Charlie Sparkles - Window Cleaner

Image created in AI by Helen 

How’do, the name’s Charlie and winder cleaning's me game. Now yer may fink that’s not a very interesting job, but I’ll tell you wot, come wiv me and see for yerself.  Come on now, wot yer watin for?

Yer can carry that ladder fer me, we’re heading down Casey Street t’day. It’s always lively down there.  Keep up now, plenty of winders to clean. Here we are, number 15 is the start of me round. Just rest that ladder on that wall. Wot do you mean yer puffed? We haven't started yet.

Coming up then?  Follow me, that’s it. We’ll do the upstairs winders first. Pass’us me cloth. Well, would you look at this. See I told yer winder cleaning is interestin'. That’s Billy boy’s trouble and strife. Cor don’t she look good in them frilly knickers. They’ve only been married a year, shows don’t it?  Best come back to this winder when we’ve done the others eh. All right put yer eyes back in yer head and move down the ladder.

Right next door now to Mrs. Knight’s. Come on don’t dawdle.
“Ah, Mr. Sparkle. I have to go out for a bit. My husband is in he’ll pay you when you’re done. Make sure you clean them good, you hear.”
“Right missus.” 
She’s a bit of a toff is Mrs. Knight, but always good for the money. Her old man sounds a bit bale of hay, an' always has his nose in a captain hook whenever I catch sight of  ‘im. Probably see ‘im in that study of theirs. Have to tap on the winder to rouse him, expect.  Okay up the ladder do the bedrooms first. 

We'll tackle this 'er big one. I'll clean, you polish, right. Don't lean so far, you'll have us over. Oh my gawd! Take a gander into the corner there, just through that door. Do you see a full-length mirror? He can't see us but we can see him. He's a drag Torvill & Dean, fer the old folks home. I wonder if anyone's told him that red number with the black roses just doesn't work. What would his missus say if  she came  home now and found 'im in one of her dresses eh!  It's sights like this that's worth climbing the ladder fer.  Okay 'nuf ogling, plenty more winders to clean.
Do you still think this is a dull job then?  Wot's that you say? Do I need a partner? No mate, you'll have to get your own round.  This one's me retirement plan— I'm gonna write a book about what I see when I'm cleaning winders

The Ant and The Fly - Poem

 

Image created in Ai by Helen 

The Ant and the Fly went out to dine
Under the silvery moon.
They supped on wine and nibble cake
With a tiny silver spoon.

The Ant got down on one of his knees,
Pretty Fly will you marry me?
My heart is yours, replied the Fly,
But alas it cannot be.

I am a Fly, you are an Ant,
Our worlds are far apart.
I must decline with a tear in my eye
I’m sorry to break your heart.

I am sorry too, the Ant replied,
And so we must part.
With that he stood, and walked away
To the sound of a very loud FART!

©Helen A. Howell 2026
 

THE DAILY TROOPER Giant Flies Invade English Village

 

Image created in Ai by Helen 

It’s your roving reporter Henrietta Trowel from the Daily Trooper, bringing you an up to the minute account of the strange happenings in the usually tranquil village of Dunpharting. 

Yesterday, this idyllic village basked in the sunshine, as people went about their daily business untroubled. Now they are gathered with me in main street, all eyes focused above. The cobalt sky is, as I speak, spattered with dark shapes that seem to be flying in a formation. The whirring beat of their wings fills our ears. What are these creatures? And where do they come from? I’ll see what I can find out.

“Excuse me madam. Can you tell me what’s happening here?”
“It’s them there things in the sky, that’s what’s ‘appening.”
“You know what they are?”
“Oh yes. Am I on the news?” (Pats hair, looks about and smiles.)
“Yes, Mrs…? 
“Seeall. They’re ruddy great flies, that’s what they are. The size of rats. Flying rats, I tell you. Ooo, gives me the heebie jeepies. Imagine one of them landing on your cake. Look out, they’re coming down again!”

The people scatter like ants for cover, all except one brave man, who’s standing in the centre of the street. What’s he holding? I’ll get a closer look.  

“Excuse me Sir, what’s that you’ve got.”
“This? It’s a giant fly swat. Made it meself, Banged it t’gether in the garage over there. Here they come!”

The atmosphere is tense as the flies zoom down towards the main street. People have pressed themselves up against the walls of the buildings. The shops have all shut their doors and pulled down their blinds. The whirring noise is almost deafening as the flies approach. I can seem them clearly now; black bodies the size of a small football; eyes, round bulbous, like jellies wobbling in their heads; long gangly legs that dangle from beneath. Are these a result of some bizarre experiment gone wrong?

Wait a minute, there is some movement in the crowd. Several women have dashed out, large cans in their hands. I can just make out the words ‘Wipe Out Fly Spray.’

“Take that you hairy bastards.”  

The women have let loose with the insecticide, as the flies come in low. Oh dear, one lady has been knocked to the ground and the can grabbed off of her. The fly clutches it in its legs. Can these monsters think for themselves? The other women are racing back and forth like crazed things, spraying and screaming all at the same time. They’re herding the flies towards the man and his swatter. Look at him go. You’d think he was playing cricket for England. Wow that was a Flash shot if ever I saw one. The flies are bouncing off his swatter and rolling down the street. Now other men are dashing out with spades, shovels, anything large and heavy enough to squash the flies as they roll past.

You have to believe me readers when I tell you it is bloody battle field out here. The village folk worked together to defeat this enemy that invaded their space. The street is a mass of black goo and the air is now filled with the cheers of the crowd as they pat each other on the backs.

I’ll get one last word from the man with the swatter.

“Sir you handled that fly swatter with panache. How do you feel?”
“Ted’s me name and cricket’s me game. That’ll teach those flying buggers to come here.”
“Have you any idea where they came from or why they invaded your village?”
“We’ve no proof, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it had summit to do with that laboratory just a couple of miles away. I’ve heard they do strange things there.”
“Thank you and well done again.”

Dunpharting can now return to normal. Its quiet demeanour reigns again as once more it becomes the picturesque village that one expects from the English Countryside, because Dunpharting, there are no flies on you!

This is Henrietta Trowel signing off, until the next news breaking event.

© Helen A. Howell 

Cutting The Mustard - A story of love lost.

Image created in Ai by Helen

Marianne hummed as she cleared away the breakfast things. Gerry had gone upstairs to shower. She heard the water running and smiled. There was nothing she didn’t know about him, nothing at all. How long had they shared a life now, was it fifteen or sixteen years? She sighed.
 
Time has a habit of getting away from one, she thought.

The dishwasher packed, Marianne fetched the loaf of bread from the bread bin and gathered the ingredients to make her husband’s lunch. She had been doing this ever since they were first married. She stood, lost in a memory, a sweet memory, of how when she had first started packing his lunches she use to include a love note, and how when he would find it later in the day, would ring her and tell her he loved her too. She stared out, her eyes cold and unfeeling and wondered why time had to change things.

She heard his footsteps on the stairs and stopped buttering the slices of bread. He walked into the kitchen and smiled. She looked up and just for a moment her eyes softened. It was that smile of his that she had first fallen in love with. He was such a charmer, all the girls loved him, but it was her he had married. 

“Just going to collect my work papers from the study. Is my lunch nearly done?” he asked. 
“Just making it now.”
 
Marianne returned to buttering the bread. As Gerry left the room, she looked up and observed his figure. 
He’s put on weight, she thought. He’s always been careful about not doing that. He’s slipping. 

She scraped some of the butter back off the bread. “Must look after his health,” she murmured. I’ll certainly do that alright. It’s the least I can do for him. Her lips curled up at the corners, and her eyes sparkled.

She laid the lean pieces of ham down on the bread. Marianne gazed at it, lost in the myriad of thoughts that were playing through her mind: her own private movie.
So smooth, it reminds me of his skin and the feel of it against mine. His hands, so gentle, exploring my body, his lips pressed hard against my own. His hardness between my thighs as our excitement grew. Our bodies moved as one in blissful harmony, to meet in a crescendo of lovemaking that left us both breathless. Then sleep, sweet sleep within each others arms. Naked flesh against flesh. My breast cupped in his hand, his leg wrapped around my own.

"We were perfect together," she whispered. The resentment in her voice hung in the air like a heavy blanket, ready to suffocate the last of her emotions. 

 Gerry walked into the kitchen and placed his briefcase on the floor. “I’ve gotta go, Marianne. Hurry up with that lunch.”
“Will you be home for dinner tonight?” She already knew the answer but her voice never betrayed her feelings as she glanced up at him.
“Sorry, I’m working late again. I’ll grab a take- away and eat it at the office. Don’t wait up for me.”

Marianne’s eyes became cold once more as she looked at him. “Mustard?” She held the pot in one hand and the knife in the other. Her fingers were squeezed around the knife handle so tight that her knuckles turned white.
“Of course.” Gerry didn’t look up from the newspaper he was holding.
She spread the mustard on thickly. She knew how much he loved mustard, especially the hot sort—the perfect ingredient to mask the poison. 

How could he think I wouldn’t know? 

She wrapped the sandwiches and handed them to him. She had done her research over the last few weeks and knew the poison she had chosen, would take its time to work. She had mixed the calculated amount with sedulous care and if she had got it right, he would die in his lovers arms tonight.

A smile spread across her lips as she said, "Goodbye darling."

©2014 Helen A. Howell all rights reserved.

Time to - A Ghost Story

 

Mr. Trebea - created in Ai by Helen

Mr. Trebea glanced at his pocket watch. He hoped the train would be on time. The platform was filling with passengers and the porters were busy transporting the baggage of the first class ticket holders into position.

A cloud of smoke could be seen in the distance as the clacking of the wheels against the track became louder. A final puff of steam whooshed into the air as the carriages pulled to a halt. He looked at all the coaches that stood against the platform, one first class and four second class, then climbed aboard and took another look at the watch before he slipped it back into his pocket.
“Time to disappear,” he whispered.

The whistle hooted three times and the chug of the engine exploded into life as the train pulled slowly out of the station. The rumble of the wheels resounded on the metal track . The train picked up speed and soon a rhythmic clackety clack could be heard.

No one paid any attention to the portly man in the dark suit, top hat and brocade waistcoat, who carried a black notebook as he wandered down the corridor peeking into each compartment and scribbling into his book.

“No,” he muttered after several moments before he jotted something down. He closed the book with a snap and moved on to the next compartment. 
Must get it right. No room for mistakes, he thought. His hand came up to his well groomed moustache and his fingers grasped one end and gave it a twist, something he was prone to do while thinking. 

A child jumped up from her seat and came to stand by the door. He tipped his hat and smiled down at her through the glass. Her blue eyes, wide open, stared back at him, yellow curls fell about her face, framing soft pink features. She reached out a small pudgy hand and touched the glass window. He sighed, it was his decision to make wasn’t it? He opened his book and started to write.

“Lucy come away from there and sit down,” called a large woman, whose bonnet was tied so tightly under her chin that her cheeks looked as though they would explode. The child glanced back at her and then once more at Mr. Trebea. He could see the question in her eyes. He raised a finger to his lips and silently mouthed shush, then moved onto the next compartment.

He pulled the pocket watch out once more and tutted. Time is getting short. He closed its lid and slipped it away again before looking into the next carriage. He moved along checking compartment after compartment, observing and recording, while the occupants remained oblivious to his presence, that is, all except the golden haired child. He smiled at the thought of her.

The last compartment checked, Mr. Trebea studied his notes. He ran a finger down the column of figures some of which had symbols squiggled to the side of them. “The calculations seem in order,” he muttered to himself as he closed the book and slipped it into his coat pocket. 

He stepped in front of the corridor window and lowered it. The air rushed in, a cold blast upon his face— he loved that feeling. Taking out  the watch from his waistcoat pocket, he lifted the lid and looked at the dial. “Almost time.” He leaned out of the window. In the distance he could see the dingy brickwork of the tunnel looming out of the landscape. He held the watch and listened to the tick tock as it marked away the minutes to the train entering it.

The shrill of the whistle blasted into the atmosphere accompanied by the clacking of the wheels as the train approached the underpass. Mr. Trebea nodded and whispered once more to himself, “Time to disappear.”

The train entered the tunnel, vanishing from sight. The scream of its whistle echoed off the dark cold walls and the clackety clack of the wheels danced against the metal track. Smoke billowed out from the other end of the tunnel, grey clouds swirling up into the sky as the train emerged from the black shell into the daylight—with only two of its carriages in tow.

A yellow haired child pressed her nose against the window of one carriage and raised a pudgy hand to wave to the man in the dark suit, top hat and brocade waistcoat, who stood beside the tracks.

Mr Trebea closed his pocket watch, slid it into his waistcoat and waved back.


©2012/2013 Helen A. Howell all rights reserved.

Love Can Creep Up On You

 

Boris created in AI Leonardo by Helen 

 

Lights dimmed, Susie sat on the sofa huddled beneath a blanket, watching an old Boris Karloff movie. She clenched the blanket tight as the vampire was just about to strike, when she heard a scuttling noise behind her. She gasped and looked over her shoulder just in time to see a cast shadow of a small shape scurry away with lightening speed. She turned back, pulled the blanket up further around her and tried to ignore whatever it was. 

As she watched the movie, out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of the shape’s shadow moving around the edge of the room. She gingerly lowered her feet to the floor and made a mad dash to the kitchen, where she retrieved a can of Zap It. Back on the sofa she snuggled into the comforting folds of her woollen cover. In her hand she clutched the can of insecticide. The shadow did not appear again, nor the scuttling sound. 

Susie loved old horror films and her workmates thought her, if not weird, then certainly a bit strange. 
“What do they know?” she would mutter to herself.
She didn’t get on well with others and she knew this was partly due to her difficult upbringing. Her mother had been a drunk and never showed her any affection. Her father, well, she didn’t know who he was. So she kept herself to herself, not feeling loved or loving anyone or anything else.

Each night after work she would settle down and watch one of her old films. Tonight it was ‘The Creature From The Black Lagoon.’ Curled up under her blanket, she had only got half an hour into it when the scuttling noise started again.
“What’s that? 
She cocked her head to one side. 
“There it is again.”
She glanced over to the wall behind her and glimpsed the fast moving shape.
“You’re done for!”
Susie’s hand reached behind the pillow where she had left the can of Zap It. She grabbed it and headed for the main light switch. The room was thrown into brightness. Her eyes scanned the wall. Huddled up against the skirting board, she saw it.
“Bloody hell.”
It was the freakiest spider she had ever seen. Its body, round, covered in soft brown fur, was the size of a small child’s hand. Eight striped legs, red, yellow and blue, dangled from it. 
“Eww.”
She raised the can ready to fire a fatal shot when six eyes sparkled at her.
“Eeek!”
The spider raised one leg to cover its eyes. Susie took a step back.
“Aww, don’t do that. You make me feel like a murderer.”
She lowered the can. The spider lowered its leg. They both looked at each other. 
Was it shaking? It’s body seemed to quiver and twitch. “I’ll tell you what,” she said feeling stupid talking to an arachnid. “You stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.”

Susie returned to the sofa and stuffed the can behind the pillow, just in case. The scuttling continued but it was far enough away for her not to feel too afraid of sharing the room with such an odd creature. After all, she thought, aren’t I a bit odd myself?

 Five days passed since she first saw the spider and each night as she settled down to watch her movie, the scuttling noise could be heard. She didn’t mind it one bit. In fact it was a comfort to know she was not alone. As she reached to the side table for her cup of tea, her hand touched something soft.
“Arggg” She snatched it back and turned to see the spider sitting by her cup. “I thought I told you to keep your distance.”
The spider sat still with its six eyes winking at her in the semi darkness. 
Cautiously she withdrew her cup. “Don’t you come any closer.” She pushed her hand under the pillow to check the can was still there.

For the next six nights the spider reappeared on the table next to her cup. 
Susie, now quite use to it being there, said, “I’d better give you a name if you’re staying. I wonder what would suit you?”
The spider’s eyes twinkled as it looked at her.
“I know. Boris. You’ve seen a few of his films,” she laughed. “Boris it is.” She stretched out a shaky hand and with her finger gave Boris a quick stroke.

A month had passed since Boris first arrived at Susie’s house and she really looked forward to their nightly sessions; him on the table and her on the sofa. He filled a gap in her life and turned out to be the perfect companion. He never argued with her and he wasn’t untidy.

Tonight’s movie was ‘The Blob.’ She knew Boris would turn up soon, but when he didn’t, she became worried. The film finished and still no Boris. She felt strangely empty without the company of her small friend and went to bed feeling the loneliest she had ever been. A tear trickled down her cheek.
“How stupid are you? Crying over a spider.” 
Yet the tears wouldn’t stop.

The next night she looked at the empty space as she placed her cup on the table and sat down with little enthusiasm to watch ‘The Mummy.’ About half way through, she felt a tickle on her hand that rested on the arm of the sofa. Her heart missed a beat.
Is it him? Dare I look?
She turned her head and gazed downwards. Next to her cup sat Boris.
“Oh Boris. Where have you been?”
She reached out and stroked him with one finger. It was then she realised what this tiny creature meant to her and perhaps, that love can come in all shapes and forms. One thing she knew for sure. Love can creep up on you. 

 

The Boy

Image created in Ai Leonardo by Helen 

One day he just appeared on the streets of the busy town. He was a tall skinny boy of  maybe 14 years or perhaps a little older. He had a ragamuffin look about him. His shock of red hair tumbled about his forehead, his eyes, appeared too big for his face and were deep blue. He wore a t-shirt that had seen better days and his jeans were ripped, not by accident, but more by design.  

He fitted in with the general population, no one would have taken any notice of him. He was able moved around the town with little problem and  he’d stand in  a position that gave him an advantage point to watch, and note. He appeared intent on observing anything and everything. He didn’t know if he should interact in any way. He wasn’t sure how he should behave here. 

I first saw him standing on the corner of Bayswater Street and Nolan. I  would not have taken notice of him, except for those eyes. They stood out, over large and sparkling in the late afternoon sunshine, like nothing I had ever seen before. I couldn’t take my eyes off of them and somehow felt drawn towards him. As I got closer I noticed the colour of his skin. It was a normal pinkish yellow but running through the flesh were these tinges of green.  His hands seemed slender and he fingers a little longer than they should be. 
“Hello,” I said.
 He never replied, just stared at me as though I was something unknown to him. 
“I haven’t seen you before.”

  I waited but he seemed more occupied with looking at his own hands, then he took hold of one of mine and studied it. Was he comparing it to his own? I don’t know. Now I was closer to him, the green tinge in his skin seemed much darker. My heart beat a little faster and I was starting to feel unsettled. Who has greenish skin, was he sick? I stepped back making some space between us. Part of me wanted to run and part of me wanted to find out more about him. He sort of looked normal, but there was something, I couldn’t put my finger on it, that wasn’t quiet right.

  He looked away from me. I followed his gaze to across the road where a large scruffy dog was sitting by a lamp-post. He pointed at the creature and tilted his head towards me. I felt sure he was asking me what it was. Why wouldn’t he know what a dog was?  
“Dog.” I said, pointing towards it.
“Dog.” he replied.
“Yes”. 
He now seemed interested in something father away and he started off in its direction. I couldn’t follow, I needed to get on with my errands. I felt a cold shiver go down my back the more I thought about that skin colour and those long fingers. Perhaps, just perhaps, he wasn’t from here. No that’s silly. “That’s pure fantasy,” I said out loud, as though to reassure myself. 

Later in the day I saw him again, this time sitting on the edge of the town’s memorial fountain. He was just staring out, it looked like he was observing the people as they passed by. Should I approach him again? The feeling of being drawn towards him was very strong, too hard to resist, even though  it made my flesh crawl. I couldn’t help myself. Just before I reached him a man dressed in a smart suit rushed up to him. I stopped in my tracks. This time it was me observing.
“Thank God,” he said as he took the boy by the arm. “You shouldn’t be out here.”
The boy stood and faced him. “Why not am I.” 
“You’re not ready for this, come I’ll take you back.”
“Watching I have been.” The boy tilted his head.
“Ah, I see.” said the man. “Time to come back now.”
“I not the same.” He held out his hand with the long fingers and the greenish tinge to his skin.
“You are new,” the man said in a soft voice.
“I am?”
“Yes, you are.” He smiled at the boy.
“How new?”
“Let me see.” He looked at his watch and appeared to be calculating something. His lips moved but no sound came out.  Then he said. “Very.”
“Why skin different.”
“Oh the green tinge, don’t worry about that. We’ll fix it with the next experiment. Come along now.”
He led the boy off to a black Range Rover. I watched them disappear in the direction of the large Laboratory Building that was situated just outside of the town.

I had stood close enough to hear what was being said. The man seemed anxious and more interested in getting the boy back to the Laboratory to notice me standing nearby. Was  the boy an experiment? What were they doing out there? I knew I hadn’t had a good feeling about any of this, at least he wasn’t an alien, which was a relief. But this wasn’t good news either. I wonder who I should tell and more to the point, would they believe me?


©Helen A. Howell 2026