Me Parrot

 

Image created in Leonardo Ai by Helen

 Me parrot is a pretty bird

he chats to me all day.

But suddenly on Wednesday

he upped and flew away.

 

I searched high and low,

I even called his name.

I’m going to miss that bird,

it really is a shame.

 

The house is now empty

without his happy chat.

You know he’s even missed

by Sooty the black cat.

 

But imagine me surprise,

when a postcard I receive.

Me Parrot’s in Ibiza

well, would you believe!

 

He’s off south for Winter

and having a bit of a fling.

He’s says not to worry,

he’ll be back next Spring.

 

©2014 Helen A. Howell

Stories Inspire by an Image. The Flying Doctor

 

Dr. Whiskers was the area's flying doctor, without him and his trusty dragonfly, Buzz, those who lived on the outskirts of the woodland would get no medical treatment, if it was not for his service.
"Ok Buzz, up and way," Dr. Whiskers commanded once he was settled onto the dragonfly. He carried his medical supplies in a bag that was slung across his back. "Mrs Mousy, is about to have her babies and needs some help."
Buzz stretched out his wings and got ready for take off. Dr. Whiskers had to hold on tight as the Dragonfly headed upwards into the early morning sky. The sun was just waking up and smiled at them as they passed. The birds all twittered their greetings at the Dr. and Buzz.
When they arrived at Holly Berry House, the Dr. dismounted and hurried towards the little door that was hidden within the bark of a tree. He turned towards Buzz, "don't you go wandering too far you hear. Come when I call." He turned back towards the door and pulled the rope that was attached to a tiny bell. He didn't see Buzz stick out his tongue, but he certainly heard the raspberry noise he made. He tutted and muttered to himself, I'll need to have a word with that creature. The door opened and the Dr. disappeared inside.
Some time later he emerged from the house, nibbling a lovely piece of Wensleydale Cheese, it was his favourite. Mrs. Mousey knew this and kept some especially in case the Dr. Visited.
"Buzz," he yelled. But the creature didn't appear. "Where are you Buzz? It's time to take me back". He continued nibbling his cheese while he waited, becoming more impatient with every minute that passed. "BUZZ!" His voice boomed out through the air and it was not long before he heard the flap of the Dragonfly's wings as he came into land, almost knocking the Dr. over and making him drop his cheese.
"Be careful," he stared at Buzz and thought he saw a smirk appear on his face. But it was gone almost as quick as it had appeared. He picked up what was left of his cheese and slipped it into his pocket. Climbing onto the back of the Dragonfly, he said,"we got here just in time, delivered 5 bouncing baby mice. Mother and babies doing well. Time to go home now and put my feet up."
Buzz took to the air and even though he knew he was cheeky to the Dr. he wouldn't rather be with anyone else, that is except a nice lady dragonfly, but that's another story.....

© Helen A. Howell 

Stories Inspired by an Image -The Cheese Hunter

 

 

Image created by Helen in Ai

Reginald was a seasoned hunter, he would not stop until he had his prey. He had heard there was a large piece of cheese in the Wenslydale Jungle. The one thing he couldn't resist was a piece of Wenslyedale Cheese.
He had been stalking his prey for a few hours, when he saw his chance to capture it.
"Stop!" he shouted as he pointed his rifle at a very, very large cube of cheese."Don't move, or I'll blast you full of holes."
"I'm already full of holes," yelled the cheese.
"Hmm, so you are. Wenslydale doesn't have holes in it." Reginald blinked and wondered what this strange creature was doing in this jungle. "You're not Wenslydale," he wrinkled his nose and sniffed, but the cheese didn't smell like anything he'd had before.
"Well, that's because I'm Swiss Cheese. Far superior to any other cheese you know. The Cheese straightened himself up. "I'm sweet mild and nutty, just what a cheese should be."
"Ah, but Wensleydale," Reginald ran his tongue around his lips as he remembered the taste, "is subtle, crumbly and has just that tiny hint of honey about it."
"Really," the Cheese raised his eyebrows and looked down his nose. "Well, in that case I'll be on my way." He turned and started to move back the way he had come.
"Wait," Reginald raised his rifle. "I might like to try a bit of Swiss, you never know I just might like it."
The Cheese turned around slowly. "No, no, no, I'm sure you wouldn't, I'm not crumbly and there is nothing subtle about me." The Cheese took a few more steps backwards.
"I thought you said you were superior to all other cheeses."
"Did I? I can't help it if I exaggerate a bit, a cheese has to believe in himself, you know." He took another couple of steps backwards. "I'm a very young cheese after all"
Reginald lowered his rifle, if there was one thing he couldn't stand it was a cheese that hadn't aged. "Off with you then," he waved a hand dismissing the cheese.
The Cheese scurried off quicker than a cheese should go, tripped and a small chunk of him came away from his body. He picked himself up and ran more carefully into the undergrowth of the Jungle.
Reginald walked over to the small chunk of cheese that lay on the ground. Picked it up and took a cautious nibble. "Not bad, give it a year or two. I might be back for it."
For now, Reginald carried on deeper into the jungle for his never ending search of Wensleydale.

©Helen A. Howell  

Stories Inspired my an Image - Sir Montague.

 

Sir Montague, the Kings Knight had been sent on a Dragon Quest.
"Now look here, Sir Montague, I can't have dragons roaming around my countryside, supposing they decide to eat the livestock, or worse still, some of my subjects. You know how devilish these monsters can be.
"Yes, Sire," replied the Mouse. "The only thing Sire, is that a dragon is so big, much, much bigger than me."
"Are you saying you're afraid?"
"No, not at all Sire, just remarking on the size difference that's all." Montague shuffled his feet and tried not to look the King in the eye.
"Well, that's good, can't have my Knights turning into sissies. No, No, that wouldn't do at all." The King glared at Montague. "Away with you then and sort out that dragon. Don't come back until you have." He waved a hand at the Knight. Montague bowed and backed out of the throne room.
After several days travel, Montague came across the Dragon's lair. He dismounted his rabbit and walked over to the entrance. "You hoo, Mr. Dragon, can I have a word?" He listened to see if he could hear anything. Not a sound. He must be out, thought Montague, oh well can't say I didn't try. As he turned towards his rabbit, ready to ride out. A voice echoed within the lair.
"Who called me?"
The voice was deep and fiery and Montague began to shake, just a little, so he withdrew his sword and stuck it into the ground so that he could hold on and steady his nerves.
"It is I, Sir Montague, King's Knight, would like a quick word with you.
"Oh Bother, really?" A puff of smoke drifted out of the mouth of the lair. Heavy foot steps rumbled towards the opening. Out stepped the dragon and looked around. "Where are you then?" he growled.
"Down here," said Montague in a squeakier voice than he had intended.
"Oh, there you are." He lowered himself down so that he could look at the mouse without having to bend his head. "What do you want then?"
Montague cleared his throat and tried his hardest to put on a deeper voice, but it still came out as a squeak. "The King, my boss, is worried that you're going to reap havoc in his domain. You know, eat the livestock, people, set fire to things etc. I've been sent here to sort things out."
The Dragon tipped back his head and laughed, as he did, streaks of flames flew into the air. "Why does everyone have such a low opinion of dragons. We're not all the same you know." He sniffed and a single tear run down his check and splashed onto the ground, soaking Montague in the progress.
"Oh please don't get upset," he was more worried that he didn't make the creature angry, "I didn't mean to ...."
"It's not you, it's everyone, boo hoo, boo hoo." The dragon sobbed so much, that Montague was now up to his knees in water.
"Stop!" he yelled, "or you'll drown me."
"Opps, sorry." He stared at the small pond his tears had made, took a deep breath and puffed out a hot flame that evaporated all the water. "It's just that I'm a vegan Dragon, I don't go rampaging anywhere, in fact I get quite lonely at times." Another tear dribbled down his cheek and Montague had to doge out of the way before it hit him.
"There, there," said Montague as he patted the dragon's leg. "If you're a vegan dragon that makes all the difference."
"It does?"
"Yes, it does," smiled Montague. "I don't see any reason why you can't stay here."
"Oh thank you," said the Dragon as he wiped his eyes with his tail.
"Cheerio then," said Montague as he mounted his rabbit and hopped off into the sunset.
"Thank goodness he's gone, now I can get back to eating that tasty sheep that just happened to wonder my way." He grinned and licked his lips...

 © Helen A. Howell

Stories inspired by an image - Snapjaw

 
Snapjaw was quite an old Croc. He had swam in these waters for a very long time, when asked he said "about this long" and held his arms out wide. Now he was thought to not be the brightest of Crocodiles, and not the most hard working.
"I've done my share." he grumbled when the other Crocs called him lazy. "You young whipper snippers think you know it all. Go away and catch your food or whatever it is you do with your day and leave me in peace."
He wriggled himself into the mangroves and snuggled down among the reeds to catch maybe 40 or was it 60 winks. Some time later he woke and went to sit on the bank and wait. A young croc swam by, looked up at him and stopped.
"Why are you sitting there?" she asked.
"I'm waiting," he replied.
"What for?"
"My strawberries and cream of course."
"Strawberries and cream, Crocs don't eat that." She wriggled her nose in disgust.
"This one does. Much better than tough old meat and it arrives every day on time. No hunting, no catching, no effort." He grinned at the small Croc. "And it tastes so delicious." He licked his lips at the very thought of it.
"Where does it come from?" She was beginning to think that old Snapjaw had finally gone bonkers. That was the rumour that was now circulating among the others. It appeared to her it was true.
He was just about to answer her when footsteps could be heard coming towards him. Out of the bushes scrambled down a very nervous young man carrying a huge plate of strawberries and cream. He stood by Snapjaw and held out the bowl.
"Here ya are."
"Catch him" yelled the young croc.
"Never" called back Snapjaw. "I have sworn to protect him as long as he brings me my strawberries and cream. Off with you now, boy, quick." Snapjaw held the bowl close to his stomach while searching the surrounding area to make sure the boy escaped safely.
"Why did you let him go, that was good meat." She lifted herself out of the water and came to sit beside the old Croc.
"I don't need meat, this is what I want," and he held up the bowl.
"How do you get him to bring it to you?" Now she was full of curiosity.
"Well, it goes like this, he was walking down here one day, stupid boy, everyone knows not to walk where there are Crocs. I stumbled across him and grabbed him by his shoe. I was just about to drag him into the water and do the whole turn him over drowning thing when he shouted stop and I'll give you my strawberries and cream, which he happen to be eating at the time. I did stop and I tasted that delightful dish, and was converted straight away. So a bargain was struck, I would protect him when he comes down here and he brings me the said dish."
"I would have eaten him, your mad."
"I don't think you would, once you taste this," he held out a spoonful for her.
She opened her mouth and allowed him to place the contents within. As she munched and sucked, she rolled her eyes and made a great big sighing noise. She had never tasted anything quite as delicious as this before. Maybe old Snapjaw is not so mad after all, she thought.
"Can I have another spoonful?" she asked..... 

 © Helen A. Howell

 

The Lighthouse

 

Image created in Ai by Helen

 Tales of strange sightings of eidolons in the Watch Room window of the lighthouse, along with an aery voice that called to those who listened, were whispered to him by the locals in the pub. They said that once you heard the voice, you were unable to resist. That unexplained disappearances had happened since the late 1870’s and that the lighthouse had stood empty since the early 1900’s. No one, they said, was foolish enough to go near the old tower at dusk.
Willum swigged back a mouthful of the strong beer. He had never visited this part of the country before, and he wasn’t going to let some old wives tales stop him from visiting another lighthouse. He’d already seen two others on this trip along the coast. This one was one of the oldest still to be seen. He was only here for one day and he had to move on tomorrow. So if he wanted to see it, it was now or never.
Willum stood on the deserted beach, daylight almost gone, and looked at the empty tower that stood with the sound of algid water lapping around its white stones.
‘William, where are you?’ A voice drifted on the breeze.
He listened. It’s the wind playing tricks. 
Even as he thought it, he moved towards the lighthouse. Just for a moment he thought he saw a flicker of light from the lantern. He stopped and stared up, but all he could see was darkness.
‘William.’
There it is again. He frowned. It’s those stupid tales they’ve been telling me in the pub. Now my imagination is playing tricks. “After all I don’t believe in ghosts and all that rubbish.” He spoke the words as if to reassure himself. 
Dusk was creeping in fast but there was just enough light left for him to see the lighthouse in all its glory. He placed a hand on its cool stone.
‘Come, come in.’
It was as though the lighthouse was speaking to him. He didn’t understand what it was he felt, and yet, he could not turn away. The old door, with its paint faded over the decades, whined open. As dusk swallowed the last of the daylight, from the tower above, a light shone from the lantern room and reached out towards the intensely black sea.
“Hello.” Willum stumbled towards the open door. “Is anyone there?” 
 He stepped into the lower room. For a few seconds he could see nothing in front of him, until his eyes adjusted to the dimness. 
“Hello,” he called again.
As he moved further in, he heard the sound of footfalls on the stairs. 
There is somebody here. “Ghosts pfft!”
Willum started to climb, determined to catch up with whoever it was. He could still hear the footsteps as he  raced up. Out of breath, he stopped when he reached the Watch Room and listened. It was silent.
He bent over to catch his breath and saw each out breath billow in front of him like a misty cloud. The temperature had dropped and was getting colder by the second. The hair on the back of his neck bristled.
 Willum shivered. There was a faint whiff of pipe tobacco in the atmosphere. From behind him the clunk of machinery started up. He spun around and in the dull light saw the clockworks that kept the lens rotating, move.
 A blue haze started to form before him. His heart beat wildly as his mind tried to rationalise what it was seeing. His breath was now a thick fog that hung in the air. Every muscle in his body was tense. Frozen to the spot, eyes wide open, he watched as two apparitions materialised. The first an old man with a shaggy beard and pipe in his mouth, tending the clockworks that worked the lantern. The second was a woman. Her dress appeared soaked through. Her golden hair hung bedraggled. She pressed her hands and face against the window.
‘William, where are you?’
“It was you calling.” Willum uttered the words half to himself and half to her.
She turned and tilted her head. With arms open she rushed towards him. 
 ‘William I thought you drowned.’
Willum unable to move, gasped as he felt her pass through him. It was like a shard of ice had cut into his body and with it an explosion of emotion. All at once he felt her pain and her joy and then her anger.
‘You’re not William!’ Her voice echoed behind him.
He swung around to face her. Her soft features had changed. Her eyes were jet black and her mouth twisted into a grotesque distortion.
Willum fled down the stairs. 
She screamed after him.’ Even if you’re not William. I will still have you.’
He willed himself to go faster. He could hear her footsteps behind him. His heart now banged so loud that it filled his head. He reached the bottom and raced towards the open door. But stopped in his tracks. She barred his way. Her arms were flung wide. Her skirt and hair blew out behind her as the air around her seemed to swirl and twist.
‘You cannot leave me.’ Her laughter filled the room.
Willum took a deep breath. “Get out of my way bitch!”
He rushed forward and hurled himself at her. For several moments he was fighting to breathe. It was as if he was drowning in a sea of salt water. With every ounce of strength he could find he pushed himself through her and tumbled out the door and onto the sand below.
He looked back. She snarled at him and the door slammed shut. Shaken he picked himself up and began to walk away. He turned once more to glance at the lighthouse, now in total darkness. There was no sign of what had just happened, except for a voice carried in the breeze calling to those that would listen.
‘William, where are you?’

Tap Tap Tap

 

Raven created in Ai by Helen 

The bird first appeared as a dark shadow overhead, just far enough away for me not to see it clearly. It followed me on my walks; dark, ominous, moving silently above. I shielded my eyes against the sun’s bright light and squinted at it hovering above me. The more I looked, the more I could discern what it was. A raven, a large black bird with iridescent feathers and a wing span so broad it caught the up-draft and hung in the sky.

 Who had sent this? What did it mean? 

***

 Cr-r-ruck Cr-ruck. The noise woke me and I glanced at the clock. 5am. I slipped out of bed and walked over to the window. There resting on the branch of the big oak sat the raven. Its eyes glittered in the light as it tipped its head from side to side.  It had now been seven days since I first spotted it. It never left me when I ventured outside but this was the first time I had seen it close up. It balanced on the gnarled bark of the old tree and continued to call to me.  Cr-r-ruck Cr-r-ruck— a sound so sharp it touched every nerve in my body. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help it. I threw open the window and  reached out to it, curling my fingers as I beckoned towards it. Its claws wrapped around my wrist and its jet black eyes stared deep into my own.  I ran a hand across its inky feathers and a chill ran down my spine. I knew this wasn’t a good idea, that there was something dangerous about this creature, yet I was caught in its spell as hopeless as a fly in a spider's web. No amount of struggling would set me free.   

The raven left my arm and glided to rest on the bed post. It turned its gazed towards me; those eyes, something was so familiar about those eyes. But how could that be?  I stared at the floor, almost afraid to look back at it. 

Tap, tap, tap.  What was it doing? I forced myself to look up.  Tap, tap tap. It had a picture caught between it claws. It looked at me, then with its beak, tap tap tap on the photograph.  I advanced towards it and with a shaking hand I reached out and clasped  the photo. Mark! My heart missed a beat.
“How did you get this? It was beneath my clothing in that drawer,” I whispered as I gestured towards the chest, waving the photo in its direction. 
Cr-r-runk, Cr-r-runk was its only reply.
 
  At Mark’s funeral I’d wept as the heart broken girlfriend. I looked again into the raven’s face. Those eyes, they’re his, but changed—darker, frightening.  For a moment I felt dizzy as the raven held my stare. Unable to tear my eyes away, I walked towards the bed and sat down next to the post where it rested. Lifting my arm, I held it out and the bird climbed on; the photograph fell to the floor. The bird and I were trapped in a moment of time, unable to break free of each other.  Just like it was with Mark, until I freed myself. 

I lifted my hand and ran my fingers down its silky feathers, then rested them  around its throat. Would I free myself from this bird or would it free itself from me? For now, we are joined. It knows my secret but the question is, can it keep it? Time will tell.

©2012 Helen A. Howell

Submitted and accepted to Lily Feardom’s showcase February Femmes Fatales 2012.