PATTERNS

A prompt response to ~ http://thinkwritten.com/category/creative-writing-prompts/

271. Patterns: Write about repeating patterns that occur in life.

 

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PATTERNS

by John Yeo

 

Patterns: Write about repeating patterns that occur in life.

   Tom looked hard at that sentence on the wipe board.

     “Hey Walter! What the heck does that mean, patterns? What is the good Shepherd going on about? I mean what on earth does he mean by patterns that occur in life?”

  Walter, commonly known to one and all as the Swot, scratched his head vigorously. Rumour had it, the more vigorously the swot scratched his head, the less likely it was that he would come up with an answer.

    “I dunno what Mr.Shepherd means Tom, I’m not too sure how the patterns that do occur, and appear to colour our lives could ever be visible. Take the routine of an ordinary day. We rise, we live our lives in our own separate, totally different ways. We sleep at probably different times, for different lengths of time. Yet a pattern of behaviour has been formed. We need to sleep and we need the awareness of the day to express ourselves in totally different ways by waking up.”

   “Hmm! That seems like a broad interpretation of the question, Swot. Surely there are no visible patterns that occur, I mean. How about birth? There are so many ways a person can be born into this world, surely you will never form a pattern out of birth?” Tom said, more puzzled than ever.

  After another agitated scratch of the knowledgeable brain cell carrier, the Swot replied. “Yet an actual birth is a part of a pattern that occurs and re-occurs all over the world, and has done since the birth of humanity, thereby forming a huge undeniable pattern of life.”

   “Oh! Wow!” Exclaimed Tom, “I see what you mean! That could also be applied to death, everyone dies in innumerable different ways. Yet the pattern is there. An ever expiring pattern of people’s lives coming to an end, through death.”

  Walter grinned wickedly and gently remarked to Tom. “I think I see a certain pattern of behaviour when I observe the good Mr. Shepherd, teasing his lambs, by leading them to intellectual slaughter. A habitual pattern of events that occurs with annual regularity.

Copyright © Written by John Yeo ~ All rights reserved

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DREAMTIME

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Image©John and Margaret

A prompt response for ~ Inspiration Monday: FUTURE VETERAN

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DREAMTIME

by John Yeo

     Whenever I went to the village store on errands. Old Moses would always be there, sitting on his customary chair, delighting one and all with tales of the old days before the coming of the strangers from over the water. Tales of tribal practices and survival of the fittest in these vast, arid, dry lands. My all-time favourite stories would involve the running fights between his people and the heavily armed, over-laden, in-comers, as they traipsed through the bush, carving up the tribal lands into sections for themselves. Moses and his family were pushed further and further inland to take up residence in the harsh deserted hot dry interior of this huge land.

     The storekeeper, who was of mixed heritage, being the product of a union between a native woman and one of the incomers, would continually refill Moses’s glass with an endless supply of grog to encourage him and to loosen his tongue. Meanwhile the stores customers would sit in a circle on various upturned crates and other unconventional seating and listen avidly to tales of a wondrous life before the incomers arrived.

     Moses, tugged on his long matted hair and began to relay his latest tale. “One fateful day.” he began, “I was just a youth sitting around the bush campfire with the rest of my family, when there was a crashing and crunching of brush underfoot and a whole group of strangely attired newcomers appeared, brandishing some of their weaponry. Using sign language they roughly demanded food and water. The women of the tribe proceeded to fill some leaves with food and the strangers began to greedily eat the concoctions that were placed in front of them. Unknown to them we had eaten some bush tucker earlier and maggots were on the menu.
The strangers were directed towards the river bank to collect water from the river where they sat on a long log. I will never forget that day! The log came to life, and a huge alligator dragged one of them into the swamp, never to be seen again. They fired again and again into the water, emptying their weapons; we quickly overpowered the incomers then and left them by the river. I am old now, a veteran of many close shaves and wars. You and your children are the peaceful future of this wonderful land. Future veterans of your own lives and experiences.”

      “Moses have another cup of grog,” said the storekeeper bustling out of the door with a heap of supplies for some people in a truck that had pulled up.
Moses nodded his thanks and swallowed down the dregs of his first cup, handing his empty stained mug over to a young man, who helped around the store.

     “Moses,” I said interestedly, “You mentioned you were a veteran of your own experience and we are the future veterans. Where are the veterans of the past? “

     “Gone to the Dreamtime to be with many generations of once future, now long gone veterans.”

  I was forced to think about this.

Copyright © Written by John Yeo ~ All rights reserved

LITTLE BOY BLUE

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A prompt response for ~ Inspiration Monday: BLUE WITH ENVY

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Inspiration Monday: Blue with Envy

LITTLE BOY BLUE

by John Yeo

  Phillip and Jack were brothers, brought up in the privileged environs of the Surrey stockbroker belt, the brothers lacked for nothing. Father was a wheeler and dealer in the markets, Mother was a medical scientist employed by the local general hospital. Both boys attended nursery school together, then had private tutors right up to their years together at University.
    Yet, there were subtle, if not blatantly obvious differences between the two brothers. Stature was the obvious outward difference, Jack the elder of the two boys, was taller, more successful at attracting the girls, and seemed to be popular with all their school fellows. His passage through the hallowed halls of learning was cushioned and seemed easy all the way.
     Philip the younger sibling was always in trouble with someone, he had to fight his way through every situation that fate presented. Philip was six inches shorter than Jack, and aggressively aware of the obvious disadvantages that his stature seemed to confer on him. This sensitivity to his short stature was the trigger for some harsh retaliation to the many cruel jibes of his school fellows. Philip’s envy of his brother turned to an ingrained hatred that secretly burned with an eternal flame.

    Both boys became members of a rock group in university. Philip became known as Little Boy Blue and he played a horn, extremely well. Jack became the lead singer, known to all as Golden Boy.
   There was a memorable time when the brothers were together on a trip to India, the amazing lifestyles of the natives and the culture of Mother India, fascinated the two young men. Their Mother was descended from a large spread out family of high caste Indian people and they were overwhelmed with invitations to visit their many uncles and aunts spread out all over the subcontinent.
   Their Uncle Prahib was a mystic and his wife Sarita was a visionary who was very attuned to the auras that people exuded by their personality. The day arrived when the two brothers were introduced to the family.
Prahib was friendly and benevolent and welcomed them to their home.
     “You are so like your Mother Philip, and Jack you have inherited your Father’s looks and bearing!” 

     Sarita smiled, then suddenly went pale almost in shock. “You two are really brothers?” she questioned. “Your aura’s are so unlike each other. Jack; I see a golden cloud surrounding you. The path for you has been paved with golden opportunities and your future is enhanced by a rosy hue. Philip; I am frightened for you: You have a shocking blue aura that reflects your ingrained envious hatred!”
Philip blushed and ran from the room to the garden where he sat alone.
     Aunt Sarita and Uncle Prahib, were soon with him. Uncle Prahib, the mystic, said,
“Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn and stay with us here in Mother India.”

Copyright © Written by John Yeo ~ All rights reserved.

 

 

PICTURES IN THE SKY

A prompt response to ~ http://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

  1. In the Clouds: Go cloud watching for the day and write about what you imagine in the clouds.
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Image ~ Courtesy of Pixabay.com

PICTURES IN THE SKY

by John Yeo

    Peter and Pauline had climbed to the top of the steepest hill in the district, Old Tom’s Tor, the view from the peak was stunning, fields, mountainous valleys, and verdant green forests spread out before their eyes.

    Peter flattened himself on the soft green grass and lay back, enjoying the opportunity to rest in the glorious sunshine.

   Pauline laughed and joined him on the ground.  ‘This grass is so soft and comfortable we will have to be careful we don’t fall asleep in the warmth of the sun, look at the colourful wildflowers growing unruly and freely  all the way down the steep slopes: Beautiful!’ said Pauline.

     ‘You’re so right. Pauline, what a wonderful place; look at that sky, blue as sapphire, with milky white and creamy clouds scudding across freely. I can see shapes in those clouds, can you make out a flying horseman, led by an angel with her wings spread out.’

    ‘Yes! Oh yes, Peter! Isn’t that a wonderful sight? I must grab my iPhone and take a photo…Oh no, it’s changed already!… Do you see a map of the world? Britain and the United States are closer together on the sky map. The divisions between the separate continents and peoples are all blurred. That huge cloud breaking in from above seems to be taking control.’

      ‘Yes, Pauline that’s right a continual reflection of the changing patterns of the future! Look again and the picture is one of the powerful elements merging and becoming one with each other. The separations seem to be gone and the sapphire sky is the backdrop to an ephemeral forecast. Look flying birds with their wings outstretched chasing the dawn of a new age.’

    ‘Peter it’s getting late, we must make our way back down the mountain now, before dark sets in.’

     ‘Pauline I have a question for you; this magnificent background is the perfect place to ask. Pauline, will you marry me? We can be wed here, at the top of Old Tom’s Tor. I will arrange for a priest to marry us here. Please say yes.’

     ‘I thought you would never ask.’  laughed Pauline.

Copyright © Written by John Yeo ~ All rights reserved.

 

ARTISTIC DECAY

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A prompt response for ~ Inspiration Monday: ARTISTIC DECAY

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Grafitti (1)

Image courtesy of pixabay.com

ARTISTIC DECAY

by John Yeo

  We ran down the platform at top speed, the train had been sitting in the station for at least fifteen minutes.

  “C’mon Betty! Keep up, we mustn’t miss the train, I’ve been waiting so long to get this interview over with. Means a lot to both of us.” Joe said, literally tugging her along.

 “Alright Joe, I’m coming! Please don’t pull my sleeve like they. You will ruin my new coat, I bought it especially for this college interview. It will be great to go to the same Art college together.”

 “Wait, please wait!”  shouted Joe to the Guard who stood on the platform with a flag and his whistle, which he raised to his lips ready to set the train in motion. He smiled as the young couple dashed up and jumped into the nearest carriage.

  “Phew, that was close!” Joe went on, as Betty collapsed in the nearest seat to the door. The train soon pulled away from the station into the leafy countryside speeding through the rural beauty of England on the way from their hometown of Ware to the city of London.

It was then that they took notice of the other two passengers in the carriage, an elderly gentleman with a smartly dressed young lady, both were politely smiling, as Joe and Betty settled back into their seats.

 “Look at that wonderful view Joe,”  said Betty. “Beautiful farms and country houses set in acres of rolling countryside.

Joe grunted in reply, as he put his head down studying his iPhone intently.

The closer they got to the city, the more derelict and decrepit the buildings looked as the large blocks of flats and terraced houses with washing lines on the balconies, became views of factories and industrial units. The buildings were covered in graffiti; an amazing variety of shapes and patterns and pictures that seemed to accentuate the general state of urban decay.

Betty was shocked at this change of scene. “Joe, that’s disgraceful, look at that shocking rubbish and abandoned litter, piled around the buildings and the graffiti all over the walls!”

Joe looked up from his device and said, “Betty, I hate the rubbish and the piles of junk all over the place, but I think some of the graffiti is good and actually has the effect of brightening up the urban landscape.”

 Betty then replied, “Joe that graffiti is mostly rubbish and has no meaning, just block initials and hearts and zigzags.”

There was a polite cough as the elderly gentleman in the opposite corner of the carriage broke in. “I beg to differ, young lady, the graffiti is an example not only of urban decay it reveals the underlying artistic decay of the population. This is an example of youth expressing themselves in the nearest they can get to pure art.”

 Joe then looked closely at their traveling companion and gasped, “You are Sir Larry the television artist, who has made millions from art! We are off to college to be interviewed for our places.”

The young lady then smiled and said, “Sir Larry will be on the selection panel!”

Betty said, “I hope I haven’t put my foot in it by what I said.”

The gentleman smiled and said, “I am sure you will get a place, both of you, I am a prime example of Artistic Decay, I was a graffiti artist once a long time ago when I was young.”

Copyright © Written by John Yeo ~ All rights reserved

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