Your prompt word this week is
DRIVE
The first thought that came into my mind relating to this week’s prompt is to drive a vehicle. But, of course, as with so many words, there are multiple meanings. Those vehicles might be parked on a drive, for example, or we may go out for a nice afternoon drive in the country. But we also have drive – we might be driven to the end of our wits or, in a positive light, we might be driven to do good or to achieve. What does this week’s word mean to you?
Fact or fiction, prose or poetry, I would love to read your thoughts on this week’s prompt, but there’s no obligation to share your writing. Here is the work you shared on the last prompt FLYING.
Flying has many meanings.
Planes and passports.
Freedom and escape.
But for me, flying has always lived somewhere else — inside sleep, inside knowing.
Since I was young, I’ve had flying dreams. Lucid ones.
The kind where the body rests, but the self rises.
I remember one vividly.
I was seventeen.
My boyfriend had gone silent — the old kind of silent, back when we only had landlines and waiting could stretch for days. No texts. No explanations. Just absence.
I lay on my bed crying, staring at the ceiling, when something shifted.
The heaviness lifted.
And so did I.
I was flying — effortlessly — over a place I had never seen before. Streets unfamiliar, houses strange. Then I looked down and my chest tightened.
There was his car.
Parked outside a house.
And there he was, kissing another woman.
The moment snapped.
I dropped back into myself, awake and devastated, grief settling where wonder had been.
The next day, when he finally showed up, I asked him calmly who the other woman was.
He went pale.
Said there was no other woman.
So I told him what she looked like.
Where they were standing.
What I had seen.
He didn’t deny it then.
He just said, You are a witch, and told me he was breaking up with me.
I smiled — through the ache — and said, Good riddance.
And told him never to show his face in my presence again.
That was the day I learned something important about flying.
It isn’t always escape.
Sometimes it’s truth arriving early.
Sometimes it’s the soul refusing to be lied to.
And sometimes, flying is simply the courage to land —
and walk away.
One Last Flight
i’d be flying to and fro through endless skies,
chasing hours just to reach you,
counting heartbeats in the clouds,
anywhere that leads me to you.
i’d trade my sleep, my sense, my pride,
every truth i ever knew,
just to steal one final moment—
flying back to be with you.
Grounded
She says she’s
flying to Florida
but she’s not;
she’s just riding
in a plane; just
sitting and waiting
until Florida arrives.
He says
gummies set him free
let him fly
but…
I know what they mean.
Sandra asked me to
climb that stepladder,
hang that family photo.
Every rung was a tether.
I do all my flying
around 3AM
in bed.
Susan Batten:
Into the Blue
We’re soaring,
we’re diving,
now planing,
no stalling,
a flutter of feathers,
bright-eyed in the sun.
We’re floating,
we’re drifting,
now circling,
now shifting,
no breaking formation,
just motion as one.
Tony:
The Theft is not a leak,
it is a silent pact between man and the horizon.
We tear ourselves away from the ground not out of pride, but out of confidence,
as the child lets go of the hand to learn the world.
In the air, everything becomes essential.
The superfluous falls, fears fall silent,
and the heart beats at the right altitude.
We discover that the height does not move away,
she reveals.
Each Flight is an inner watch.
We carry few visible things there
but many mute hopes.
The sky does not offer answers,
it offers clarity.
Then comes the return to earth,
more humble, more lucid.
Because the one who knew the Theft
never looks at the ground the same way again :
he now knows
that the essential weighs nothing
and yet supports everything.
I had never been out of the UK until 1991 when Hubby and I went to Amsterdam for our honeymoon. It was a three day budget trip courtesy of British Rail via the ferry and train and I was more excited about that than getting married!
However, my first experience of flying was two years later when we returned to Amsterdam for our anniversary.
I was like Garfield, fascinated as I looked out of the window at clouds, or was it the same cloud? I don’t know. I took pictures anyway. A lot of pictures!
Hubby told the air hostess it was my first time, and I was invited up into the cockpit to meet the captain. Of course after 911 this privilege is totally out of the question in flight now, but at the time it was very exciting to be shown our altitude, where we actually were and to have so much explained to me.
Back in my seat I was given a kiddie pack of crayons, postcards and badges, feeling extremely giddy with excitement. I felt wonderful.
Since them we have been to Dublin by air from Southampton, and when I worked for the bank I had a business trip to Luxembourg, Geneva and Milan before returning to Heathrow on the fourth day. I was shattered!
In 2010, I went to NZ on my own for two months. I was entitled to a pensioner discount through the bank and went first class. Oh wow. What an experience and I was treated like a queen for the trip, both ways.
In 1996, Hubby arranged a helicopter ride for my 40th birthday. He couldn’t fit me in for my actual birthday, but having it the weekend before was a godsend as my trip was the last thing I shared with my dad.
We flew over the hospital and I took pictures of the wing he was in then got the film developed quickly so that I could share it with him when I visited. I bought a stuffed gorilla I called Chopper from the hospital shop and gave it to my Dad with a picture from the air of where his ward was.
He was so excited for me.
Sadly the following day he had a massive heart attack and never regained consciousness. I spent my 40th birthday at the ICU, having taken my cake in to share with the staff. My birthday was ‘different’ but I had my dad who was breathing on his own, but still unconscious.
He died the following afternoon, with Mum holding one had and me holding the other.
Let Them Fly
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
though placards foretold prosecution.
And his Mother, the Queen, told him not to climb trees
because of his weak constitution.
But Humpty believed he could do as he pleased.
He’d learned nothing of life on the brink.
Accustomed to ordering courtiers around,
rules didn’t apply to him.
And over the wall were the streets of the town,
pavements bustling, like on TV,
and girls! Although Mother said most were depraved
and no better than they ought to be.
He ogled, not having been taught how to curb appetites
or base cravings at all.
Some waved, and – excited – he waved back… And wobbled.
And Humpty, he had a great fall.
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men,
paramedics, surgeons, and physicians
couldn’t put Humpty together again
as the flowerbeds absorbed his emissions.
Parents, don’t shelter your chicks from the world,
lest their values and goals become mangled.
Release to the wild and assist to adapt
in the hope that they don’t end up scrambled.
The Sky in my Pocket
The father stood on the balcony,
hands in pockets,
eyes on the evening sky
as if it owed him an answer.
Planes crossed like silver commas
in a sentence the clouds were writing.
His son, barefoot, cape made of an old towel,
A mask made of imagination,
ran in circles,
spinning the air into a festival.
“Dad,” the boy said,
breathing lightning into the quiet,
“do you think flying is only for birds and billionaires?”
The father smiled the tired smile
of someone who had once believed
in everything.
“Flying?” he said.
“That’s for superheroes.
And people with permission.”
The boy stopped.
Cape fluttering like a small flag of rebellion.
“No,” he said softly.
“Flying is for people who remember.”
The father looked up again.
The sky looked blank.
The boy looked up too,
but his eyes were different,
as if they had secret access.
“Dad,” he whispered,
“the sky isn’t empty.
It’s full.”
“Full of what?” the father asked.
The boy spread his arms wide
like a small prophet of wind.
“Roads,” he said.
“Invisible roads.
Wind-roads.
Thermal highways.
Air that knows where it’s going.”
Then, with a grin,
“Birds don’t ask for directions.
They just trust the invisible.”
The father blinked.
Something inside him stirred,
a memory of his younger self
running without reasons.
The boy hopped onto a chair,
then the railing,
like he was auditioning for the sky.
The father reached out instinctively.
“Careful!”
The boy laughed.
“Dad, don’t worry.
I know gravity.”
The father said,
“Gravity pulls you down.”
The boy nodded.
“And there’s another one.”
He stepped down, suddenly serious,
like a hero removing his mask.
“There’s a gravity that pulls you back, Dad.
Back to old fear.
Back to ‘don’t try.’
Back to ‘what’s the point.’”
He tilted his head.
“That gravity is heavier.”
The father’s throat tightened.
He didn’t know children could name
the invisible weights.
The father said,
“Flying is complicated.
Physics. Engines.
Hard math.”
The boy shook his head.
“Birds don’t do math, Dad.
They don’t write essays
called Why I Deserve the Sky.”
The boy’s voice turned poetic,
as if he’d swallowed a constellation.
“They don’t justify.
They don’t negotiate.
They don’t overthink.”
He leaned in, conspiratorial.
“They simply open themselves…
to what can’t be held.”
The father stared at his son
as if he’d just watched
a small miracle walk into language.
The father said quietly,
“Still… flying is risky.”
The boy’s cape lifted in the breeze
like a sentence about to begin.
“Dad,” he said,
“flying isn’t the opposite of falling.”
The father frowned.
The boy continued,
voice steady, eyes bright,
“Flying and falling are siblings.
Both make your stomach forget its manners.
Both make your heart beat loud.”
Then he smiled.
“The difference is…
falling is gravity’s decision.”
He tapped his own chest.
“Flying is yours.”
The father felt the words
land somewhere deep,
not in his ears,
but in the place where courage lives
and gathers dust.
The boy tugged at his cape
and struck a ridiculous pose,
chin high, arms out.
“I’m a superhero!” he declared.
The father laughed.
“Which one?”
The boy thought for a moment.
Then he said:
“I’m… Captain Almost-Brave.”
The father’s laughter softened into tenderness.
“And what do you do, Captain Almost-Brave?”
The boy’s voice became a hymn.
“I save people from small lives.”
The father blinked.
“Small lives?”
The boy nodded.
“From lives where they stop dreaming.
From lives where they forget they can rise.”
He stepped closer to his father
and pressed a hand to the man’s chest.
“Dad… your superpower is still here.
It’s just sleeping.”
The father swallowed hard.
The sky darkened.
The first star arrived
like a pinprick of promise.
The father spoke quietly now.
“But I can’t fly,” he said.
“Not really.”
The boy looked up at him
as if he’d just heard
the saddest sentence in the world.
Then he said:
“Dad… you’ve been thinking
flying is distance.”
He pointed at the plane
crossing the sky like a shining thought.
“That’s one kind.”
Then he turned the father’s face gently
toward the horizon.
“But the real kind is altitude.”
The father’s eyes narrowed, listening.
The boy spoke slowly,
like someone opening a locked door:
“Internal flying is when your perspective changes.
When your fear stops being the whole sky
and becomes one cloud in it.
It’s when your pain
stops being your identity
and becomes your weather.
It’s when your problems
don’t disappear…
but they shrink
because you grew.”
The father felt something in him lift,
not his body,
but his spirit,
as if the boy had opened a window
inside his ribs.
The boy added softly:
“Dad… internal flying is when you stop being stuck
and start being in motion.
Even if your feet never leave the ground.”
The father looked at his son,
this small human with a towel-cape
and a universe in his mouth.
He whispered,
“So you’re saying I can still fly?”
The boy smiled,
a smile like sunrise on tired days.
“Yes,” he said.
“Because flying isn’t a place.”
He took his father’s hand
and squeezed it like a promise.
“It’s a decision.
To rise above the story
that tried to cage you.
To stop narrating your life like a warning.
To remember
you were never meant to crawl.”
And as the wind moved through them,
not as weather,
but as blessing,
the father felt it…
That quiet, impossible lift.
Not in his feet.
In his mind.
In his heart.
In the part of him
that still wanted to believe
the sky was not above him…
but within him.
And for the first time in years,
he understood:
Some people never board a plane,
yet fly farther than the clouds,
because they learn to rise
inside themselves.
Heavy Gale
The sails are close-reefed
a raging storm
blows the seas to flying shreds
but we will break the record
because the speed
was never so high before!
A shimmer cleaves the morning air
A spark of emerald fire;
From unseen bough to hidden bloom
It mounts on wings of pure desire.
No trumpet sounds its entrance bright,
No herald marks its way
Yet in its flying, dawn is crowned
And night dissolves to day.
O little sovereign of the leaf,
Whose heart outpaces time,
You hang between the earth and sky
As though the world were rhyme.
In flying stillness, poised and sure,
You teach the soul to see
That motion is but spirit’s breath
Made visible and free.
When mortal thought grows dull and bound
By gravity of care,
Recall the green evangel there
Suspended in the air.
For beauty needs no rooted throne
Nor empire carved in stone
Its flying is its testament,
Its freedom all its own.
Fancy Flyer
Feathers flex
Lift, loft, linger … land
Yesteryear
Indigo
buNting visited my yard
Graceful avian
“I am flying. I’m trying. OK?”
Said the bird to his mama one day.
Then she jumped in the nest.
Pushed the chick out. The rest
is now history. He’s flying. OK?
Deadly Revenge
(I do have a feathery friend, (well, that’s what I presume), who visits my window regularly, peers at me, pokes around, gives its piece of mind and then flies off. At times I do have this feeling that (s)he is trying to have a conversation with me though we both don’t understand each other’s language. Or at least I don’t.
It also occurs to me at times that as a species we can be quite an irritant to our other co-inhabitants whom we do not take seriously at all. What happens if we become the cause of them flying off the handle?
In the conversational open verse I have tried to use the prompt suggestively and not directly on an experimental basis. Hope it will be acceptable.)
Those who are unfamiliar with Mrs. Crow, she is my neighbourhood busybody, who makes it a point to visit me off and on with her broken pencil and dogeared notebook and a tattered tote bag bursting with agonizing advice. I have versified my conversations with her on my Poetry Blog out of sheer frustration born out of my inability to give apt retorts to her frequent jibes and snides towards human species at large.
Here is the latest…
https://mindspeak-vanderloost.blogspot.com/2026/01/unsolicited.html?m=1
And then….a long break…without intimation
But a few days ago
Mrs. Crow
Is back
After a long self-imposed hiatus
With her penetrating gaze
And corvine sneers
“Oh dear!” She sighs with exaggeration,
“I hear you have put on public domain
My revolutionary ideas on ideal living
Without my explicit permission!!”
“Well!” “Before I could manage a suitable reply
“I was thinking of patenting them,” She sounded morose
“I am sorry!” I could hardly disguise my honest consternation,
“I did not know…”
She was anything but pacifiable,
“Have you humans ever been loyal to anyone?”
“I agree it was a mistake…” I started
“Mistake? It’s BETRAYAL…unpardonable!!!!
Have I told anyone how you snore like a
blasted …….” (unprintable comparison)
“That’s rude…” I spat with annoyance
She looked smug, “That’s just to make you realise how it hurt…
Tit for tat…learnt from your despicable tribe”
“Then go away if you hate us so much…” I cried.
“No…not that easily my friend.” She jeered
“I am yet to teach you a few more things.
Don’t ‘sorry me’ ever again…”
“I can’t promise,” I said with relish.
She flapped her wings,
“Then I can’t promise either…”
With that she was off leaving me wondering
What’s next in the offing.
***
A week later I found a dead rat supine on my balcony. The day next a greasy kitchen napkin neatly stretched on the clothesline. A few days back it was a crinkled piece of chapaati wrap. Yesterday a crooked fork was artistically thrust into the kitchen sponge bar kept out to dry. Kaalu and Chhinnu complained that their Pedigree was falling short these days.
I see Mrs. Crow has declared war and I just have to endure her wrath silently…patiently.
Until she cools down…
And we sign a peace treaty amicably.
Guess I have to take the first step forward.
10 Wind Blowing Facts About Birds
This is not a super fact post but a post featuring ten wind blowing facts about birds. Let me rephrase that, ten mind blowing facts about birds. Sorry for flying that pun in your face.
My super facts are true based on reputable sources, despite being surprising or disputed. A super fact is also important and educational, unlike typical trivia. I consider the last seven bird facts below to be trivia and therefore not super facts. However, I hope my ten bird facts will at least raise some eyebrows and be somewhat educational. I have listed the ten facts below and if you want to learn more about them you can read the rest of the post.
- There are flying Turkeys
- Birds are Dinosaurs
- Wind power saves a lot more birds than it kills
- Birds don’t pee
- Birds can use Earth’s magnetic field to navigate
- Some birds sleep while flying
- Birds have hollow bones, but they’re super strong
- Some birds use tools
- Swifts can stay airborne for 10 months
- Chickens can recognize up to 100 faces
Click here to find out about these fascinating facts
Master Horse Whisperer
in pine-lit winter
a woman and a
moon swept
horse stand
she speaks in pauses
not commands
the slow language of trust
reins hang loose
as if the wind itself
were holding them
the horse listens
with his whole body
ears flicking –
muscles ready like wings
waiting for the moment of flight
not flying from fear
but flying from freedom
they move together –
two spirits walking
the same breath
leaving a trail behind
them that looks
for a moment –
like something the sky
might have written in the snow
Sillyfrog’s Blog:
Nope
I’m not even a small fan of flying.
Once was enough for me trying.
The Law of Gravity was found
With our feet on the ground.
That kind of “fun” is nothing I’m buying.
Wings
I used to have a fear of flying
I was once afraid to let myself go
How many things did it keep me from trying
How often was I unable to go
Out of my comfort zone
Taking a chance
I looked to the future
With fearful glance
Until you came
You gave me wings
You opened my eyes to a million things
Possibilities appeared where once there was none
And it seems the adventure has just begun
For every day I learn something new
From my fearful nest
I finally flew.
Poetry – Cabbage After Christmas:
Blushing clouds
oh lovely day…
now near dusk
unspooled ribbons
rosy-peach
weave quietly
through sky, and I
proclaim the Lord’s favor…
Shekinah glory
God’s presence radiant!
heart’s spirit spreads wings
lifted high…
flying–
Morning sky exhales
wings stitch light into blue air—
feathers learn the wind.
The earth loosens its grip as
thoughts go flying with birds.
Rall:
flying
is a nightmare
especially at airports
im a terra firma creature
thank you
Through the window yearning so strong
Resonating around with a song
Telling the world the story within
Running a race from what has been
Like a broken relic with a sad song
Flying on air stories of lifelong
In a calm though painful manner
Through the window
Risks
flying fish exhales
out of elemental safety
—risks it all to soar
Penny Candy
The bell over the mercantile door gave its thin little jangle, forcing Hester Crowe to look up from her ledger. When she saw the three children- barefoot, wind‑chapped, and wearing more patches than cloth- she moved to stand behind the cash box, a scowl already forming on her thin lips.
They clutched a single penny between them. As the children of a poor sharecropper, a penny for candy was a bigger cause for celebration than any Christmas they’d ever known.
“Lord help me,” Hester muttered, snapping her quill down.
The children drifted toward the counter, whispering, pointing, backing up, starting over.
First it was the lemon drops. Then the licorice twists. Then the barley sugar. Then back to lemon drops. Every choice seemed to require a committee vote.
Hester’s jaw tightened. “You got a penny, not a fortune. Make up your minds.”
Her curt words and constant humphing did nothing to spur a decision- if anything, it only made their choosing harder. They fidgeted, second‑guessed, and whispered amongst themselves.
Finally, Hester’s temper boiled over and flew out of her mouth in a whirlwind of harsh words. “If you can’t pick faster than that, I’ll toss you out on your ear! You think I have nothing but time? I’ll tell you, I have much more important things to be doing than standing here waiting on…”
The children froze, wide‑eyed, then huddled again. At last the tallest boy- no more than eight- lifted his chin.
“We’ll take the peppermint stick, ma’am. The big one. We’ll share.”
Hester snatched the jar, slammed it on the counter, and yanked out one of the thick peppermint sticks. “About time. Thought I’d die of old age before you settled on anything.”
She wrapped the peppermint in brown paper, tied it with twine, and held it out. But before the boy could take it, she snapped, “And next time, don’t come in here lollygaggin’ like you own the place. I run a business, not a playhouse.”
The children shrank back. The smallest girl’s lip trembled.
They nodded, frightened, and turned to leave.
From the back of the shop, Mr. Crowe- a thin, stooped, and quiet man- had been watching the whole scene. He stepped forward now, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Hold on, young’uns.”
The children paused, eyes wide- as if they expected another verbal thrashing
Mr. Crowe reached for the fancy penny candy jar- the one Hester kept behind the counter for the townie children who always had a penny to spend.
“Go on,” he said gently. “Each of you take one. On the house.”
The children looked at Hester, then at him, then back to the jar. When he nodded, they each took a single piece. They whispered a quiet thanks and made a run for the door.
The bell over the door jangled wildly as the door slammed shut behind them.
Hester rounded on her husband. “You soft‑headed fool. Giving away candy like we’re some kind of charity. They already got what they paid for.”
Mr. Crowe didn’t raise his voice. He never did. He just looked at her with a tired sort of patience.
“After what you put ’em through, Hester” he said, “I reckon they earned it.”
Hester sputtered, searching for a retort, but none came. Mr. Crowe simply walked back to the storeroom, leaving her alone with her ledger, her temper, and the sour expression he had long since learned not to pay any mind to.
European Bee Eater
perched on a branch
watching
waiting
for its favourite meal
to fly past
a bee sighted
it opens
its richly coloured wings
and snatches it
right out of the air
delicious!
Utahan15:
flying further
stud in nose
ran red
thoughts ideas in my head
three am
on awake
and so on
***
Image credit: Quotesgram
Esther Chilton 
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