This is a response to a Flash Fiction prompt from ‘Putting My Feet In the Dirt’, Writing Prompts hosted by ‘M’. Which can be found by following the link below..
As an independent healthy young man I developed into an equally independent healthy middle aged adult. I have been fortunate enough to share my life with strong minded independent women and my attitude to life has always been secure and ongoing. Like many others of my age group, I have always felt thoroughly competent and many years younger in my outlook than my years would outwardly suggest. I’m sure most people feel so much younger and stronger than their years and perhaps this is a natural reaction to the aging process.
As I grow older in years I feel I have always known my biggest fear and I take steps to avoid succumbing to the sad mental decline that is dementia. I dislike and I will eternally dread the thought of becoming totally dependent on others for many of my needs. I try hard to use my brain in as many ways as possible to attempt to delay the certain loss of mental acuity that invariably comes to us all, with the slow passing of the years. I keep fit and healthy and enjoy a balanced diet.
I use my brain in as many ways as possible and hope this is helping to slow and perhaps stem the tide of the insidious onset of any form of dementia.
I check my memory processes continually and carry out personal exercises in generating visual and verbal memory constructions.
I’m aware of the early symptoms of Mild Cognitive Impairment and I continually check myself for any of these telltale signs of cell degeneration.
I read up on anything and everything I can find to become fully aware of the signs of dementia and I research for encouraging changes in diet or lifestyle to combat this mental insubordination.
Perhaps I should say my absolute biggest fear and dread is succumbing to dementia and slowly becoming an insidious burden on my dear wife Margaret.
Prompt write a NATURAL and an UNNATURAL POEM ~~~~~
NATURAL Birds and the NATURAL survival power of flight, and the fight for survival.
THE FLIGHT TO FREEDOM
by John Yeo
We survived the unruly protection of the nest.
There were two of us left on the final day Pushing and fighting for survival of the fittest .
The others died slowly and wasted away. One day we were forced to fend for ourselves. Pushed into flight by our parents insistence Our shining iridescent plumage glistened
Feathers spread. becoming powerful wings. ~
Gliding, soaring gracefully, a bird on the move, A fully fledged miracle flying in heaven’s high. Soaring close to the clouds floating above. Survival in the folds of an unpredictable sky. Calling loudly with a natural melody Revelling in a new found freedom of spirit. A powerful instinctive natural urge to belong To the freedom of the life we were now to inherit.
A songbird in a cage trapped and captured to provide entertainment and amusement for the idle rich in Victorian times.
CAGED WITH SADNESS
by John Yeo
“Do you have to torture me, trapped in here? I enjoy your treats when I cry out to you. I think you like the sound of my voice Complaining in tune.” ~ “I particularly hate that hook by the window, Where you hang this prison sometimes. I envy the freedom of birds in flight. My soul breaks out in tune.” ~ “My heart is slowly wasting away I am losing the urge to keep up the fight Yet whenever I try to reach you to beg for release You reward my tune with a treat.”
I have been thinking about the ways we are spending our dual self-centred time during this horrible pandemic. It’s amazing how we constructively fill in the hours with hardly any time to spare to look around.
After a good breakfast we spend time nourishing our brain cells. Margaret completes daily crossword and sudoku puzzles published in the Daily Mail and I play online chess and scrabble against friends, including Margaret.
We both spend a good few hours on our allotment, Margaret has cut back on the allotment work now the winter is setting in and she sometimes chooses to spend time at home catching up with her other chores.
Sporadically, weather permitting lately, we will go for an active walk around the block together.
We both read a lot, laugh a lot and enjoy each other’s company a lot.
We also both enjoy taking part in regular Tai Chi sessions via YouTube, which stretches our muscles and keeps our joints flexible. The breathing and relaxation part of these exercises are a marvellous way to defeat the lockdown blues.
I will lose myself in enhancing my cerebral health by writing and composing poetry. In between using her creative cookery skills to produce some tasty evening meals, Margaret will then read everything I write and make some constructive criticism. Then after our evening meal we will spend the evening watching some favourite television programmes or listening to music.
This is a response to a Flash Fiction prompt from ‘Putting My Feet In the Dirt’, Writing Prompts hosted by ‘M’. Which can be found by following the link below..
I was curious to find an unexpected visitor on my doorstep when I returned from work today. I encountered a man who looked about ten years older than me leaning up against the doorpost. He had long fair hair, with striking green eyes. His eyes were noticeable as he had a permanent squint and he wore a pair of rather large plastic spectacles. He was over six feet tall and towered above me as he gave an impudent grin and said, ‘Hi! Pleased to meet you. I’m Damion, your long lost step-brother.’
These words were delivered with a broad West Country accent. I was taken aback and I looked up at him and replied, ‘Are you mad? I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Get out of here before I call the police and have you removed.’
‘Hear me out and I will explain, I promise you we’re brothers, we have the same father, George Alexander. I was born in Somerset, where our father had set up a second home with my mother. I was the product of that relationship.’ This was said with the same impertinent grin.
I responded angrily, ‘You’re obviously mistaken Damion! You look nothing like me and I don’t believe a word of your story. Now get out of here before I call the police.’
He nonchalantly grinned and pulled a large envelope from his pocket and withdrew some photographs.
This is a response to a Flash Fiction prompt from ‘Putting My Feet In the Dirt’, Writing Prompts hosted by ‘M’. Which can be found by following the link below..
Magwich, Megan and Mary had been friends for years. They’d all met up at Professor Merlin’s magical college in the depths of a root encrusted, mysterious, haunted wood. No one who graduated from this academy had any illusions about their future careers. They left as fully qualified witches.
Magwich was a tall slim attractive blonde, with blue sparkling eyes that had a habit of involuntary fluttering whenever she was concentrating. She wore her traditional black pointed hat at a jaunty angle that betrayed something of an impish sense of humour. Her parents were successful industrialists who hadn’t done much research when they’d sent her away to school. They were just happy to have her education completed at a school where she would be well looked after.
As a total contrast, Megan was born to be a witch, her parents were both steeped thoroughly in the magical arts and they knew exactly what they wanted for their only child. Her father was a practical working wizard who had enjoyed great success in curing people through his use of magical spells. He had been somewhat disappointed when he discovered he’d fathered a daughter, although he was genuinely proud of her. His wife Miranda thought the world of her bright, dark eyed daughter, with her long flowing black locks that hung freely down her shoulders. Megan was somewhat short and quite dumpy, which was a direct result of her mother spoiling her and over feeding her with tasty titbits from the family cauldron.
Mary, our third and most remarkable member of this trio of spellbinding witches was an individual character in her own right . She had bright reddish auburn hair and a fiery temper to match. Mary was an orphan. No one knew what had become of her parents, or indeed if she had ever bothered to be born to conventional parents. The story went that she was the offspring of an egg laying large black tabby cat and a red feral feline wanderer. Apparently they were shapeshifters who had been originally born in the shape of humans and were able to take the feline form at will.
Professor Merlin was seemingly an easygoing wizard who had educated many students over the centuries and inoculated them all with a sense of purpose. It wasn’t until you looked into his eyes that you realised there was a streak of steel running through his educational purpose.
Graduation day had arrived and Magwich, Megan and Mary were destined to become a coven in a far off nation, where they were to reside until they received further orders from the Professor.
Mary acted as a natural leader and she bluntly said.
‘Listen here you two, we haven’t been informed what this elusive sense of purpose is. I’m certain it’s not going to be pleasant for certain people and I need you both to be loyal and obedient to our coven. We are going to live in a place in the Black Forest in a country far away from here.’
Magwich flicked her blonde hair to one side, fluttered her right eye and spat on the floor. ‘Look Mary, I don’t take your orders but I respect your judgment. If we have to live together indefinitely I will do my best to tolerate you and your insolence but don’t push us too far.’
Megan scowled and nodded at these remarks and aggressively responded. ‘My Dad is an important practising wizard and he knows what this sense of purpose is. I have been shown the universal sign of a magical sense of purpose.’
With that she turned to Mary and administered a sharp pinch on her face that resulted in a scream of agony. Mary instantly retaliated and viciously pinched Megan back. Mary then savagely pinched Magwich and soon all three young witches were rolling all over the place pinching each other wildly, on the buttocks, in the face, literally everywhere.
Suddenly there was a loud shout as the Professor arrived and waved his magic wand and some sort of peace was restored.
‘I’m happy to see you have all administered several pinches of purpose to each other. Bear in mind you are all equal and I’m equally proud of you all. There aren’t any leaders among you. You will all work together or I will see you are reminded with some further unpleasant pinches of purpose. These will be stronger and more hurtful. Now go in peace and work together for the benefit of your coven.
Margaret and I enjoyed an interesting day trip by coach to Chatham dockyard, where we visited the sets and the background for the extremely popular ‘Call The Midwife’ TV series. We were both amazed at the ingenuity of the filmmakers and TV producers in turning a naval dockyard into a fairly convincing reproduction of the East end of London. We had an informative tour, presented by a guide who was appropriately dressed in the uniform of a 50’s NHS midwife.
We met up with our tour guide; a bubbly, smiling middle aged lady with striking yellow blonde hair, dressed in an authentic midwives uniform. She was exceptionally well informed and illustrated every area we visited by referring to a large book of photographs. We were astonished as she pointed out the various areas that were used as a background to several of the scenes in the series. It took some really creative imagination to construct a series about London’s east end and to film this in a naval dockyard.
The tour concluded with a visit to an interesting garden where several of the romantic scenes in the series were filmed.
After this interesting tour we went on to visit some of the ships and the naval artefacts that are the actual reality of Chatham dockyard. We wandered around a large comprehensive display of historic retired lifeboats, in a large hangar-like building. This was adjoining another large area that displayed some huge shipbuilding and repairing machinery.
We then made our way to our coach for the journey home.
The answer to this question goes back many years to the dim and distant past to my school days. In the days when pens were dipping pens that scratched on exercise books using an inkwell that transferred thoughts to paper. I remember I was always in my element in the English class where my imagination was allowed to run riot as we were all encouraged to write short stories and poetry. My fingers would become stained blue and sometimes the blots of ink would reach my face as I bit the end of the pen in absent-minded concentration. Sometimes the teacher would read out loud one or two particularly interesting pieces of work for the benefit of the rest of the class.
I remember one young lad who wrote about his life at home and the bruises his Mum and him would sometimes receive on a Friday night when his Dad returned from the local pub full of drink and frustrated anger. This was a story that wasn’t read out loud to the class but involved the headmaster and the police getting involved to stop this violence happening.
It was then I first began to realise the importance of writing and the changes writing could effect in our lives.
THE FLIGHT TO FREEDOM
CAGED WITH SADNESS 
DAMION
PROMPT ~ Write about why you write.
johnandmargaret1607 