Here I offer a selection of my Short Stories for you to enjoy – hybrid chunterings falling somewhere between fact and fiction. I will add to these, as and when, under a collective title of Spirit Tales. And who knows one day they might be published as a collection to treasure or throw into the trash can.
The Little Girl Who Swam with the Dolphins
There was once a small girl who lived in a coastal fishing village where her Papa was a fisherman with her Grandpa and Uncles. In the family she was the only child and much loved – even though her Papa, his Pa and brothers had hoped she, to be a he!
The day she was born was a stormy winters day and the men left her Mama alone as they faced the elements desperate for a catch to sustain them all. At around midday the skies closed in; it was as dark as night and as the rain lashed the small cottage windows her Mama’s waters broke flooding the scullery tiles. Gripped with sudden pain the family told that the stalwart young woman birthed alone upon the cold floor, arranged the babe and cleaned herself – and still had supper on the table for when the menfolk returned! The Little Girl’s Ma was an ox of a women despite her frail appearance and skinny frame. She had been raised on hard work for, as the only female in her childhood home amongst many men, she had learnt young how to keep house and look after her menfolk.
The baby, a pretty wee dot, was christened Storm but, unlike her namesake, was a gentle soul more reminiscent of a fragrant and most welcome summer shower. You know the type which cools the earth – and addled souls, releasing vegetation and sweet soil smells? Fresh and wholesome.
Storm was an intelligent child and enchanted the menfolk – whom she wound around her small, chubby fingers. She was the apple of her Ma’s eye. And, as she grew, she started to go out on the boat with her Papa, Grandpa and Uncles and brighten their arduous days. You see, this story is set in yonder year, in simpler times – before schooling became obligatory and state stole the spirit of innocent, small souls.
As Storm grew, she learnt how to fish and navigate by the stars. She learnt to mend and darn, read and write her letters, cook, clean, dance and sing. And oh my! What a sweet voice she had as she belted out sea shanties standing upon her chair after mealtime. She was the light that brightened the household.
When she was eight years old Storm went missing.
She often alluded her Mama and hid in the fields beyond the cottage and shoreline. Here she would run in the meadows and roll in the grass smelling the wildflowers and herbs she found and had learnt to identify in the hedgerows. To pacify her Ma, she would hastily forage and return home with her apron pockets full of field flowers and natures edibles – Wild Chervil, Hedge Garlic and Borage. The day she disappeared was different though. As the light started to fade and the day drew to a close her Mama started to fret and, by the time the menfolk returned – the sky ruby red, she was frantic. With lanterns they set about finding Storm, but to no avail – she was lost to them forever.
About a year ago I rented a holiday cottage overlooking a picturesque harbour where brightly painted boats bobbed in gentle waters. The compact house was quaint and the owner advertised it as ‘The Haunted Cottage’ on Airbnb. Intrigued by all that is paranormal I packed my bag and left for a long weekend reasoning that it would be great research for my latest book which spoke of ghosts and unnatural happenings.
The day I arrived was glorious and as I entered the house the chill of the interior was a welcome relief. Alone, I dumped my bags in the small front room and turned right-about eager to explore and bag myself a fresh crab for tea. As I wandered along the small fishing quay, I spied an elderly fisherman sitting upon his boat deck mending his nets. This chap was like a caricature of a fishing fellow from yesteryear and I was drawn to him. He wore his cap at a jaunty angle, had an abundant, salty grey beard and was smoking a battered pipe. As he worked, he hummed quietly to himself and his revelry, a form of meditation, was only broken when a vulgar gull dared to land upon his vessel shrieking unnecessarily loudly. Shaken he spotted me and asked if I needed any help. I explained that I had rented the pink cottage on the seafront and, without hesitation, he answered; ‘Oh the haunted house.’ Then chuckled quietly to himself. Intrigued I asked if he knew more about this local tale to which he simply, and rather irritatingly, replied, ‘Yes.’ He then dropped his gaze back down to his nets leaving me eager for more. Coughing gently, I suggested; ‘Umm, I know this may appear a little presumptuous but I was hoping to purchase crab for tea tonight and wondered if you would care to join me?’ Without looking up he asked; ‘What time?’
After leaving the fishing fellow I found a little crab-shack in a small lane opposite the harbour and, unsure as to how to dress a crab – I imagined a feather boa and sequined boob tube rather appropriate, bought two smashing examples already prepared. I then wandered further and, following my nose, found a baker’s where I purchased an uncut bloomer hot from the oven. A quick tour of the Tesco Metro on the top corner of town saw me ready to entertain my unanticipated guest.
I decided we would sit in the kitchen which overlooked the pretty, postage stamp size courtyard garden and just as I had finished setting the table a brisk rap on the front door announced my guest’s arrival. Dressed as before and smelling faintly like a smoked kipper the fisher fellow was entering the house before I had even opened the door. And, without missing a beat, he strode through to the kitchen and seated himself comfortably at the table. He then fished in his jacket pocket and drew out a leather pouch of tobacco which he deftly packed into his pipe which he lit without enquiring if it was even ok to smoke – I decided to let this imposition slide and offered him a cup of tea which he declined. In-fact, that afternoon he admired my spread, and thanked me, but refused all my offerings – seemingly gleaning great joy from watching me tuck in all alone! We sat in companionable silence for quite a while until, finally he said; ‘I can tell you about this house if you wish.’
And this is what he said: ‘Back in the day there lived a fishing family in these old four walls. A woman, child and five men. A simple family they were happy until one day the child, a little girl, disappeared. She was young and without her in the home the darkness descended upon the household. The Grandpa died of a broken heart and three of his son’s left the village for the city where they made new lives for themselves working in modern factories. The mother went quietly mad and ended up in bedlam, shitting her sheets and ripping out her hair. Finally, only the father was left rattling around this house that was no longer a home. He lived for many years and continued to fish daily for it was there that he felt closest to his lost child whom loved to fish with the men. The village folks thought him strange for he told of hearing a child’s voice eerily singing songs on misty nights – carried across deep, inky blue waters. Until, one day, he came back to harbour beaming from ear to ear – claiming he had seen his lost daughter swimming with the dolphins. The townsfolk thought him harmless but touched. And so, they left him alone. One day they realised he had not been seen for several weeks, and that his fishing boat remained, untouched, and moored in the harbour. The old man had died. Nobody had missed him. Or noticed his absence. He was cursorily buried in an unmarked grave in the cemetery on the top of the hill – with not one person by his graveside to mourn his passing. Many, very many years had passed since his death, but locals often reported lights going on and off and sounds of occupancy in the empty house which was now a holiday let.’
Confused I sat with a million questions on the tip of my tongue which I never got to ask, for the fisher fellow then said; ‘Well, I have an early start tomorrow and must go to bed; and so I thankyou for your hospitality and bid you farewell.’
And, with that, he rose from his chair and, as I joined him to see him out, he stepped towards the small staircase in the corner of the room and without looking back at me slowly disappeared from sight.’
The Man who Smoked a Pipe
As the sun started to set Edwin sat forlorn and trembling amongst the destruction and detritus of war. In mud up too his mid-shins he quietly puffed his pipe in a fetid, stinking trench somewhere in Northern France. Smoking was strictly forbidden. For the faintest glow could give the enemy an opportunity to take a fellow out – but Edwin was beyond caring having witnessed the wholesale slaughter of his company and finding himself alone in enemy lines. Shocked and bloodied, he pondered the improbability of remaining physically unscathed. Then, in a bid to restore a sense of normality, he had fished in his pocket for his small pipe and packet of tobacco. The ritual of tapping and loading it with his fragrant blend soothed his soul and, as he struck a match and pah-pahed upon his pipe, he closed his eyes and remembered halcyon days playing the fool with William.
William was his brother. A freethinking fellow who, like himself, had been sucked into the vortex that was The Great War. 1914 – 1918, ‘The War to End all Wars.’
At that moment William was many miles away in a strange land where camels roamed and sandstorms chaffed skin raw. Unlike Edwin, he had joined the Royal Flying Corp – realising intuitively that those that joined the infantry would be little more than canon fodder. The last time he had seen Edwin he had argued vociferously with him in an attempt to stop him from signing, with his mates, as infantry man; but alas the young chap was a stubborn fool who blithely refused to listen. As William sat outside his canvas tent, he looked skyward and marvelled at the stars in the sky and wondered if Edwin could see the same sparkling constellations he viewed in awe. He missed his brother and feared for his safety for, whilst on mad adventures of his own as ground crew, his risk of death in battle was negligible.
As the life of the day ebbed, the temperature dropped and Edwin realised he was cold as he started to shiver. He had to make a decision. He could not languish in an enemy trench any longer for fear of the Germans returning – or discovery by an English Officer who might well label him a deserter and shoot him on the spot. Under cover of darkness he decided to crawl back to the British lines. This was a hazardous undertaking. With rotting corpses and torn flesh strewn amongst barbed wire shreds. Putrid, water filled bomb craters with decomposing bloated bodies. And snipers – both German and British, alert for the slightest movement. Edwin sat for a further moment and steadied his nerves before clambering above the parapet and snaking on his belly towards the British lines. It was a moonlit night in no man’s land and as he crawled, he was able to make out human body parts shredded and scattered amongst the fallen that remained intact, with eyes wide open in surprise at such an unwarranted end. Edwin had to stifle choking and heaving as the whiff of death and decay overwhelmed his senses. Finally, without incident, he dropped down into the British lines to find that, again, he was alone. Confused he staggered from the frontline towards the reserve trenches looking for comrades – but he found none. Everywhere was empty. The trench system was deserted. Confused Edwin sank to his knees, then slumped exhausted onto the muddied duckboards where he slept until dawn.
When he awoke his gaze fell upon a beautiful blue sky with a single white bird hovering on high. It was an albino Eagle. Intrigued, Edwin rose to his feet and, shielding his eyes from the brilliant sunlight, followed as it guided him through the vacant warren of trenches. The magnificent bird of prey was insistent – it called and waited when Edwin fell behind; circling patiently. Until finally, as Edwin turned a corner, the Eagle peeled away and disappeared.
Seated on a wooden crate, his back towards Edwin, was a single figure. A man dressed in a flying suit with a fleece lined leather flying jacket – collar turned up against the early morning, bright chill. With the sound of footsteps, the startled fellow turned. And the two brothers looked upon the other in complete surprise. Then confusion. They rushed towards one another and fell into a firm embrace but were astonished as each slid through the other with an electric tingling sensation which jolted them into the realisation that something peculiar was about.
The two young men stood before one another and realised that they were dead. You see William had been killed in an explosion that had occurred through an unfortunate turn of events: a beleaguered aircraft, returning to base, had crashed on landing. Wiping out a small hangar and all the ground crew who worked within. Edwin had made it to the enemy line only to be killed by a fleeing German youth who had bayonetted him as he had dropped, disorientated, into the trench.
Edwin and William laughed at the sheer madness of the situation they found themselves in; and the irony that, in death they were set free and more alive than ever. As they looked around them a mist slowly descended. Then rose to reveal a new vista – of a beautiful unscathed landscape, with a man standing in the near distance. The dapper gentleman beckoned them to come forward until, standing before him, he spoke;
‘Well my dear fellows it’s a fine day for dying – but of course you realise already that you are not dead, don’t you?’ The question was rhetorical as the man continued; ‘But all is not as it seems: and you William were right to realise that an infantryman was but fodder for cannon. And, by the way Will, best laid plans and all – your passing was not meant to be. But hell, you are here now!’ He chuckled. ‘But joking aside, serious devilry is in play my dear boys – yet most have no idea of what the true motivator is for this bloody war which rages across earth. For it has nothing whatsoever to do with the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand, nor any other contrived bunkum your leaders tell you – oh no, the truth is far more sinister. I am sorry to say that your deaths, and those of many, many more millions of innocent people, is a dark agenda in play to depopulate the world in preparation for a New World Order. This will see the earth’s population culled to just a small skeletal workforce who will then be enslaved to a system that will benefit the elite who, without conscience, conspired your deaths. And, if this isn’t bad enough, I tell you – when this plan fails, for fail it will this time, those you trust will let loose a virus that will become known as The Spanish Flu – in a last-ditch attempt to finish what they started. And this will kill many more millions. But humanity will recover and those in power will continue to wage war on those they pretend to care for inventing ever more cunning and devious plans to despatch with those considered surplus to requirement. Another World War will ravage earth and humanity, and war will become commonplace across the globe as enemies are invented to justify meddlesome interventions and wholesale death. Diseases will be crafted in laboratories and callously released into the world – Ebola and Aids the most devastating. Oh, I could go on for ages but I see you are tired. So, lads my sincere condolences on your passing but, to be frank, you are well out of it! Besides, I have important work for you two to do from here on high.’ He paused, then continued; ‘So, please lads, follow me for time is of the essence. I have the kettle on for a soothing, sweet brew and perhaps Edwin I might cadge a puff of your pipe for it’s been a bloody eternity since last I smoked.’
The Lady Who Lived in The Tower
On a remote island, North of the Scottish Isles, there lived The Lady in a crumble down tower which her forebears had built, several centuries before, to warn of pirates and undesirables who sometimes roamed the islands looking to meddle and plunder. Lady had never married. She was old and creaked around her ruined rooms as the winter winds whistled furiously – unhindered by trees or bush of gorse. This bleak island was godforsaken and, except for a once monthly visit from the boatman who delivered goods to forgotten families on forgotten shores, completely isolated. The Lady kept a few chickens for eggs, but had long ago given up trying to grow vegetables in soil that barely clung to ancient rock – resonating still with the footstep of Neanderthal man.
The Lady spent her days painting, and the rooms in the tower were filled full with her drawings and canvass’ which she had never shown to any other living soul. Her only companion was a spirit that you most probably have heard of. This spirit is an esteemed artist and was celebrated in his lifetime – as he still is today. His name: William Turner. He is the lady’s mentor and friend.
When she was a very little girl the island was a happy and vibrant place with several other families and herself, brother, Ma and Pa – but the years saw them gone, one by one, until she remained with only Turner by her side.
She was only a small child when he first spoke to her. She was sitting alone on the beach – drawing in, and playing idly with the sand – when a voice from behind said; ‘Did you know that there are as more stars strewn throughout the skies as there are grains of sand on the earth?’ Surprised by the voice she turned and asked; ‘How do you know that?’ To which Turner simply replied; ‘Because I am now privy to universal truths which mere mortals cannot truly know.’ ‘Who are you?’ She continued, confused as Turner presented as a misty, see through figure that shimmered in the waning sunlight. ‘I am the famous artist William Turner – deceased.’ He announced with a trickle of laughter lacing his words. ‘And I am happy to meet you Florence.’ Florence frowned and asked; ‘If you are dead are you a ghost?’ To which Turner replied; ‘Not so keen on the term ghost my dear – think of me as a spirit, a far more acceptable term, for I am benevolent and kind, whereas ghosts are perceived as pestilent. I am here today, and for all your tomorrows, to guide you.’ Florence smiled a broad and pure smile which warmed Turner’s heart. She was very happy to have a secret friend.
True to his word Turner stayed close to Florence throughout the many years and encouraged her to embrace her truest nature despite the social pressure to marry and have a family of her own. She was a loner and spent many hours drawing contentedly, much to the frustration of her family who thought her slightly touched; especially as she refused the hand of the neighbour’s son who, having secured a position as a clerk in a solicitor’s office on the mainland, presented as a fine catch.
The years passed and her contemporaries left the isle for adventure. And the old folks passed back to spirit – their weary bones melding with earth far flung on relentless, howling winds.
One fine day Florence sat impatiently awaiting fresh fruit, vegetables, paintbrushes and oils at the bedroom turret window which overlooked the small harbour quay. From here she could see when the boatman arrived and monthly sat vigil. This particular day Turner was in a chatty mood and beguiled her with stories of his success as he tried to encourage her to go to the mainland and speak to galleries to show her work. ‘Did you know,’ he said ‘That one of my best friend’s was the artist John Constable? Not many know this – for history has presented us as adversaries, but this is myth that begrudges magic. For magic we were. Our rivalry was true enough but it was goodhearted and saw us striving to outdo the other and thus egged us on to create better work. He is a dear fellow and the other day I was talking with him about you Florence, and we decided that it is time for you to show the world who you truly are for, my dear, what is the point of hiding your light from everyone any longer?’ He paused for a moment to allow his words to settle. ‘You see Florence you have painted in isolation for many years and now, before you pass back to spirit, it is important to show the world what you have done for no more than the love of doing. You will never be rich as most imagine rich to be, but your story has the power to encourage others to follow their passion regardless of societal stigma and monetary reward. You are an accomplished artist but it is your life that is your greatest masterpiece. A lesson for all to heed.’ Florence sat quite still allowing Turner’s words to settle in her mind. ‘You see Florence each soul comes to earth with a purpose and yours was to show others the way. By that I mean to say that you are an example of a life lived through passion for something most cannot begin to fathom – Creativity. As the majority of people trundle to work daily, doing dirge which displeases for little reward all too easily spent on unnecessary trifles and inflated bills, you have sat apart from this foolishness and been who you were meant to be. You are an eccentric and noble lady who has followed her dream to be creative despite lack. This is a life most precious and pure, and others would be well advised to follow your example but, my dear old girl, how can they do this when you remain isolated and unknown? You must write a letter for the boatman to deliver to a dealer I am advised, by those higher than I, whom will be delighted to exhibit your work and share your story. Quickly;’ Turner chuckled mischievously, knowing full well that quickly was no longer an appropriate adverb in relation to his elderly charge – ‘Go fetch pen and paper and I will help you now.’
The letter they together wrote that day, was well received. And the intrigued dealer flew with haste to Scotland where he arranged for the boatman to ferry him to the Isle. There he spent a day in The Lady’s company, listening attentively, as she showed him her lifetimes endeavour. He was impressed.
The Lady in The Tower exhibition was scheduled for 6 months hence; but in the interim, Florence’s health started to fail until one wet, chilled night she simply slipped from one world to the next – where a grand party was held to welcome her home.
Still, the exhibition went ahead as planned and The Lady in the Tower was feted for her life’s work. As she sat on high, with Turner and Constable by her side, she smiled wryly and commented, ‘Next time I will be famous in my lifetime and will use the knowledge of this most recent incarnation as a starting point for greater work.’ Turner nodded sagely and asked; ‘And when might that be my dear?’ ‘Our Father says soon!’ She replied. ‘He advises that the world urgently needs to learn the value of creativity and so I am to reincarnate in not so very many years – when the lambs are skitterish in the fields.’ She paused for a slighter than slight moment, before continuing; ‘Dearest Turner, will you again honour me? Be by my side as spirit guide, friend and confidente?’ Turner hesitated – not one jot! Then responded with a simple; ‘Yes.’ And so, the deal was struck with a firm handshake between two creative souls that had danced together over lives too numerous to recount.
The Boy Who Thought Himself Mortal
England is a country known for ghoulish tales steeped as it is in dark and bloody gored history – but this tale is not a bloody tale. And yet it still has the power to gently chill the marrow.
Not so far from London nestles a small, yet smart, market town on the banks of a tributary of the famous River Thames. Here, the waters are deep and run dark with turbulent currents and long-ago lost souls that, face-down, float forgotten amongst tangled, troubled weeds. It was here that the boy who thought himself mortal drowned.
He was seven years old the day he played in the balmy summer sunshine on the grassy banks with several of his friends. The year was 1796. Thomas came from a wealthy family of merchants. His father imported fine silks from exotic lands for ladies of means and manners in metropolitan cities which sprouted as mushrooms as the social topography of Britain slowly started to change. Thomas was a kind boy; an only child his parents doted on him. His rather fine bedroom was at the top of a distinguished Georgian townhouse where he lived with his mother, father and several staff who resided below stairs.
The Saturday he died started ordinarily enough. He ate his breakfast with his parents in the modest dining room before excusing himself to play. He had two young friends and each Saturday morning they would meet early by the bridge before spending the day together exploring and playing muddy-grazed-knee-pretend. The three boys got along splendidly having grown together since wee babes. His friends were called William and John. This particular day was exceedingly hot – the sun rose early and was late to set. It warmed the earth and blistered both young and old flesh alike – devoid of care or compassion.
Exhausted, having fooled around like mad hares in the midday sun – the three boys threw themselves down in the long grass on the banks of the river for a nap; but John made a mistake believing a tuft of over- hanging grass to be on solid ground. Without warning he tumbled into the river with a fearful splash. The boys all knew better than to lark around in waters, oft spoken of in hushed whispers as treacherous. And so, when John who could not swim fell in, Thomas and William stood helpless and terrified as they watched their friend struggle in the eddy and fickle weeds. All seemed lost.
Suddenly, Thomas jumped into the fast-flowing waters to help his dear companion who was now under water. Not a strong swimmer himself, he managed to drag John from the murky, muddied depths and bring him to the surface where, with William on his belly reaching out – stretching every fibre and sinew of his slight boy-body, they managed to push and haul John to dry land. Exhausted John lay limp and lifeless. In shock, and with a flood of relief, William fussed over his near lost friend and, preoccupied, forgot to help Thomas who struggled against the current to haul himself back onto the bank. Already physically tired Thomas thrashed and grasped for purchase on the grassy bank and then quietly slipped under the water.
My friend bought number 22 Grey Street in 2004 and, soon enough, reported peculiar happenings in the house which overlooked the pretty red brick church and picturesque graveyard with its worn, tumbledown tombstones smoothed by the elements and touched by lichen. In this graveyard the bones of Thomas once lay. Then ossified. Crumbled – until only trace elements laid in rest. The house was a beauty with a modest three storey façade and basement and small gardens front and back. Over the years, inhabitants had been kind to its fabric – and many original features remained such as classic fireplaces in hand-hewn stone and paint encrusted wooden shutters which had witnessed more sunrises and moons than visible stars on a clear sky night.
You would say the house was haunted – but haunting is a peculiar word which negates the right of previous occupants, mistakenly considered dead, to remain. For Thomas, although drowned, is not dead. He lives on forever in the body of a seven years old boy; he now exists as a light body on another plane of existence to earth and sometimes, when energies align, through an anomaly of circumstance, he is visible to my friend and others. He is most often seen looking forlorn and expectant from his bedroom window.
Since his passing back to spirit in 1796 many people have journeyed through 22 Grey Street and all have been aware, to varying degrees dependant on their sensibilities, of the little boy who most often frequents the upstairs bedroom and basement stairs.
The day Thomas died he transitioned with relative ease. Never realising what had truly passed. He believed he had saved his friend, and was confused to witness his Mother and Father bowed by a graveside weeping as a small coffin was lowered into the ground. As he stood by their sides’ he thought it odd that John’s parents were not present at the burial of their boy whom he, himself, wept big-fat- heartfelt tears for. He remained unaware that the stiff, cold body in the small casket was in fact that of his own.
His parents were devastated by his loss and, despite him being by their sides exactly as before, one day without warning they mysteriously disappeared – simply unable to live a day longer in the house that reminded them constantly of their unnatural bereavement. Thomas, bemused, decided to await their homecoming.
He has been waiting 208 years to date for their return; but they never did nor will come home. For you see when people die, they are not always reunited with those they love. Sadly, not all souls die equal and many go to the dark, where those of the light never-ever-eternally get to see them never ever again.
The Little Boy Who Saw Fairies
In the 1960’s, a little boy was born into a family that had no idea that their home and lives had been brightly blessed. This child was no ordinary soul – he was a General in the realms of spirit and had agreed to return to a troubled earth to help pave the way for change. Sadly, his parents were little better than fools and valued themselves above him. They treated him as an inconvenience; no better than a pesky, mange-ridden-mutt. The General, for that is how he is known to us on high, was abused both physically and mentally by his Mummy and Daddy. Denied proper food and love he was often sent to his room where, in fear, he awaited the heavy step of his Daddy upon the threadbare carpet stairs. And the beating – his Mummy regularly promised would follow when, ‘Your Daddy comes home.’ Searing belt beatings were more plentiful than hot meals in this house of unmitigated misery and so The General retreated into his mind where he was beyond the reach of those in the world who wished him harm. For things were no better at school where, like wolves smelling unprotected innocence – and mistaking it for weakness, the bullies circled. And often attacked.
The General is an old and supremely wise soul who often sits on council in the astral realms. He is no coward. Nor fool. But, long-long-long ago, he selflessly agreed to travel inconspicuously throughout this lifetime – allowing those, short on intelligence, scruples and intuition, to judge him harshly. And thus, he has maintained his cover. Still things have been much worse than most can imagine; empathy and compassion in short supply.
But we have always been by his side.
When he was four years old, we came to him one wet and miserable afternoon. Sent to his room for having the audacity to ask for more juice, he sat on his bed and wept. Now, dear reader – for beings most deny exist, that are often portrayed as malicious ghouls hellbent on causing harm, we have always to be supremely careful when approaching a child of troubled, tender years. And that is why we most often present as sparkling sprites, small fairies that flit and dart with glittery glee – whose chatter tinkles as wind chimes in a gentle breeze.
That sad day we sent two of our finest to be by The General’s side. To speak truth to him that was designed to strengthen his resolve. As he sat forlorn, cross legged on a scratchy, rough wool blanket which irritated the backs of his knobbled-knees – he noticed the room brighten ever so slightly and so, raised his sorrowful head.
Now I must tell you that we are masters at influencing energy and can manifest and present as we please; and that day, the conscious energy sent to The General was instructed to be playful, bright and innocent. So, it was that The General first met Courtney and Jason. You probably thought fairies were always female but this is a myth that man has foolishly chosen to believe – just another, erroneous inherited belief to join the too-many-millions to be able to keep count! No, fairies can be of both genders and I, as Jason, have often presented as a male fairy to little children in need of company and love. That day, as always, I wore my little green shirt with the large lapels and a pair of fawn-coloured, tight-fitting long trousers with gold sparkly shoes sporting an oversized, most splendid, buckle. And a rather dapper cap I wore at a jaunty angle. Courtney wore her favourite pearlesque-white, tulle tutu with a silver hued leotard, colourful flower garland around her neck, pure white feathers in her hair and a pair of glittery ballet pumps. We cut a dash I can tell you!
As The General looked up we hovered about a foot from his nose, our fine rainbow hued silver wings moving so fast as to appear motionless. His eyes widened like flying saucers. And his small jaw dropped. ‘Hello.’ We greeted him in unison, before continuing: ‘We have come to keep you company for a while.’ His small, curious hand reached out towards us, palm upturned – and so we settled upon it and, like him sat crossed legged. He brought his hand to within an inch of his baby-button nose and peered, confused at us. As he breathed our hair blew gently in his breeze. ‘Are you real?’ He asked. ‘We are as real as you.’ I answered. ‘And will be visiting you often from this day forth for you are of us, with us and on an important mission for us all.’ He looked exceedingly puzzled and so Courtney spoke; ‘Do you not remember me Papa?’ His shiny black eyebrows knitted together as he quietly answered ‘No.’ This was not unexpected as when a person is reincarnated, they come back to physical form with little to no remembrance of previous lives in body – or even as disembodied consciousness dotting around in the astral realms. Still, poor Courtney’s face fell momentarily as she had hoped her Papa remember her. I quickly elbowed her in the ribs and she regained her sparkle. ‘So, Child;’ I said, ‘I wish to tell you a story to amuse, cheer and help you better understand the world you find yourself in.’ He shuffled his little bottom closer to the wall and leaned back to listen.
‘Once Upon a Time,’ I started, ‘there was a soul that was favoured because of its purity and light. This soul is you. Throughout more lives than fleas on the back of an infested cat, you have proved yourself worthy of respect and love – for you are loyal, brave and true. Your word is your bond. Since the very beginning man has slowly lost touch with who he really is. Humans have been seduced by things and chosen to value these trifles above simplicity, love and community. In your world are very many bad people, such as your own Mummy and Daddy who, having been entrusted to love and shelter you, prefer to choose to be unkind and cruel to you. But this is for a reason for you need to be strong for the life that is to follow and the task you are specifically on earth to do. You must not be too harsh on your parents who agreed to fulfil this unsavoury role to help you become the invincible man you are destined to be. When you are all grown, you are to go on a quest to find a soul we call Girl. And together you are to do great work for humanity – but that is not for many years yet and so, for now, we promise to visit you often and help you bear your sorrow for you are precious and we love you dearly.’
An enormously fat, iridescent tear plopped onto the General’s sallow cheek; and, at that point I clearly recall that Courtney chipped in; ‘Papa don’t be sad, I will always be with you, and will sit with you when you are alone, scared and downcast.’
The General clumsily brushed the lone tear stain from his face – with the cuff of his misshapen-jumble-sale-jumper and, looking directly into Courtney’s weeny-fairy-face he simply said; ‘I think I remember you now, you are called Charity.’ And Courtney smiled a smile more precious than all the diamonds throughout the vast continent you know as Africa.
One Man’s Human is another Being’s Alien
In the beginning there was an infinite, yawning nothingness – a void which waited without self-awareness to be filled. Until one long forgotten, far distant day creation was set into motion. But not as man has been led to believe. There were no six days of toil and a day of rest. Nor Adam and Eve or any such fantastical guff conceived by unevolved minds to fulfil a need for answers; a craving for superiority and control over others. No, all of this is contrite piffle and nonsense – and it is quite incredible that so many ‘intelligent’ people cling to such flimsy fable for fear of having to think critically for themselves – yet they continue to deny aspects of reality which present as large as an elephant’s trunk.
But the true story of creation is even more fantastical than the tall stories powerful men once spun, then boldly embellished with dark purpose and tarnished sequins, to pull the wool over the eyes of common man. It is a tale that sees humans, aliens, angels, demons, spirits and disembodied conscious energies living as one. In a Multiverse which defies comprehension; and, by design, side steps scientific minds like a well-soaped- Sleepy-Cod that evades the grasping fisherman’s hands.
In the beginning there was nothing. Then one strange moment there was something – which came to be by a gathering momentum of energy which emanated from the nothingness; which was actually something – energy. This pure latent energy was devoid of purpose and direction – it rattled and dotted around the vastness and became frustrated as an angry wasp trapped in a jar. It sought release. The energy grew at such a rate, due to an unspecified anomaly, as to create an immense pressure which became impossible to contain within the vast void of nowt.
So, from nothing the energy gathered momentum until, no longer able to be held within the infinite nowt it created a bang bigger than any words could draw in a person’s mind. This magnificent blast set into action a chain reaction – where chemical compounds, bonded energetic stickle bricks, came into being allowing for creation of all manner of diverse delights – depending on proportion, pattern and arrangement. This was a chipper and cheery day for, until this time the energy that existed within the vast void was busily unthinking. It had been a primeval, unconscious energy – but after the big bang something bizarre happened as from nothing came something. Conscious thought. Or Mind.
Of course, this all took time, a lot of time.
A person could have boiled more eggs, multiplied many more times over, than all of humanity could even begin to consider consuming since first walking barefoot on earth. But time, but a concept, is eternal – and never in short supply when the broader picture is viewed from a standpoint of open mind. So, time it took for things to naturally take shape and evolve.
And the energy now had a skipper at its helm – a mind more powerful and intelligent than any that has followed since. This mind I will call Source for religion has no place in my tale. The vast nothingness transformed to Mind now had energy with purpose and Source to orchestrate the creation and population of many worlds on many planes of existence. For here you see is something most have never considered considering; what if, within Mind, many layers of existence jogged along happily and simultaneously on different vibrational bands of frequency? Rather like a Cream Slice with distinct layers of delicious puff pastry. And what if, upon these layers, jam and cream of varying hue and persuasion live? Many worlds independent of one another – co-existing within the whole. Where diverse peoples, energies and beings with unimagined powers, feathers and wings hang out.
Further along the timeline: and now there exists Mind with Source.
And Source is master creator and a bloody dab hand at influencing and orchestrating energy. Source creates kingdoms and peoples as diverse and plentiful as starry constellations in inky black-blue skies. Yet not all of creation is in physical form – some remains notional. Nebulous conscious energy, which lives and loiters nearby Source – awaiting opportunity to be made manifest in physical form. Or not. This conscious energy Source calls Spirit.
Spirit is different from Soul; it is the fuel, the colour, which animates and paints Soul. It is Soul which makes each bundle of conscious energy individual. Try to imagine Source as a generous scoop of ice-cream in a bowl where the bowl represents Mind. Then see Source covered and surrounded by sprinkles of many colours and see these individual sprinkles as souls that exist within Mind but apart from Source. Each sprinkle represents a soul and each soul is given life through spirit which is the coloured coating on each individual sprinkle.
So, Source creates Earth, and other planets, on different vibrational frequencies, where conscious energy – spirit and soul, the sprinkle – can be beamed into living, breathing transient flesh. Sinew and bone. Here. There. And everywhere.
And, just to add a little further colour to my tale: what if you, and you and I exist simultaneously in different skin, and form, as diverse aspects of the same soul strewn far throughout the galaxies?
As I tell my tale here on 3D earth, I might simultaneously be telling a similar tall tale on 5D earth – where the physical body is replaced by a light body. Or perhaps I am chatting to alien species friends – on planets of barren red rock covered in luminous lichen with peculiar, petalled blooms that resemble bejewelled barnacles.
The other night I had a dream. Although it may actually have been that I left my physical body for a jaunt in the astral realms. I sat at a table in a space that resembled a restaurant but was like none other I have ever seen. It was a dimly lit space full of odd-looking peoples chatting loudly. And as I glanced across the room, I caught my image in a large, reflective surface which was the farthest wall. I was huge and spilled from the chair I sat upon. But it was my face that had me surprised – for it was intriguing to say the least: my skin was a pale blue-green. Turquoise hued veins crisscrossed my face which was as peculiar, poorly and impoverished looking as a baldy-skinned cat. I looked into my eyes – all three of them and noted their vacant glassy appearance. I stared at eyes devoid of expression, flat, blue-black and as clear as natures’ finest filtrated spring water. I didn’t have a mouth that I could see for, if it existed, it was hidden from view by a nose, a protuberant, as large and dextrous as a pachyderm’s trunk. And then, to my utter surprise, you sat yourself down at the table with me – looking every bit as you do now. And simply said; ‘Shall we get the bill now darling – go home, get cosy and watch Netflix?’
The Girl Who Always Knew
As she stood before the crowd, she was stunned to realise that all that she had been told had come to pass and she felt humbled and confused; for although there was no doubting her success it was beyond her wildest imaginings. The spirits had always been close by, but it had only been several years that she had been able to communicate with them at will and, in that time, things had started to make sense – for throughout her life she had been bullied, side-lined, stymied and shunned. And yet here she stood before an expectant audience gathered in The Palace of Winds, in Jaipur India: just as her angels had told her she would, five years afore-time. Yet this story is much more than a tale of one soul’s path to success for it is a story of love, betrayal and the light battling the dark.
In the Universe, unbeknownst to men, are many worlds of mind where anything is possible if ducks line up and bad apples are thrown to the winds – but those that pose the greatest threat to the dark are targeted, and undermined, as the dastardly play dirty in their bid to extinguish embers and fire. Determined to deny truth and light to humanity.
Strewn amongst the stars consciousness reigns supreme and souls’ journeys are conceived and overseen by teams of busy spirit guides and angels who work tirelessly to help their charges learn lessons and improve upon their souls – but, this is not always the case and is why so many people struggle in life as they fail to listen to their intuition and the small inner voice which tries to advise. Man is deaf to voices denied form and blind to truths which slap them, as wet fish, in the kisser! And the head honcho – you may call him God, he prefers to be called Th’all, weeps into his Flat White.
The first time The Girl became aware of existence beyond the physical of your world she was scared and firmly shut the door on our surprised consciousness; but we are nothing if not persistent and over the years peculiar things happened to her which she was unable to logically explain.
It was a bright and sunny morning, on a splendid summer’s day, when we woke The Girl early and called her to the garden. As the rest of the household slumbered on in the gathering heat, she crept downstairs and, ever so quietly, unlocked and opened the backdoor onto a haze filled garden, heavy with the dewy fragrance of English Rose. Girl was only six years old and this was a big adventure for her as she hunted for drowsy Ladybirds on the rosebush leaves where they waited for unsuspecting aphids to breakfast upon. It was sad to watch her as she clumsily squashed the bugs, unwittingly to death, between her less than dextrous thumb and forefinger and then looked down at the lifeless glossy, red and black spotted chitin backs, bemused – all life gone as they lay on her small, upturned palm. Tragic, as it undoubtedly was, it still made us smile and so we decided to create a small miracle for this sad child.
Now everything in the entire Universe is made up of the same stuff intelligently thrown together in infinite, varying patterns to create all – from an intricate grain of sand to a bloody great big, morbidly obese Rhinoceros. A person may find it helpful to imagine the act of creation as knitting – whereby wool of the same, and similar, is made into a jumper, pair of socks, scarf or gloves depending upon the pattern followed and stitches cast, slipped, purled and dropped. (When Girl used to ask her Mummy from whence she came – she would always get the same reply: ‘Why Dear, I knitted you.’ And this was not so far from the truth.) So, here on high, we gather the wool and then with a sudden inspired, intentional burst of energy we create. And intention is all – for all is of the mind and the mind is energy and energy fuels intentional creation. I myself am the mistress, or master – as you prefer, of the weave, but I am nothing without the entirety of consciousness that resides within The Universal Subconscious Mind – the energy each and every conscious entity creates. To be clear you are co-creators of the collective reality which is fuelled by the quality of energy you either unwittingly, or intentionally, leach into the whole.
This particular day in the garden we intended to choreograph a display of Ladybirds for Girl to enjoy for by now, having squashed a generous dozen, she was feeling distinctly morose. And this we saw, and felt, from her dwindling aura which shone ever so slightly less bright than when first she stepped, chubby-baby-barefoot, upon the lawn that sunshiny morn.
Animals, birds, fish and insects are more intuitive than man and so – when we called the Ladybirds they listened and were happy to oblige. From hidden leaves, nestled amongst the verdant Rose bush foliage, they roused themselves to heed our call and, as one, opened their shiny wings and flew towards The Girl where, short of swarm, they enchanted and amused. That day I did not count how many red-black backed, bugs danced in the glittered sun rays we rained upon the garden, but there were many more than many. And they weaved and fluttered, dipped, dived and hovered until exhausted they flew back to the bushes where they fell to sleep – as did Girl who, delighted, returned to bed.
Now this was a small thing, a mere whimsical trifle – but it was magic and magical. And this is how we roll. People imagine grandiose miracles with marching bands, bells and whistles but we are far more subtle and would rather leave a feather on a pillow than waste time on grand gestures. For grand gestures are for those who lack faith and those that lack faith will never be privy to the mysteries of The Universe.
That day Girl witnessed alchemy and was touched by her angels who love her dearly to this day.
Many little miracles manifested over the years and, as The Girl grew, she came to recognise the calling cards of loving beings as yet unknown. And, as she matured, we stayed close observing our charge and willing her to hear us – but she did not.
When a teenager, with unsightly yellowing pustules, The Girl lost her way and became despondent and angry. She was misunderstood and lonely and it was time for a grander dash of magic, yet still shy of grandiose: to embolden and strengthen her resolve.
It was a Sunday afternoon and, having finished her homework and thoroughly bored, she dozed on her bed. Her friends were few, her brother uninterested – and so we decided to play a game with her. As she dangled, suspended like a fine thread somewhere between conscious and unconscious, we sent her a message which read like a retro telex across her mind’s eye. We wrote; ‘Girl, can you read this?’ Still asleep she acknowledged our message and so we continued; ‘You know you are not alone and that we are always here to love, guide and support you but, like you, we are bored!’ She smiled imperceptibly. ‘How about we play? – Answer me this: what is round and rolls up a hill rather than down.’ In her sleep she frowned, obviously confused. ‘A ball which has been booted hard!’ The Girl softly chuckled and so we decided to broadcast a vision. In this theatre of mind: she saw a boat upon a lake, and the lake was calm but the waters red. She sailed alone but soon enough a purple Dolphin approached the vessel and said ‘It’s a fine day for sailing but the Sardines are all gone and I am hungry – have you a Tuna sandwich for a fellow traveller? The Girl rummaged in her pink canvas rucksack and produced a banana to which the Dolphin said I can’t eat that I’m unable to peel it; and with that he was gone. The Girl sat bemused and wondered why the Dolphin had been so ungrateful and then she saw a lighthouse high above the rocks which loomed ever nearer and realised that the Dolphin was not ungrateful just wise – for banana skins were slippery and treacherous like rocks and, under the deep waters, he had no way to navigate a seabed of tossed aside banana peels: just as TheGirl had no way to negotiate all the dark souls that plagued her and planned her ruin. She then woke with a start, realising that she had been gifted wisdom for things are never as they seem. She had been warned to be vigilant and know that her light was as a beacon to the dark who circled her like sharks willing her to fail. Or worse.
You see – the dark, show no mercy. And will encourage a less than stable light soul to end their days in full knowledge that their shine will be sorely missed in a world where evil is ringmaster. They shamelessly use all manner of dark deception to undo vulnerable individuals – but, with The Girl, they wasted their time and fell into despair. And so: they thought to attack her through those she loved but, whilst this caused her much pain and suffering, it backfired as it alerted her to the true nature of those she thought to love – and she came to understand that humanities DNA had been fiddled with many millions of years ago; even before the ginormous, scaly assed dinosaurs walked earth.
The Universe is populated by many alien species as well as much disembodied conscious energy, which exists suspended in time – existing in the past, future and present simultaneously. ‘Little Green Men,’ which are all the colours of a splendid rainbow on a confused day, are far flung throughout unknown galaxies of the Universe – and the far bigger multiverse which man is only now starting to acknowledge as a possibility. And not all rainbow hued aliens are equal.
Have you ever walked into a room and felt ill at ease for no apparent reason? This is your subconscious picking up on less than lovely energy; and so it is throughout the magnificent Multiverse mind or to give it it’s proper name, ‘The Universal Subconscious Mind’ – for remember all is mental. All is mind and what you believe to be real is as real as a holographic film projected into your mind from ‘The Mind.’ Yet on a rainy day it can be hard to be happy and maintain a high vibe and there are many souls in the Multiverse whose default is misery, slipping into diabolical dysfunction. And. Even. Purest. Evil. Entire whore races operate at this low level, dense and troubling frequency, prostituting themselves in the broadest sense for gain and power. And it is these species that wish for dominance and ruin for any and all that do not correspond with their limited, sorry worlds, view. One such despicable specie is responsible for much of the misery, corruption and pure bile, that threatens to consume earth and humanity – and all is by design and eons in the planning.
The Girl has felt this truth since very young and is only now stepping into her power. She is ready to speak the truth that threatens all that rational, loving souls in physical form, upon earth, hold dear: for every good and selfless human there are one thousand others who operate at a baser level where selfishness and greed motivate. These people are hybrids – created by monsters who, without conscience, plunder The Multiverse for quick coin and power. It was these hellion aliens who visited this ruin upon humanity – way before the featherless, leather winged, massive beaked Pterodactyls’ thought to fly.
In ‘The Mind’ many despair – for earth and humanity, and the foolishness of men, who proclaim that all will be well – for this is simply not true. Humanity sits on the edge of an extreme precipice where below, in the shadowed valley, chaos rules, and misery is the order of the day.
But most are not ready to listen to truth which reads as fiction; and, as The Girl prepares to address those assembled, she wonders if perhaps she has slipped into madness and is being played by the dark. Her stomach churning, with butterflies resembling heavy winged buffalo’s, she takes a deep breath and steps forward to speak.