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..
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..
It was a damp Autumn day on the moors. Billy and I lived next door to each other in a row of workers’ cottages on a fifty acre farm. Billy was a shortish lad, about 4’ 10” tall with a shock of brown hair and brown eyes to match. He had a stocky muscular build that he used to good effect when he indulged in his favourite sport of boxing. In contrast, I was a comparatively lanky lad at 5’5”. I was always described as a bookworm, avidly reading every word that came my way, even on the sides of sweet wrappers and popcorn bags.
There was a dense mist on the moors on this particular day, the smell of damp grass was swirling around and visibility was limited to about three feet in all directions. We wandered through a small wooded copse in the bottom of a shallow valley where we came upon four unusual sheep, huddled together for warmth.
Billy said, ’Look Walt! Those are funny looking sheep, they’re bright yellow with frothy woolly coats. I wonder where they’ve come from?’
I nodded and made to get closer to them but they ambled away into the trees as I approached. ‘I’ve never seen any sheep like this before Billy; we’ll have to tell the farmer.’
‘You’re right there Walt! Let’s continue on our way and follow our noses. These trees are a rookery, that’s why there is so much noise from the roosting birds. I have never heard of rooks daring to interfere with sheep and these four look quite healthy.’
We continued to ramble across the moors and unusually we took a trail that led to some rocky stone walls that were boundary markers. To our surprise, we met an elderly man, wearing an old fashioned overcoat tied around the middle with a piece of string. He carried a long stick with a crooked handle and he was wearing a floppy hat. He was seated on a wall and he appeared to be consulting a map which was in danger of taking off with the wind.
‘Hallo lads!’ he said, ‘I’m Gabriel and I’m trying to locate four of my prize sheep, these are a special breed of Bourbon blondies that wandered away from the flock this morning.’
At this point a large sheepdog bounded into view and Gabriel gave him a pat on the head. ‘I’ve been trying to figure out where I am from this map, but I can’t make head or tail of it.’
Billy said, ‘We saw four yellow sheep in a copse just a couple of miles away back there. We can take you there if you like.’
‘Don’t worry, Bruce and I will find them. Thanks lads.’
It was then I noticed the map he was studying was a map of France but I didn’t like to mention it.
Next day the farmer searched high and low for the shepherd with the odd sheep but they were never seen again.
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..
A mysterious man entered the marketplace in the town of Northchester carrying an ornate, richly decorated chest.
‘Gather round folks I would like to reveal an instrument that could transport your innermost soul to places you could never dream of. I bring an instrument that is capable of changing your life forever.’
Then with a flourish, he pulled off the lid to reveal the contents of the box:
An ordinary antique black plastic telephone. A scratched, battered, extremely well used, old fashioned telephone.
The telephone suddenly rang!
The mystery man said. ‘This proves this is not just any old telephone, this is a special telephone.
A line to the timeline of history revealing the twists and turns of the life of the planet since time began.
To travel through the timeline one just needs to dial the year one wants to visit. No kidding! Past, Present or hopefully the Future.’
The worrying thing was when you dialed the future there was no response.
‘Why was this?’ You questioned the powers in authority.
Mr. Optimist replied. ‘There is no reply as the future hasn’t happened yet.’
Mr. Pessimist said. ‘There is no reply because there is no future. A bomb has wiped out the entire planet. There is no future!’
There was a third person present. An old man who shrugged and said. ‘Hang up the phone; it is written.’
The wise old sage in the company then addressed the mysterious stranger.
‘Sir! Excuse me please. I don’t think there could ever be such a thing as physical time-travel. The end result would never be the same. People would surely travel backward and forwards in time to undo or change an unfortunate action or to rectify a mistake. Surely one person’s mistake is another person’s gain.
Some of us may not actually exist. How many times have people admitted their child sadly was the product of an unfortunate mistake?
The past surely should be left in the past. The future is surely best left in the empty mists of time.’
The afternoon was cold without the strong winds we’ve been becoming accustomed to lately. Margaret and I decided to take a good long walk through Sheringham Park. This is a National Trust (NT), property, comprising a large wooded area surrounding Sheringham Hall. The woodland walks are carefully maintained by NT employees and are extremely pleasant to visit. There are many mature trees with Rhododendrons, Azaleas with several species of Magnolia.
A striking young tree, resplendent in its Autumnal golden yellow foliage is the first colourful image that strikes the eye, giving a flavour of the season. Many crunchy, brown Oak and Beech leaves were covering the ground along the way. I couldn’t help imagining a fine tilth of leaf mould all over our allotment if only I could solve the logistical problem of transportation.
We continued to wander along the woodland trail and next encountered this wonderful pink Azalea tree at the edge of the pathway. This was the only shrub in bloom at this time of the year, although many shrubs were covered in plump strong buds which promises well for a gorgeous display of blooms in the Spring.
Margaret came prepared with a walking cane to aid her balance on the uneven terrain. We passed a few people also enjoying the solitude of a woodland afternoon stroll, mainly couples walking the family pooch. Everyone we encountered strictly observed the social distance recommendations and cheerfully said Good Afternoon to us as we passed.
I was examining some rich green ferns, almost ankle-deep in Oak tree leaves here. The tangled branches in the background sadly feature a good number of branches that had been torn off the trees in a recent terrific storm.
We were just in time to see a Squirrel dashing up the trunk of a large Beech tree and I noticed the ground was covered with the empty husks of Beechnuts. Obviously there is a secreted hibernation larder nearby.
The normally prolific birdlife was either roosting or away on migration. However we did notice a Magpie, a Crow and a few smaller birds darting around. At the end of the afternoon we had walked two miles in about 50 minutes. A good healthy lockdown exercise experience for both of us.
This is a poem I wrote several years ago based on a real life Prime Minister of the UK from 1964 to 1970. 1974 and 1976
He sensationally resigned shortly after his 60th birthday. It has been suggested he was in the early stages of Altzheimers disease when he resigned and some recent tests seem to bear this out.
He died in 1995 aged 79 of colon cancer and Altzheimers disease.
He was buried in St Mary’s in the Isles of Scilly.
His wife Mary Wilson was an accomplished published poet.
Mary Wilson’s poem on Harold’s death….
My love you have stumbled slowly
On the quiet way to death
And you lie where the wind blows strongly
With a salty spray on its breath.
For this men of the island bore you
Down paths where the branches meet
And the only sounds were the crunching grind
Of the gravel beneath their feet
And the sighing slide of the ebbing tide
On the beach where the breakers meet
Lady Mary Wilson lived to be 102 passing away on 7th June 2018 in London and her ashes are buried in St Mary’s in the Isle of Scilly.
THE FUTURELESS FUTURE 
