Thursday, December 22, 2016

Christmas Ghost Story - Christmas Lights

With this last story, may I take this opportunity of wishing all my readers a very Happy Christmas and a Safe and Peaceful New Year!  Painting Pictures with Words will hopefully be back in the New Year with new stories for you to read.

Christmas Lights

The old fir tree had stood alone in the woods for many years. It had been witness to something no one spoke of anymore, or perhaps they had just forgotten—but the tree had not.  

Each Yuletide the town was presented with a tree to decorate, but somehow, this year, they were forgotten.  The Mayor remember the old fir tree and ordered that it be cut down and brought back to the town centre. 
“‘Tis time that old fir was put to good use,” he said. The men, caps in hand, looked at the Mayor. “Get thee a move on or it’ll be Christmastide before ye get back.” The Mayor laughed as he ushered them out the door.

“Come hither Mary and gaze upon this. The tree is beautious.” Lora stood amongst the crowd and beckoned Mary to her.
“Yay, it is indeed.” Mary looked up at the tree, dressed in its finery. “‘Tis more splendid than the year before.”
“The Mayor hath done the town proud.” said Lora. She pulled her shawl tighter around her. “‘Tis cold. We should be going home.”
“Ye go, I want to stay just a moment longer.” 
“All right my dear but ‘tis getting dark and the streets are not safe.”
Mary laughed and touched Lora’s hand. “I’ll take care. I’ll not be long.”
Lora raised a hand in farewell as she ambled off down the snow covered cobblestones.
As the Town Hall Clock rang out ten chimes into the chill night air, the crowd slowly dispersed. Mary remained, her eyes unable to leave the tree. There was something sad about it, even in its beauty.  A voice, carried in the breeze, whispered to her.
“Alone, I’m so alone.”
Mary shivered. Snowflakes stung her skin like sharp finger nails drifting down from the dark sky to scatter at her feet. She shivered again, pulling her shawl closer to her. 
“Alone, all alone.”
‘Tis’ the wind playing ticks on me. It must be. 
 Mary turned and started to walk away but something made her glance back. The candles were burning brighter as though the tree was calling her. Mary ran down the path that led home, her heels silent on the snow ladened ground.


“Whither goest thou Mary?” Lora seated by the fire watched as Mary threw her shawl about her and tied the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin.
“To the tree. I want to see it again.”
“Ye saw it yesterday. ‘Tis Christmas eve. Wilt thou not sit and take some egg nog with me? ‘Tis fearful cold out there.”
“I’ll not be long.” 
Mary unlatched the door and stepped out into the icy atmosphere.  Something was pulling her towards the tree. She couldn’t explain it and neither could she resist it.
The square was silent and empty. It was just her and the tree in crisp night air. The aroma of the tree's branches reached her; a heady scent filled with the memories of Christmases past and those yet to come. Closing her eyes in an effort to savour the experience, she allowed the fragrance to envelope her. An icy finger ran down her cheek and she snapped open her eyes. All around her the air had become chilly, no more than that, freezing as a breeze moved the loose strands of her hair about her face.
“Alone, so alone,” breathed the voice.
Mary froze as unseen hands, cold as the earth beneath her feet, touched her shoulder. 
“Stay with me. Please.” 
Tears rolled down Mary’s cheeks and she brushed them away with the back of her hand. The energy swirled around her and deep inside she felt the sorrow that came with it. Although afraid and sensing she shouldn’t stay, she couldn’t help her self. 
“I’m here. Tell me who you are.”
The cold that encircled her, formed into a smoky cloud and drifted away to the side of the fir. She watched it transformed into a hazy figure of a young girl in a tattered dress, shoeless feet and a ragged shawl slung carelessly around her shoulders. The figure pointed to a lighted candle and beckoned Mary closer.
Mary took a few hesitant steps towards the tree and gazed at the candle light.The flame flared and within its red and orange hue a vision emerged. Mesmerised by the picture unfolding, she watched as a girl walked into a town—this town. The snow crunched beneath her bare feet. She looked tired, cold and hungry. Mary saw her knock on several doors, each turning her away and shutting her out from the warmth. 
The vision faded and the ghostly figure gestured towards another candle. Mary’s eyes followed and again focused on the flame. This time she saw the girl walk towards the woods, and come to rest at the base of the fir tree—the same tree that now stood in the town square. The girl huddled beneath its branches. The snow fell like a soft blanket. The flame flickered and dimmed as the ghost pointed towards another candle.
Mary stared into the bright light. What she saw made her gasp. A skeleton, small, crumpled, rested against the trunk of the old tree. Mary brushed away another tear as the light faded.
The ghost turned towards Mary.  “All alone,” she whispered.  “But not now.”
“Nay not anymore,” said Mary.  
She looked at the ghost and just for a second, thought she saw her smile before she faded. Then all the candles on the tree burned brightly sending their light outwards into the night sky.
“‘Tis Christmas lights I’ll nary forget till the day I die.” 

Mary’s heart felt lighter as she turned away and headed home knowing that the girl although dead, was no longer forgotten.

Thursday, December 15, 2016

Christmas Ghost Story - Grave Concern

Grave Concern
The clock on the mantlepiece struck midnight. They raised their glass. 
“Merry Christmas,” they said.
All through the long years of marriage they had followed the tradition of sitting up together until the clock announced it was Christmas Day - they called it ‘their time.’ Now the children were grown up and long gone, they only had themselves for company in their twilight years. 
“Least we can remember each other,” said Emaline, taking her husband’s hand. “Not one christmas card this year.” Her voice held a sadness in its tone. “Where’s people’s Christmas spirit gone? That’s what I wanna know.”
Bert looked at his wife.That’s because we’re old and none of our friends are left to send us a card.” He squeezed her hand. 
Emaline looked at the dying embers that glowed in the grate, and shivered. No matter how she tried she couldn’t seem to get warm these days. 
“Time for bed,” she said.
They walked towards the hallway and as they turned to go up the stairs, the letterbox in the front door rattled. An envelope sailed through and drifted down onto the carpet. They stared at the crisp white paper. 
“It’s a card,” she said.
“It is.”
“Well, pick it up then.” She gave him a gentle shove.
Bert stepped forward and bent his creaking body to grasp it off the mat. He turned it over in his gnarled fingers. Written in an old fashioned script, just like he had been taught as a boy, was both their names. He remained motionless as he studied the fine writing.
“Who’d be delivering a card at this time of night?” said Emaline. “Open the door, you might catch sight of them.” She waved a hand at him.
Bert turned the knob that unlocked the door and pulled it open. But no one was there. His eyes searched the street, but it was empty. He glanced at the snow laden ground.
“What is it?”
He turned to face her. “There’s no foot prints in the snow.”
“How can that be? Come in and open the card. See who it’s from.”
Bert closed the door and tore open the envelope. The card had holly and berries on the front. He read the words out loud. “This Christmas Day, Joy to you….” Inside in the same fine penmanship that was on the envelope, was written, ‘Come to the church yard now. Don’t wait. I’ll be there.’
 Emaline felt a tingle of fear run through her. “Are we going?” She knew, before he even answered, that they would. 
“I dunno Em. Don’t ask me why but I think we should.”
They held each other close, both sensing that this was important. They knew there was something they needed to do but neither was sure what it was.
 “Here put your coat and hat on old girl.” 
Bert helped Emaline into her coat before shrugging on his own. He wrapped a scarf around his neck and together they stepped outside into the cold winter’s night.
It seemed like only seconds before they were standing under the lich-gate. Neither remembered walking to the church yard and yet here they stood, waiting. The atmosphere around them seemed colder and their breath hung in the air like soft clouds. 
Unable to move Emaline said,“The lich-gate.”
“What about it?”
“We’re under the lich-gate.” She tried to move her feet, but they wouldn’t budge. “It’s where the coffin waits before it’s buried,” she whispered.
The wind whistled through the tree branches above them, rustling their leaves into a eerie laughter that filled the dark sky. Emaline lifted her head upwards.
“Do you hear it?”
“Hear what?” Bert followed her gaze.
“The laughter. It’s everywhere.” She placed her hands over her ears and closed her eyes.
“Come on old girl. We’re not going to be buried.” 
Bert reached out and took her arm. He forced himself to stepped forward bringing Emaline with him. Together they walked up the path and towards the church. The wind swirled and twirled around them, teasing their hair this way and that. In its wake a voice lingered, calling to them, the words just audible.
‘Come, we’re waiting for you.’ 
Cold icy fingers reached out of the dark night pulling them further and further up the path and into the grave yard.
“Bert, I’m afraid.” She tucked herself closer into his body. Everything around her felt unnaturally cold. She felt cold. “What are we doing here?”
The voice, its whispering filling their ears, was becoming stronger.
‘Nearly there. I’m waiting. We’re all waiting. No need to be afraid.’
Invisible hands grabbed at their coats and propelled them towards the graves. It was as if they had no control over their own legs.
“Bert, something is touching me.” She held on to him tighter, but he too was becoming colder to touch. She let go of his arm. Her heart thumped so loud it was all she could hear.
“I’m here old girl, don’t be afraid. There’s something we need to find out. I can feel it.”
“What Bert?”
“I’m not sure?”
He took her hand in his and both felt themselves pulled over to the furtherest corner of the grave yard. Their feet didn’t seem to touch the ground as they moved with ease through the head stones. 
“Where are we going Bert?” 
‘Nearly there,’ whispered the voice.
The ghostly hands let them slip from their grip. They had come to a halt before a large head stone. Bert and Emaline looked at each other and then at the figure in a dark suit and a top hat with a silver cane in his hand, that stood to the side of a grave stone. He looked at the two of them and nodded.
“It’s so cold here.” Emaline started to tremble again. She stared at the figure. “Who are you?” 
The figure just smiled and tapped the head stone with his cane. 
Bert knelt down to read the inscription. “It all makes sense now,” he said, standing up.
“What does? Tell me why are we’re here.”
“Why there were no Christmas cards.” He stepped aside. “Here Em, you need to read this.”
She bent down and read the words: ‘Edward and Emaline, died Christmas Day - 2011 - Gone but not forgotten’.
“Not forgotten,” she breathed.
Emaline looked up at the stranger.  He lifted his hat and stepped aside to reveal a golden light. Emaline looked into it and she didn’t feel cold anymore.

Thursday, December 8, 2016

Christmas Ghost Stories - Replay

This is a story I wrote in Dec. 2014.  I hope you enjoy reading:


The sky was a blanket of grey and snow flakes drifted down to scatter upon the ground. Soon everything would be covered in a carpet of white. As daylight faded, gas lamps were lit and their light spread across the cobbled streets.
 The coals burned brightly in the chestnut seller’s burner.
“Chestnuts, get your hot chestnuts. Only a ha’penny a bag.”
“I’ll ‘ave a bag dear,” said Enid as she pulled her shawl tighter against the cold.
“Those ‘ll warm ye up.” He held out a paper bag.
She opened the small pouch she held and hesitated before pulling out her last ha’penny. “Thank ye and a Merry Christmas to ye.”
Enid clutched the bag of warm chestnuts to her and hurried onwards.The chestnuts were her only treat this Christmas Eve. The snowflakes landed on her cheeks and nose, little needles pricking her skin and turning her flesh red. 
The cottage felt different every time she entered. She didn’t remember moving the table and chairs over to that corner. She grabbed a chair, pulled it to the fireplace and sat down, preferring a wooden seat to those soft armchairs. Where did she get those from? Her memory seemed to be failing her more and more. Logs crackled in the hearth, but she was sure she hadn’t lit the fire before she left. “That would be a waste of fuel,” she muttered.
 In her hand she held the bag of chestnuts, but they were no longer warm. When had she bought them?  Times had been hard since the sickness had taken her husband and young daughter. When was that? It only seemed like yesterday to her and yet it also seemed like a lifetime ago. Life was a struggle. Everyday she went looking for work, not that she ever found any. How she survived was a mystery to her. She stared at the chestnuts. Where had she got the ha’penny from? 
 It was a miracle that the master of the big house hadn’t turned her out of the cottage. They were for the men that worked his land and their families. Lost in thought, she sat by the fire feeling neither warm nor cold. Somewhere a door banged and startled her out of her reverie.
“Is there someone there?”  
Her fingers clutched the paper bag tighter as she walked in the direction of the noise. She peered through to the kitchen and saw that the back door was wide open swinging back and forth in the cold night air.
“Hello, is anyone there?” 
 She waited for a reply but when none came, she walked towards the door, snatched hold of its handle and pushed it shut, sliding the bolt closed with a thud.
“Tis strange that should be open.” 
The thought of intruders made her shiver. Her eyes darted around the small room. Satisfied it was empty she returned to the fire only to find her chair was back with the others again.
Enid froze. “Whoever you are, come out now. Do ye hear?”  Her eyes told her that she was alone, but her senses told her something else. “I’ve nuthin’ worth a stealin’ so ye best be about your business else where.”  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, the curtains to the small window had been drawn on the dark evening sky. 
 Her heart beat fast and for a second she felt dizzy. She was just about to call out again when a tapping on the window made her jump. Her grip on the chestnut bag loosened and chestnuts scattered in all directions across the floor. She turned towards the window and grasping the drape pulled it back.  A shadow of a face made her catch her breath. The figure beckoned to her and stepped away into the night.  
Enid flung open the door and ran out. The snow lay in thick drifts. Behind her the door slammed shut and the curtain once more pulled closed across the window. She swung around to stare at the cottage. A frown creased her forehead and she felt as though she was losing her mind. The air all around her was more than chilly, it was freezing and as she turned back, in the distance she saw two figures holding hands, one taller than the other. The taller of the two gestured her to follow and walked on.
“Wait!” Enid yelled as she ran to catch up, her feet sinking into the deep snow with every step. The figures came to a halt at an old oak tree and pointed towards something that lay at the base of its trunk. 
 Enid stayed behind them. “What is it you want?”
The taller figure motioned her forward and as she came they turned to face her. Enid looked into the faces of her husband and daughter and then towards the bundle that lay beside the tree trunk. She moved in to wipe the snow from it.  It was her face that stared back at her.
“No! I’m not dead. I’m not dead!”
 * * *
“She lived in this cottage?” asked Sammy. “How long ago?”
“It’s an old story,” replied his grandfather. “They said she never made it home that night. Her body, still clutching the bag of chestnuts, was found on Christmas Eve 1886 by the tree. They said because she didn’t believe she’d died that she relives that day and haunts this cottage every Christmas Eve. I’ve heard tell you can hear her.”
“Stop it dad,” said Sammy’s mother. “You’ll frighten him. Remember this is our first Christmas Eve here. Time for bed Sammy. No more ghost stories or Santa will never come.”
“Granddad, will you come and tuck me in?”
“Of course. Shall we?” 
His grandfather held out his hand. Sammy jumped up from his spot in front of the fire and as the two of them walked  across the room, Sammy slipped and fell.
“Are you OK?” His grandfather helped him to his feet.
Sammy held out his hand. In his palm sat a single chestnut. 
His grandfather stared at the chestnut. “Doris did you buy any chestnuts?” he called to his daughter.
She looked up from the book she was reading. “No, why?”


Friday, December 2, 2016

Christmas Ghost Stories. - Pine Needles & Sherry.

I haven't been writing a lot lately, other things have occupied my time. However I do have a collection of Christmas Ghost Stories that I wrote some time ago and that I would like to share with you.  I'll post one a week till Christmas.

Whether you have read this before or this is the first time around, I hope you enjoy the first of this series:

Pine Needles & Sherry
The paint work was crumbling and the yard neglected but to me, it would always be the Old House. I watched as they busied themselves unpacking. No one seemed to notice me. It was Christmas Eve and soon a tree would be carried in and decorated. The smell of fresh pine needles would  fill the sitting room.
I rummaged through a box of bottles. Finding the one I wanted, I pulled it clear. Cream Sherry. I’d had plenty of practice over the years grabbing what I required. I took a glass from the next box, poured the golden liquid from the bottle into it, then replaced its cap. Leaning against the wall, I let the bottle slip from my fingers. It dropped to the floor. I held the glass up to my nose and sniffed. The memories of Christmases past flooded back. I wasn’t going to drink it. I just wanted to hold it, smell it and remember.
“Fetch those boxes for me Natalie.”
“Those in the corner?”
“Yes, I want to pack them into the sideboard. Then we can move the sofa over and make room for the tree. It should arrive soon.”
I stepped out of the way as Natalie approached. What was she? Sixteen, seventeen? She was in her first flush of womanhood. I looked at her shapely legs, her firm breasts, like two ripe peaches just waiting to be plucked. I inhaled the Sherry’s bouquet—yes, I remember how good it felt. Should I pick up the bottle for her? No, she wouldn’t expect me to help.
 Natalie picked up the stray bottle and placed it back in the box and carried it over to the sideboard. The two women sorted out its contents, stacking them into the cupboard. The door bell rang. I walked out into the hallway. Natalie brushed past me. I saw her hesitate and shiver. Was it cold in here? It felt okay to me. She flung the door open.
“The tree’s arrived,” she called over her shoulder. “Bring it in,” she said, stepping aside to allow the man access. I stepped aside too. She stared at me for a moment, her blue eyes penetrating into my soul. Did she see the real me? She followed the man into the sitting room. I followed her.
“It’s a fine tree,” said the man. “Where do you want it?”
“By the bay window would be perfect,” said her mother.
“Right you are ma’am.”
He set the tree up and I watched as they thanked him, gave him a tip and showed him out. I kept to the corner, blending into the shadows, not wanting to get in the way. No one spoke to me. They never did. I swirled the gold liquid around the glass. Should I smell it one more time just to remind myself? No, I remember well enough. This is such a special time of the year.
“Shall I fetch the tree decorations, mum?”
“Why not do it later tonight. Your father and I are going out. You’ll have the house to yourself.”
Don’t forget I’ll be here. Why do they always forget I’ll be here?”
Natalie shivered again. “Is there a draft coming from somewhere?” she said rubbing her arms.
“I don’t think so dear.”
I decided to leave them alone. I’d come back later this evening and help her decorate the tree. 
* * *
The night sky filled the bay windows as I watched Natalie draw the curtains to shut out the dark. I walked over to her, wondering if she could see me yet. I knew she sense me. I could see the goosebumps appear on her bare arms. I liked it when they sensed me. Somehow it made it all the more exciting. 
I circled around her and lifted a strand of her hair— she smelled so good. She raised her hand, brushed the side of her cheek and shivered again. I saw the tension in her face, and smiled. She’s trying to convince herself it’s nothing but her imagination. Should I toy with her or get straight to it? What fun would there be in rushing it? I decide to play with her—just like that girl played with me. Sherry. She always drank Sherry—that sweet, rich aroma on her breath. I remember that smell mixed with the perfume of pine needles from the tree, even as I placed the gun to my head. 
I watched Natalie place baubles and tinsel on the branches, humming a tune while she worked. Her voice cracked now and again as she nervously checked over her shoulder, for what, she wasn’t sure. I could tell she knew she wasn’t alone. I flickered the lights for a moment before I plunged the room into darkness. She screamed. I dropped the temperature around her by several degrees. It was all going to plan.
Who’s there?” 
I kissed her skin, caressing her slowly. Petrified, she froze. I brushed her lips with mine, the merest touch, icy, cold. 
“Leave me alone,” she cried.
I felt her fear. It shot through me like a bolt of electricity, so arousing. I’d waited such a long time for this new girl. I turned on the lights and stood by the tree, dressed in my old fashioned dinner suit. She could see me now, her eyes wide, staring. Small beads of sweat glistened on her forehead, like jewels sparkling in the soft light. Tears wet my cheeks. I looked at her. She registered my pain in her face as she watched me raise the gun to my head. BANG— I doused the lights. In the darkness there was nothing but the steady thudding of her heart. 
I flickered the lights and watched her from the shadows. Her face was a deathly white. She stared dumbstruck at the vacant spot where I had stood, then looked at the sherry glass in her hand.

 Merry Christmas sweetheart.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Moon Madness

Moon Madness

Shall I dance by the light of the Moon
that hangs high in the sky.
Abandon my clothes, howl like a wolf,
come join me, don't be shy!
Does the Moon really drive you mad
when its full, round and bright.
No, the Moon's much too far away,
to give you such a fright. 
Yet they say some have lost their minds,
as they gaze into its glow.
And they all become mad lunatics,
but what do they really know.
By the light of the silvery Moon,
a luna jewel for all to see.
I will dance to my heart's content,
and you, may say, it's lunacy.

© Helen A. Howell

Friday, August 5, 2016

The Reflection - Part 1

It was just like any ordinary morning. Well, I thought so, that is until I got up and looked in the mirror.  But let’s start at the beginning.
The ring of the alarm clock jarred me into wakefulness. I reached out and pressed the off switch. Where’s the night gone? I thought, as I heaved myself into an upright position and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I pulled an assortment of clothes from my wardrobe and laid them on the bed before going to the bathroom.
The warm water of the shower had done its job and I felt at last fully awake. Wrapped in a soft towel I leaned towards the mirror that hung above the sink and wiped away with my hand, the steam that covered it like a fine silk web. 
The eyes that stared back at me were mine and yet they weren’t. My heart jumped as I took a step back. The mirror quickly steamed over again. For a moment I couldn’t think, then my common sense clocked in. 
It’s a trick of the light, what else could it be? I told myself.
I dried off my damp hair with the towel and went back to the bedroom to get dressed. I knew I would have to return to the bathroom to use the hairdryer, but deep inside I was afraid. Of what I don’t know. My gut instinct told me not to look in the mirror again, but I ignored it as a figment of my imagination. I took my time getting dressed. I glanced at the clock and knew if I didn’t get a move on I would be late for work. I grabbed the hairdryer from its shelf in my wardrobe and walked back to the bathroom.
The mirror was still steamed up and so I plugged in the dryer and pointed it towards the glass. The mist evaporated from the warm heat. I began to dry off my hair, brushing it this way and that and somehow avoided looking into the glass. I hung my head down and gave my hair one last long blast before standing up and looking straight into the mirror.
My reflection stared back at me. It was me, but it wasn’t. Same face, different colour hair, different colour eyes and different outfit. 
Oh my god, what is this? 
My heart banged in my chest and for a second I thought I might faint but the moment passed and the colour returned to my cheeks. I raised a hand and so did my reflection. 
How is it possible that what I’m looking at has different coloured hair, eyes and a different set of clothes on?  Am I dreaming? 
I pinched myself hard on the arm, “Ouch,” I certainly wasn’t dreaming. I leaned in and so did my reflection. The whole thing was unfathomable and unsettling. I told myself it must be an illusion and turned to walk away but before I did I took one more glance over my shoulder at the mirror. 
My reflection was still staring out at me. It winked…

To be continued….
Words 520

Thursday, August 4, 2016

Dreaming - Poetry


It's time to sleep, close my eyes,
and rest my weary head.
To dream of things yet to come,
and things yet to be said.

No thoughts to torment me,
my mind has been set free.
To delve much deeper in the dark,
 while searching for the key.

I'll dream of roses, soft and red,
that lay around my feet.
Of Knights so bold in armour bright.
and sweet, sweet treats to eat.

And while I dream of things untrue,
my mind sends me a clue,
Of what I really need to know,
and what I should next do.

As I slumber through the night,
my visions keep on spinning.
And like the young moon in the sky,
I'll wake, to a new beginning.

© Helen A. Howell

Friday, July 29, 2016

The Watchers - Sci Fi Flash Fiction

As time seems short at the moment, I have decided to write a new flash every other week and on the alternatives share one of my previous stories.  I hope you enjoy this Sci Fi Flash from 2014

It was a day filled with the lies of a thousand mouths. Time had done nothing to change the human race. We had watched them over a life time, seeing them progress from one stage to another. Now, as I moved through the crowded streets, their voices spin around me like a whirlwind filling my mind with their untruths.
We had tried to help them, not interfere so much as guide them. We stood unseen by the sides of those in control and whispered into their ears. But our efforts slipped through their fingers and their thoughts like grains of sand falling. It is their flagrant attitude that enables us to justify what we must do if this world is to be saved and ever evolve into something better.
I and others like me must now gather at the appointed time, for our ships will not wait one moment longer. We grieve, for our efforts here have come to nothing and we now know those in charge of this world care not for their planet. Instead, they fight among themselves, always wanting more control, more power. It is clear to us that they will not stop until they have raped this planet of all its beauty. They are like a plague of insects infecting it with their greed and schemes.
What right have we to decide whether they live or die you may ask?  We are the Guardians of the Universe. Our age is timeless. We have walked among many different worlds for eons, but none have distress us as this world’s inhabitants do. 
It is our destiny to watch and to wait. But for this world the time to watch, the time to wait, has come to an end. They’ll not see the silver flashes come from the sky until it’s too late. There will be no pain. We will reduce their lies to ashes so that they may be reborn.
* * *
A silver streak danced across the blue sky, followed by another and another. The people stopped and pointed as more and more gathered to watch the glittering spectacle. Cars screeched to a halt, doors flung open and their occupants joined the throng that filled the streets. Hands were held up to shield their faces against the glare. All were mesmerised by the lights that twisted and twirled their way across the atmosphere. 
When the first hit the earth, an ebony mushroom shaped plume rose from the ground. The crowd gasped and panic spread through them like wild fire as they turned to run. But the plume in a split second became a whirling vortex of vapour to spread out and swallow all in its path. 
From above, in their ships, they watched in silence.

© 2014
Words: 457
Pencil Scribble by Helen

Wednesday, July 27, 2016

The Budget Circus (Pantoum) Fun Poetry

Pantoums are a challenge and fun to write. The poem is composed of a series of quatrains (4 line verses), where by you take the 2nd and 4th line of each stanza (4 line verse)  and repeat them as the 1st and third of the next stanza. You can make the poem as long as you like. The last stanza differs from the rest in that the 1st and third lines of the last stanza are actually the 2nd and 4th of the previous, while the 2nd and 3rd lines of the last stanza are the 3rd and 1st lines of the 1st quatrain.

The Budget Circus.

Roll up, roll up, but be quick
the Budget Circus comes to town.
They'll delight, with just one trick
A dancing Elephant and a Clown!

The Budget Circus comes to town,
Now hurry children do not wait.
A dancing Elephant and a Clown
Can be seen once through the gate.

Now hurry children do not wait,
an Elephant that twirls and twists.
Can be seen once through the gate
It’s something that must not be missed.

The Elephant that twirls and twists,
the Clown will balance on his head.
It’s something that must not be missed,
Or so the smiling Ringmaster said.

The Clown will balance on his head,
they'll delight with just one trick.
Or so the smiling Ringmaster said,
Roll up, roll up, but be quick.

© Helen A. Howell

Thursday, July 21, 2016

The Collector

He watched as her graceful movements took her around the room. She smiled and nodded, stopping to chat here and there as she passed out canapés. Her long silk dress clung to her hips and fell in soft folds at her feet.  He felt his heart quicken. She was a work of art all of her own and knew that he had to add her to his collection, no matter what.
He’d been watching her on and off for several weeks now.  She may  seem out of reach, but he wasn’t going to let that put him off. 
“Hello,” he said as she passed him by. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Lennart Hives.” He held a hand out to her and smiled.
She looked around her for somewhere to place her tray down and walked over to him. “Hello.” She grasped his hand and shook it.  “I’m afraid I don’t know everyone that comes to these do’s at the gallery. I’m Arabella Restharrow, but everyone calls me Bella.”
He noticed how her amber hair tumbled down her bare back in gentle waves. How her nipples were just discernible under the silk that caressed her shapely form.
“You work here?” He already knew the answer. He’d been vigilant in his study of her. 
“Yes. I helped curate this show. You’re interested in art then?”
“I’m a collector of sorts and I’m always interested in adding to my collection. Perhaps you’d like to show me a few of your favourites in the show.”
“Of course. I’d be delighted.” 
“Lead the way.” 
He stood close to her as she explained in great detail what moved her about certain pictures. He joined in with his own impressions of the works she showed him. He’d done his homework and could speak with some authority on the tone and the composition of each piece.
 “It’s such a pleasure,” she turned to face him, “to speak with someone who truly enjoys how the brushstrokes are applied and what the artist is trying to convey.”
“Don’t all you customers look further than the picture?”
“No. Not all. Most just treat them as acquisitions to be displayed, trophies, if you like of their wealth.”
“Ah,” he nodded his understanding and for a brief moment captured her eyes with his own. 
“Would you like another drink?” she said.
“Why not.” 
He stepped aside to allow her to lead to way to the bar. As he followed on behind his eyes drifted over the outline of her pert derriere and he imagined himself running his hands over her smooth skin. She turned and handed him a glass of champagne and gestured over to the soft armchairs that were scattered in pairs around the gallery.
They sipped their drinks and chatted amiably together. All the while he felt he was getting a few steps closer to his goal. He knew she was from a rich family, but he thought he’d done a good job of disguising where he hailed from.
“Can I get you another drink before I carry on with my duties here? I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting them a little too long.” She smiled and stood up.
“No, thank you. But can I ask you a question?” He stood and straightened his tie.
“Ask away.” 
“Have you eaten yet? That is besides nibbling those canapés, delicious as they are.”
A frown appeared across her brow. “Actually, no. Why do you ask?”
“I wondered if you would let me take you to supper when this showing is over.”
She pressed her lips together and for a moment she was silent as she considered whether she should or not. I hardly know this man, she thought. Should I trust him? There’s something about him I can’t quite put my finger on. 
That’s very kind of you, but really it’s been a busy night and all I’ll  want to do is go home and kick off my shoes.” 
That’s a shame.” He kept a smile fixed upon his lips but inside he was angry. She was supposed to say yes. Now I’ll have to rethink. “Maybe a rain check in a day or two?”
“I won’t have any days free for a while, but thank you anyway. Enjoy the artwork.” She turned walked towards a group of people and joined in the conversation with them.
Damn her, he thought, clenching his teeth together. As he walked towards the door he took one last long glance at her. “Maybe not to night,” he murmured to himself as he opened the door and stepped into the cool night air. But soon my collection will be complete. 


Words: 773

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Delving into Dali

This week I'm sharing a poem I wrote a few years ago which was published.  It's still one of my favourites.  I hope you enjoy reading:

Delving into Dali

Dare to delve into Dali,
where liquid clocks slide effortlessly to the floor
and conscious time slips out never-ending,
to mingle with the stuff of dreams, and more.


Where the real meets the unreal
in a dance that flows to an erotic beat.
Pianos melt into sexual undertones,
a tune that is heard, but not complete.


Dare to linger for a while longer,
as flowers appear where heads should be,
and  everything is not what it seems,
or should be, or could be, maybe.


Where images shout,  look at me.
I am different, I am new,
I'm not a dream, but the stuff of dreams,
 to be understood, by just the few.


Wednesday, July 13, 2016

False Pleasure - Humourous Poetry

False Pleasure.

Oh how I love to brush me teeth,
And make 'em shine so white.
They're lovely and clean by day
And super sparkling at night.

What toothpaste should I use,
To help me in this task?
Should it be plain or minty.
Is the question that I ask.

Now I scrubs them up and down
And in-between the cracks
I'm really thorough you know.
my method never lacks.

I gaze at them with pleasure,
And I know I've got real class.
They really do gleam at me,
From their home in the glass.

©Nov. 2015