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.