buy him! But Mr Peglar wouldn't… The managers withdrew him on the spot. Last I heard he went to a scrapyard somewhere in Ohio." "A horrid fate for a horrid engine," agreed Gordon. "Serves him right! Imagine attacking other engines!" "He was notorious for it, apparently," Scott sighed. "The diesel shunters all told me he would bash them around, thinking that because he'd survived this long that he would be preserved. Thought no one would touch him. They got the privilege of dragging him into the out-of-use siding."

A few of the engines who had worked under British Railways were stunned at the idea of a steam engine bashing about shunters, just because he believed he would be preserved. "If we'd done that back on the Great Western..." muttered Duck, horrified. "Something was wrong with that engine."  "Not even the diesels would!" agreed Oliver. 

"And then there was Beau," mused Scott, with a low chuckle. Gordon looked over, confused. "What kind of a name is Beau? It's a term for a male suitor!" "What kind of a name is Flying Scotsman," retorted Scott. "It's an express train. Engines have odd names sometimes, you know that!"

Gordon grunted, and looked away. A few of the engines laughed at that, while Edward just smiled. "It's hard to try and understand other cultures sometimes, isn't it?" he said softly. Gordon sighed. "That's true enough, I suppose," he grumbled.

"Beau was the old 'American' type engine the San Francisco Belt Railroad was renting to pull enthusiast trains up and down the line." "An 'American' type - you mean like me?" asked Edward, a little surprised. "Not many of us still in steam, after all." "He was an ancient engine," grinned Scott. "Built in 1875, apparently. He's nearly a hundred!" "That's not special," sniffed Gordon to himself. "Skarloey and Rheneas are over 100 years old, and that engine Duke they found not too long ago isn't much younger." "Doesn't make Beau any less special," Scott retorted. "Especially because he was such an odd sort! He told me he used to work for a silver mine out in Arizona, and he had stories that'd make your steam turn to ice!"

"Ooooo, tell us one!" peeped Percy. "Well, there were several stories, such as raids by Native Americans, and accidents on stretches of line like 'devil's back'! Now that's a story to tell. Apparently, for nine years there were accidents on the same stretch of line. No one knew what caused 'em - but at least twice a year, a freight train would go hurtling off at speed! Engine crews and their locomotives taken in the blink of the eye, until finally one year things changed." The engines all watched intently, drawn in by the story.

"The driver and fireman had the local signalman on board, and for once the trainwreck didn't kill them! Instead, according to Beau, at the last moment the signalman threw the engine into reverse, right before the train crashed. At least, Beau thought it was the signalman. No one was ever quite sure - but what's curious, is that signalman was involved in the first accident, all nine years ago. And after that accident, the stretch of line became as safe as anything, well, apart from the occasional runaway."

"Wow! That is a really good story! Very chilling!" chirped Percy.  "Thank you," chuckled Scott. "But I'm not much of a storyteller - you should hear Beau! Now there's an engine who can weave together a tale."

Scott yawned, and Gordon coughed pointedly. "Right! Everyone back to your own sheds! Scott's tired - you can pester him another time." The engines all huffed, and a bunch of them shuffled off to sleep in the carriage sheds, not really wanting to make the trek back to the other side of the island this late in the evening.

Edward, though, sidled up alongside Scott, the two watching as everyone else fell asleep. "You changed the name, didn't you?" Edward murmured. Scott looked over. "Oh?" "In that last story - it was Devil's Elbow, wasn't it?" Scott hummed softly. "So you had heard that story, eh?" "Their government hushed it up cause of World War One, but an American soldier told me about it," Edward replied softly. "It's not a story they wanted to admit to, especially not to foreign press."

Scott didn't reply for a moment, instead gazing out the shed at the stars. "You're not wrong. I cut that story into ribbons because of the ending - Beau apparently had had that signalman as a driver for some years prior to the first accident. You can imagine what that felt like for him."

There was another brief pause.

"Did you enjoy your trip to America?" "I did. As wild as it was, I enjoyed seeing more of the world. Maybe one day I'll get to see more."

Sitting there, neither Scott nor Edward knew how true that statement would one day be.

Back to Master Post

[noble-atomics-railway]

17. Branchline

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Based on this photo of the River Tillingham near Rye. I saw it and it screamed Thomas as me.

Photo from Steam Days - Mar 1994

[duskstargazer]

TrainTober Day 14 - Siding

In the Sidings now

He hadn’t had the best life for a working engine, nor even an engine built with what a fledgling railway had on hand.

But he couldn’t say he hated it.

Mr Topham Hatt was a good man. Odd, sure, but determined. Resolute.

He had built an engine from nothing, then followed up with three more - each improving slightly. Again, these engines had come from spare parts the nearby shipbuilding firm hadn’t needed.

And they’d run a railway for nearly a decade.

Glynn had been the first to fail. First, his old boiler had worn itself out - a consequence of building an engine with discarded parts. Topham had then built a new boiler and mounted it on the back, with the old one used to stabilize him so he wouldn’t oscillate or tip over while in motion.

Then his chassis started to show excessive wear.

“Not to worry, sir.” Glynn had said. “I’ll manage.”

Mr Topham Hatt wasn’t having it. He said he didn’t want Glynn failing and upsetting the passengers nor timetables. Glynn knew the real reason - Mr Topham Hatt didn’t want Glynn overworking himself. He didn’t want to see one of his engines work themself to scrap iron.

Even still, the old orange engine had been relegated to use as a spare engine until even this was no longer feasible. Then he was left in the siding as Mr Hatt figured out how to proceed from there.

As Glynn was moved from siding to siding, he gained the impression Mr Hatt was hiding him away. Or hiding him from… someone. Glynn never dwelled on it.

He met Thomas when the tank engine took charge of the branch line. Thomas… was amazing. He was big, strong, and a clear sign that Sir Topham Hatt’s railway would, in fact, withstand the test of time. If it could go from ramshackle ‘coffee-pot’ engines to a six-coupled tank engine of Thomas’s size running the railway in just twenty years, then there was nothing it couldn’t do.

Glynn just wished he could be there to see it.

[hazel-of-sodor]

Traintober25 Day 25 Unsaid

Day 25-Plinth

Other Stories

Other Days

There's been an accident.

The news spread up and down the line, slowly at first, then like wildfire. 

In the years to come things wouldn't be said.

It wouldn't be said how the news came from solemn trucks, pulled by a shaken engine. Every engine was immediately on edge. Trucks loved accidents, for them to be so grim…

Years later when pieces of scrap from the accident were placed upon a stone slap to memorialize the accident, Tidmouth’s desperate run to the nearest signalbox was left out.

When the good Reverend retold the stories years later, he left out how every signal on the line dropped to danger almost as one.

It was left unsaid how the fastest engine was being readied for the run when the No.1 came sliding into the yard, fast enough they barely cleared the points before derailing. Cutting off the yard master's demands of ‘just what do you think you're doing!?’ with a desperate plea of just one word through shining golden tears.

RUN

It was never told how the workmen dove from the express engine without being told, how the pacific started with a roar, racing into the night.

Stanier never told how Sir Topham Hatt had called him in the middle of the night on bended knees, begging for someone, anyone to try to save his engine. He only told his bosses he owed Hatt a favor from their Swindon days.

It's never said who holds the record for the fastest climb up the Marion Incline, how it wasn't by any express before or since, but by a desperate Pacific.

Hatt's words to Henry at the scene of the accident are said in the books, but never that Hatt was on his knees again in the snow as Henry’s face flickered and faded.

The LMS never told how a southbound express pulled by one of their brand new Princess Royals was passed by a Gresley Pacific hauling a wreck on a flatbed in the morning light, the younger Pacific being quickly left behind despite their best efforts. They never said it inspired their rebuild of said Gresley four years later.

It was never said how the No.4’s valve gear was never the same after this run. That his desperate run was far faster than it had been built for.

Sir Charles Hatt would admit he had been unsure of following in his father's footsteps when he was younger, even as he took an apprenticeship at Crewe under his father's old friend Stanier.

He never said the sight of his engine racing into Crewe Works behind Gordon, battered, bent, and fading on a flatbed, was what had convinced him.

It was never said that the engines surrounded Tidmouth during the No.4s desperate run, the railway brought to a standstill as they pleaded with the Lady to grant him speed, to spare their No.3.

Lady Hatt never said she held her husband as he fell apart that night for his white elephant. 

It was never said that a young Charles Hatt worked around the clock to save his engine. Such a thing would be against regulations.

It was never said word spread through the LMS engines, of a desperate race against time, of the first Pacific racing death itself along their rails. It was said the LMS coveted the North Western, that they believed it should have been theirs by right. It was never said this meant the LMS engines considered the stricken engine as one of their own, that prayers to the Lady spread across Midland metals.

It was never said the Princess Royal told the Greselys in London of their brother's flight. It was never said the timings for the LNER trains were shattered in the days to come, the Pacifics of the North Eastern making their offerings of speed to the Lady so that their brother's effort would not be in vain.

It was never said that Gresley drew a copy of stolen blueprints from long ago from memory, that Silver Link himself was sent thundering towards Crewe with plans.

Stanier was not a sentimental man towards his engines. That did not mean he was uncaring, or unmoved. It was not said that his genius and guile, bolstered by the faith of his engines, forged a miracle.

It was never said the Lady heard the engines prayers, or that she guided the hands that reshaped iron and steel, to turn wreckage into living metal.

It was never said that the enginemen, bound to their steeds of iron as they were, turned to their God as their engines had turned to their Lady.

It was never said the trucks of the North Western held a watch for those lost in the accident, more at once than had been destroyed since the war,  for trucks are said by many a railway man to be faithless things. It was not said they asked Caomhnóir to stand before the Lady for their fallen kin.

It was never said the sparks from the hammers and axes of Crewe shone with Golden light as they worked, that the air grew heavy with what was wrought.

None of this was said.

That didn't change the truth of it.

A/N: Hello Loves! *Cackles* I've been waiting for a *month* to post this. Love Y'all!