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

In Praise of Cheese

 

created in GPT by Helen 

 In Praise of Cheese

How I like a lump of cheese,
upon me slice of bread.
When I munch upon this morsel,
it seems to clear me head.
~

Now I like a plough-man's  lunch,
with pickles and chutney too.
But I've heard some health fanatics,
say it isn't good for you.
~

Still I can't resist a bit of cheddar,
all strong and sharp in me gob.
I don't care how its presented,
I'm really not a snob.
~

I do like a lump of cheese,
and I know that when I'm dead.
 Words upon me gravestone ‘ll say,
'She ate it to clear her head.'

©2012 Helen A. Howell

Photo Finish - A Ghost Story

 

Created in Ai by Helen

“Who is she?” Filomena, or Filly as she liked to call herself, stared at the photograph.
“Ah, who  is she? That is indeed the question.” The old man looked over the top of his half moon glasses at the young woman.
“You don’t know?” Filly looked at him. “It must be old. Isn’t that a steam train she’s standing beside?” She stared at the image. The woman, dressed in a long skirt with overlaying jacket, belt, kid gloves and a hat tilted to one side, adorned with a flourish of feathers, stood on a platform with the train beside her. Her eyes stared out at Filly. There was something about them, she could feel it in her bones. A chill ran through her and she shivered. The old man’s voice snatched her away from her thoughts.
“It is,” he said. “The date is in the corner, look.”
“Oh, October 31st 1914.”
“Do you want to buy it?”
Filly put it down. “I’ll just browse some more thanks.”
“You do that.” He smiled and returned to the counter.
 Filly had noticed the shop when she walked down a side turning, as a short cut to the town.  At first she had hurried by it, but something made her double back and peep in the window. Before she knew it, her hand was on the door and the bell above jangled as she entered.
She walked in-between the tables that were scattered with objects one on top of the other. Now and again she stopped to pick up something and examine it, but her thoughts were on the photograph. She could feel the woman’s eyes in the image following her and her heart raced. I should leave, she thought. She took a deep breath and headed towards the door, but as she reached the table where the picture stood she came to a halt. Her hand, as though it had a life of its own, reached out for it and she was once more gazing into the eyes of the woman.
“You’ve decided to take it?” The old man’s voice broke the silence.
“Sorry?”
“The photograph. You’ll take it?”
She found herself nodding, even though she wanted to scream no. 
“Come, I'll wrap it for you.” He waved her to him. She watched as he laid it down on the layers of paper. “Sometimes these things are just waiting for the right person to come along.” His eyes glittered as he handed it back to her.
* * *
Why did I buy this? 
Her fingers clasped the frame as she hurried back home. She wanted to drop it in the nearest waste bin, but when she tried to, she just couldn’t let go. At home she didn’t even unwrap it, she just shoved it into the back of the drawer of her writing desk. Several days passed and she finally forgot about it.
At 2am on 31st October, she woke to the sound of the rhythmic hissing of a stream train slowing down, the rumble of the wheels growing softer and softer.  She sat bolt upright, eyes blinking as they adjusted to the dark. The atmosphere felt icy and she pulled the covers up around her shoulders. Her breath, a smoky cloud, billowed out and hung in the air.
Is this a dream? If it is, it’s bloody real. 
She shivered as the temperature dropped another degree. Her breath swirled in front of her and she reached out to touch it but as she did, the shrill of a whistle filled her ears followed by the clackety clack of wheels on a track. Filly buried herself beneath the covers and listened until the sounds faded away.
 Eventually she fell asleep until her alarm woke her at 9am. “That was a weird dream last night.”  She pulled on her dressing gown and left her room to head to the kitchen. As she passed through the lounge she saw the photograph standing on top of her desk.
“What the? I don’t remember taking that out.” 
She picked it up. The woman in the picture stared at her. Her eyes held a sadness, something Filly hadn’t seen the first time she had looked at it.
 “Who are you?” she whispered. 
She felt the merest touch on her cheek and she swung around. But no one was there. She placed the frame back on the desk and went and made  some coffee.
She tried to distract herself by doing some retail therapy,  but all through the day she thought about the photograph and the fear it conjured within her. 
Why am I afraid of it? 
She had no idea. One thing she felt sure of, was that the woman had a story and maybe she would be able to find out about her. She decided tomorrow she would do some research. Having made her mind up to resolve this mystery, she felt more settled.
The evening passed quickly, a few of the neighbourhood children rang her bell and chimed trick or treat. She smiled at their costumes and handed out sweets to each of them.Then she watched an old movie and fell asleep the minute her head hit the pillow on her bed.
The hoot of the whistle and the clackety clack of the wheels against the metal woke her with a start. Her heart beat so fast she thought it would explode. The covers of her bed fluttered and the temperature plummeted. Her breath came in short bursts and hung like a thick fog before her. The screech of breaks and the hiss of steam filled her bedroom as the front of the train appeared through her wall. 
“Oh my god!” 
Filly watched as the train drew to a halt. The door from one carriage opened and the woman stepped down. She reached out a hand towards her. Her face gave away nothing but her eyes, her eyes said it all. They were filled with a loneliness.
Filly, shaking, got up, grabbed her dressing gown and pulled it on as she approached the woman. She reached for her hand, and just for a brief second she felt the coldness of her flesh before her own hand passed straight through that of the woman. The woman turned and climbed aboard. She glanced over her shoulder and Filly knew that she would follow.
* * *
One Year Later....
The bell jangled as Sandy stepped inside. A shaft of light shone through the window and dust motes floated like a thousand pieces of glitter thrown carelessly  into the air. She wandered around the dusty room laden with objects, until one caught her eye. She picked up a frame containing a photograph of two women with a steam train standing behind them. The older one was smiling, the younger looked lost.
"I wonder who they are?" 
"Ah, who are they? That is indeed the question." The old man looked over the top of his half moon glasses at the young woman and smiled. "Do you want to buy it?"

©Helen A. Howell

Stories Inspired by an Image. The Tight-Rope Spectacular.

 

Image created in Ai Bing by Helen 

This is a story about one little mouses dream, and I will tell you it as it was told to me by my grandmother and her grandmother before her. Mice love to keep stories alive. So here is the one about Nobby.

 

Nobby Mouse had always dreampt of being a tight-rope walker ever since his first trip to the mouse circus. He kept this dream alive in his head and one day when he was not a baby any more he said to his mother.

"Mother, I want to join the Circus."

His mother, being a sensible mouse, replied, "Nobby, don't be ridiculous, you need to find yourself a job that will support you and any family in the future you might have."

Nobby did eventually find a job in the cheese distribution factory, but he never let his dream die. In his spare moments he would practice with whatever he could find. However the best tight-rope he could find was his mother's washing line. So, when she was not using it, he crept into the garden and stole away with it.

"Nobby, have you seen my washing line? It seems to have disappeared."

"No, mother. Perhaps the Badgers stole it."

"Why would they want my washing line," she said shaking her head.

"Perhaps they didn't have one of their own, you know to hang their smalls out to dry."

"This is all very upsetting, now I will have to get another." Mrs. Mouse busied herself with her home duties, all the time muttering to herself about the line. Nobby pretended not to hear.

 

Now whenever Nobby had a chance, he would sneak away into the woods to the trees he had tied the washing line to and practiced his walking upon it. As time went by he became more proficient at it, enough to have the confidence to advertise his debut event. He designed a poster on which the words were written,(in very scrawly mouse writing,)

At two in the afternoon tomorrow, (his shift at the Cheese centre finished at one,) Nobby the Wonder, Will perform for your delight the daring act of Tight-Rope Walking. At the Clearing in the Wood. Be There or Be Square!

He fastened these notices to the trees through the wood.

 

The Time arrived and Nobby waited at the clearing. Slowly his audience started to appear. They sat beneath the washing line tight-rope and gazed upwards expectantly.

Nobby opened the little umbrella he held in his hand and climbed up onto the tight-rope. Not a sound could be heard as the audience held its breath while Nobby took his first step along the rope. Everything was going smoothly until he reached the middle, then he placed his foot at the wrong angle and for a long moment wobbled back and forth. The crowd let out a gasp in unison and one or two even covered their eyes. When they uncovered them again, Nobby had regained his balance and finished the walk to the end of the rope, where upon he jumped down and took a bow. 

 

The audience clapped and cheered, as he bowed again. When he came out of his bow and looked over to the side, he saw his mother standing there with her hands on her hips.

"So that's where my washing line got to. Come here, I'll give you tight-rope walking." Her cheeks were puffed up and her face red. The audience gasped again as they look back and forth from Nobby to his mother.

"Not likely, Mum," shouted Nobby, "I'm off to join the Circus."

He dashed off and all that could be seen was a cloud of dust in his wake.

 

I wonder if he is now performing in a silver suit on a high wire to the appreciation of the crowds. I guess we'll never know.  

 

 

 

 

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.