BugEye – Part 2 of 3

It was not until later that Grel fully appreciated how difficult his task was going to prove. This miserable race either tolerated an unusually high level of insanity, or his own ability as a scout was failing him. If that were true, he reflected miserably, he would be expelled from the colonising forces and pressed into the inglorious, unmentionable occupation of greenfood cultivation on one of the backwater vegetable planets.

Grel slavered hungrily as the shadow-washed bushes exuded his gelatinous frame onto the clipped lawn behind his first unsuspecting victim. The figure sat, head falling forward on its chest, on a crude bench of wood and metal. Grel crept forward over the sharp blades of grass, the sound of his approach drowned out by the anxious murmurs of the breeze through the surrounding screen of foliage. Exultant, Grel wormed about the base of the seat and hissed with glee.

His eye pounced. The human head lifted.

A male. The head turned and turned again. Not fear! Confusion!

The face, rugged like the bark of an indigenous tree, screwed up with the pressure of deliberation. The human’s thoughts were plainly experiencing difficulties in negotiating a straight line; words took an age to stumble forward, while Grel braced himself for further disappointment.

“Bloody ‘ell!” this human said.

The exclamation was mincemeat after one pass through Grel’s translator. He grew a number of small protuberances so he might drum them rapidly on the edge of the bench.

The man, apparently oblivious of the alien’s impatience, groaned and dug furiously into the shabby depths of its great overcoat. Amid a rustle of tired brown paper, it retrieved a translucent container with a slender neck, an orange-brown liquid sloshing about inside. With respectful solemnity, it unscrewed the metal cap and gulped back a large mouthful of the mysterious substance; whatever it may have been, it immediately forced the human’s eyes wide open like searchlights. Grel could only surmise that it was a variety of potion for vision enhancement.

The man coughed. He leaned over and astonished Grel by nudging him in the abdominal area. “Heh!   Just you and me, is it? Hah! Me and an alien from Mars! Rich, that is! Want a shot of whisky?”

He proffered his container of sight-restorative. Poor Grel reeled from the noxious vapours. Out of sheer frustration he might have consumed this babbling half-sentient there and then, were it not for a sudden fear of  an acid stomach.

Oddly hunched, he sloped silently away, steering for the park’s exit.

Hope resurfaced on his departure over the green gate and onto what looked like a major thoroughfare.

Ahead of him, two figures emerged steadily from the enveloping dimness, a cone of illumination striking their shoulders and lighting up their pale faces.   Clad in identical dark blue attire, topped off with curious helmets and specked with bright buttons, they moved purposefully towards him.

Grel perched himself on two stumpy legs, raised his forelimbs and dropped his lower lip nearly to the ground, baring his gullet in the traditional display of dominance.   He saw the spark of concern, the germ of fear in both pairs of eyes and his spirits leaped with joy – they had seen him!   He salivated in expectation of his first Earthbound feast.

Suddenly resolute, the tall, authoritative figures marched past on either side.   “Should be quite a game on Saturday,” murmured one to the other.

“Mm,” agreed its partner.   They walked back into blackness while Grel stamped up and down furiously, wishing angrily that paving slabs were, in fact, the predominant race on this miserable world.

What the – “bloody ‘ell” – had gone wrong? He suspected he would never know.

(The two policemen never did refer to the hideous creature they had both seen with such stark clarity that night.   It had not been an experience to share with a colleague, just on the chance that he had not, after all, seen the same bizarre thing as you.   Then, too, each wanted to progress beyond the humble rank of constable someday.)

From then on, Grel, weighed down by greater forces than simple gravity, dispensed with limbs and slurped and dragged along the artificial ground.   He spied more lights ahead, neatly piercing several sides of various buildings. Assuring himself there would be riper examples of humanity in such a community, he pulsed and gurgled into the shadow of the largest, most intriguing structure.

Within, many lights still blazed and a refreshing gust of warmth informed him of the presence of an entire host of people. This, he smirked with greasy lips, is the one!

Seeping along the wall, he came to a metal grille and deduced it to be a kind of ventilator.

Eagerly, now, he squeezed himself through the mesh, sniffing for the teeming swarm of meat. He plopped down into the shaft and groped his way forward, throbbing with anticipation. They were here! Hundreds! He could sense their emotions charging, mounting some hidden peak within their feeble frames. They knew he was coming, and they knew there was no escape! Saliva trailing behind, beneath his thundering belly, he surged for the other opening, sucking in every yard between him and his prey. Slowly, with patience straining, he oozed disgustingly through into the chamber beyond.

There were at least a hundred gathered before him, huddled together in cramped rows of seats. The hall was dark, with only variegated patterns of light playing a random game across the tensed faces. The humans were chiefly young, under-developed examples and all the more vulnerable. Additionally, the floor sloped upwards to the main exit, making for a slower escape route.

Grel stood high, projecting himself and throwing out a stalk-mounted eye above the height of the fearful crowd that was to be his larder. Elated, he felt the growing panic, the frothing wave of terror crashing in upon their pathetic brains. In the ultimate homage to his obvious supremacy, they let rip with a single, unanimous, heart-bursting scream.

In the next instant, they sighed their relief. And only then did Grel follow the direction of their collective gaze: glued fast to the flickering screen that dominated one wall. The patterns of colour formed ever-changing pictures; their emotions responded with ready flexibility.

Dejected and utterly ignored, the alien glooped back out the way he had come. Even he had to admit some of those images on the screen had been uncomfortably realistic. How was a scout supposed to compete against that?

 

To Be Continued…

BugEye – Part 1 of 3

A traditional tale of alien invasion. Another short story from my archives. I think written circa 1990, when I had the pleasure of living in Bracknell, in Berks for a short time.

 

The blue-green planet gaped up at his scope like a hideous, swollen eye, flecks of white cloud swirling like motes of dust over its filmy surface. He could have spent an eternity trying to stare it down, but he knew far more effective methods of achieving submission.

Terror, for one.

Fashioning his coffee-and-mildew-coloured body into a distended tubular sack, Grel broke into a fit of resonant laughter that rippled through the acids of his digestive pouch and sent a few undissolved morsels washing down his filtration tract. Still quaking, he sprouted a stubby tentacle and closed a hammer-fist around the gravitic differential nodule before him. He folded his squashed-ball of a head back in an attempt to free his tract of the nuisance solids; instead, he almost choked on the trailing flap of his own skin that had sagged into his open gorge.

In a fury of gargling coughs, he scrabbled to prevent the nasty accident of swallowing a non-vital, but still desirable, portion of himself. On reflection, it had probably not been the best time to send the ship hurtling towards his landing zone.

When, in a fit of writhing flesh, he had finally expelled both fatty tissue and crumbs from his delicate metabolism, he returned his bulbous, stalk-mounted eye to the expanding image of the planet to observe that he was now irrevocably committed to spearheading the invasion.

Given the choice, however, he would have preferred to arrive as a scout, rather than a missile.

***

The South of England holds few wonders for humanity and would be an ill-chosen first port of call for any alien species, whether friendly, hostile or in some alternative state of mind destined to be forever beyond our understanding.   For many people, the area is a source of wealth and consequently a good place to live if you want to be able to buy an expensive car in which you may escape to somewhere pleasant at the weekend.   For others, it is a trap of monotones and roundabouts, where even the regimented plots of grass begin to adopt merely a lighter shade of grey and stress overtakes the wage packet in titanic bounds; all fuelling the requirement for psychiatrists who are, of course, prominent members of the first category.   It is an ideal environment for men of thought or men of no thought whatsoever, conceived by an assortment of men with vastly differing thoughts as to exactly what is ideal for anyone but themselves.   It is positively the worst environment for a dreamer.

Herbert Pottington, like most others of his race, had never been consulted as to where he would like to have been born and, in any case, would have been honestly stuck for an answer had some spiritual bureaucrat presented him with a multiple-choice questionnaire. So Fate had assigned him to dreary Hicknell and left him to either battle his way to some more seemly region or expend his time pondering how different life could be if only something actually happened in his present locale.

Between dreams and wishes, Herbert would cram his head so full of mysteries and fantasies that he often had trouble shutting his eyelids at night. The stories ran and re-ran during the dreary routine of his stuffy accountancy job, where the idea of success amounted to a gradual trimming of a car licence plate to a few characters that held less universal meaning than the longer strings. Stoically, Herbert separated all the numbers and figures of the day from his brimming ocean of imagination, for he knew, if the formulae ever broke in, his dreams would add up to zero.

The secret of realising any dream is to recognise an opportunity when it rears its (ugly?) head, but this was a talent sadly lacking in Herbert Pottington.

Thankfully, though, for him, it is nearly impossible to ignore an opportunity when it plunges, screaming, from the late afternoon sky into the reservoir that struggles to breathe a refreshing scenic quality into your daily journey home.

Of course, the opportunity may have a thing or two to argue about being recognised as such, particularly in cases where it has a mind and purpose of its own.

Eyes like billiard balls, Herbert scrambled to stand before the waters returned to their normal slovenly grey, but the murky liquid merely slurped and gurgled at the sodden rim of the bank.   True, all the geese and ducks had taken flight, but there was, by the time he had wiped his glasses clean, no motion to indicate anything more than another weighty example of kitchen debris cast illegally into the centre of the reservoir.   The trees betrayed no shadowy forms that could have hurled any such object, even if they possessed the physical strength to convey it that far.   Still, a spreading blot of darkness below the point of impact drew Herbert’s attention for a silent, fateful five minutes longer.

When Herbert saw what surfaced, he knew his life would never be the same again.

***

“In – cr – edible!” Pause. Then, awkwardly, “Uh – h – hello!”

The shape that had spoken was evidently an example of the planet’s highest life; the creatures that were responsible for the endless, senseless garble of radio waves that permeated this arm of the galaxy. What troubled Grel, his eye dripping water and ³¿ù¢ knows how many strains of bacteria, was that the cry, although apparently frantic, had not held the telling note of fear.

Bellowing monstrously, he seethed and hurled himself from the filthy pool, pressing in on the lone being with a bleary orb of vision. Good! It had backed away, raising its hand defensively!

“P – pleased to meet you,” the biped went on, faltering over its own speech. It shook its head. “I’ve read about this so many times.   It’s – I mean, wow! – but I can hardly believe you picked me! You’re a dream, right? A figment of my imagination.”

Grel blinked. He felt a cough coming on, but then realised: the ship’s automatic translator had finally caught up with him and the native. Angrily, Grel squeezed his mouth around the unfamiliar series of noises.

“I am not a figment!” A question spilled over his slobbering lips: “Do I not terrify you?”

The thing leaped up and down, landing on its two unsteady legs, emitting a sound uncommonly reminiscent of the last time Grel had given birth. “Ha, ha! You speak English, as well.” It slapped the front of its fragile-looking skull. “Automatic translator, right?”

Agitation threatened the hard-won serenity of Grel’s deeper metabolism. He hoped this first native was an atypical example. It had demonstrated an uncomfortably high level of knowledge just then, and Grel didn’t have time for caution. He had already suffered too much of a delay en route to this target world, thanks to an irritating navigational error during the FTL transit.

“Is the ship FTL, as well?” babbled the native, so fast the translator almost suffered a nervous breakdown. “Had to be, really.”

Grel simmered, reddening like a cooked lobster. “How is it you know our secrets, human?”

The being made that guttural sound again: a laugh, a raucous display of humour. “It’s all in the books, the films. Science fiction, you know? You must have heard of that!”

‘Science’ translated okay, but the word ‘fiction’ came out exactly as it sounded in Grel’s tiring brain (which was supposed never to tire) – i.e. a meaningless collection of these awkward consonants and vowels. “Explain ‘fiction’!” he growled.

“Well, stories. Stories, you know.” Grel found the thing’s conversational tone uniquely irritating; he calculated correctly that a narrowing of his eye would convey an appropriately negative response. The human continued, “Made up, invented series of events.”

Science and fiction. Invented science? Deceit with a technical content? A string of falsehoods about science? You can’t go inventing physics! How ludicrous these people must be. He decided he could easily defeat them after all!

Snarling, he stretched to his full height. He realised, not without annoyance, that he had to extend his vision-stalk before he could really tower over his captive, and then only gained a ten-blister advantage over the smug creature.

The human raised its hands again.   “Fantastic – where’s my camera when I need it! Some of the fictional aliens are cute and cuddly, but I’m glad you’re not that type, to be honest. They really get my goat, you know. I mean, where’s the credibility, huh? You, you’re great!”

Grel then felt like doing something, but could not quite fathom what it might be. This fragment about endearing (fictional) extraterrestrials stealing (?) this native’s goat was particularly disturbing.   In fact, he found himself in complete agreement on the question of credibility.

The thought settled like syrup in his brainpan.

Why would these humans create such ’stories’ about creatures from other worlds? The  concept was madness. It was essential he probed for the right information, and that involved steering the prisoner clear of this dangerously confusing subject.

“Are you typical of all humans?” He thrust his eye down to bob between his prisoner’s two puny eyes.

“Well, no, not really.” The man hunched its shoulders quickly and scanned the rough ground at the base of its own legs. “See, nobody understands me. I love to read, watch films, but there’s no-one I know likes the same stuff.” It let out some air. “I’m kind of a social outcast.”

Grel could perfectly appreciate why. “I have finished with you. You are of no importance.” At that Grel slicked away into the water, and headed for the opposite bank. He would subjugate the entire land that defined his target zone and, perhaps, exterminate all of that lunatic’s class before the remainder of the fleet arrived to conquer their respective territories.

Behind him, gallingly, the crazy human was calling, “No! Don’t go! Please!”

 

To Be Continued…

Metamorphosis – Part 2 of 2

Relief died just a short time after birth.

Had she returned completely?

The day dragged its feet and I found myself gratefully immersed in the daunting challenge of what had already been a lengthy, tiring project.

The morning routine had presented itself, unaltered by the intrusion of the weekend. Specific conversation offered minor variations to the pattern, but could never manage to colour it beyond all recognition. Problems, side-steps in the path of progress, could be welcomed as interesting seasoning, to enliven the taste of a bland meal. A window of light filtering through a plain fabric.

People, though, had to remain consistent, and lunch was an opportunity to consider this point.

Change need not be written large.

Adrift in sleep’s dark waters, you lie helpless. Your essence is free to wander where it pleases, experience what it will. On reuniting with its daytime partner, it could not still be whole. Energy must have been expended in propelling itself on its nightly journey. A single fragment could evade recapture, scurrying under the door before the dawn appears, to hunt it down. A rich scent evaporates, seeps, unnoticed, through invisible cracks in the seal, and the level in the bottle drops a micron’s width lower.

The spirit was being gently sanded, a single grain lost with each painless abrasion. Personality aged and dwindled along with the body that granted it shelter.

A tiny splinter of yourself, abandoned to the air, consigned to dance meaningless waltzes with partners of dust, unseen in the morning beams.

Food weighed heavy in my throat.

I took great care to observe my colleagues, fighting desperately to perceive what minute slice of Friday’s character had been cut from them under cover of darkness. It proved impossible.

This was clearly a tortuously slow degradation. An infinite chiaroscuro of diminishing individuality, stretching from solid, vivid colour to a bleached mist, over a span of time unique to each of us. The alterations were imperceptible from one day to the next.

How long before the transformation becomes evident?

Could I even be relied upon to recall the precise manners of my friends, my colleagues, as they had been one month or one year ago?

The question made me appreciate that my own failing persona rendered any, or all, of my recollections invalid. They had passed into the realms of obscurity. My own storage was definitely volatile, and time was known to strangle the clarity of memory. How could one measure a difference when the scale was riddled with deficiency?

The terror had arrived home.

For me, myself, not to be whole was suddenly more than any nightmare could match.

To be the subject of this gradual digestion, one morsel savoured every night, was a fear that wrenched the heart from its nesting place and thrust it against the bars of its cage. My body was doomed to decay over the years, and to grind to a juddering halt, and I was destined to accompany it, all the way down.

I had already shrunk at the prospect this last hour.

Only half of me returned to the afternoon’s share of the daily work rituals, supported, as I was, by one half of a single ham sandwich.

***

 

Christine never concerned herself with what she regarded as trivial matters, and she surprised me with her cheerful apathy. Perhaps her will to fight had been one aspect that had sloped away during one of her previous slumbers. Her arguments could achieve no more than bruise my growing trepidation. My sorrow for her tripled in an instant.

“Awareness doesn’t leave you totally in sleep, does it?” she said, enjoying the adventure of our speculative debate. “Take dreams, for example.”

I had raised the subject with tender hands, presenting it in a whimsical fashion, purely as a topic for light discussion. It angered me, like the sound of laughter at a funeral, except that it was my own voice I was hearing committing the sacrilege.

Dreams were a consideration, of course, and a spark of comfort flashed briefly, when the concept struck.

Reasoning though brought disappointing reality bubbling to the surface, and the safe handhold scuttled out of my reach.

Free of conscious supervision, thoughts were bound to resort to wild frolics. They were pupils, springing into chaotic missile fights, while their teacher’s back looked on. They would then be spotted, in mid-frenzy, by the lessened soul on its hasty return, and called to order as soon as alertness took hold. Dreams were no respite at all.

“I suppose you’re right,” I concluded aloud, too tired to carry on our conversation.

***

 

Prone in bed, my conscious mind was gripped in the clammy palms of fright, and I strove to find some way to fend off this mini-death hanging over me. All I saw was a high dive into a watery void.

My eyes scanned the ceiling, as if aid might be hidden somewhere in that expanse of unfriendly white.

Christine had already surrendered. She had receded into the peaceful cocoon of sleep. Even now she was a pallid fossil, pressed between the geological layers of sheet and eiderdown.

I would not succumb so readily.

Interest waned rapidly from the surface above me, and I was forced to peer hopefully into each shadow. But, once recognised, all objects shone with their own aura of familiarity, and a truly remarkable inability to hold my attention for the length of time I was going to need.

My brain sang with desperate activity, engaged in a useless, circular rush of thought. Problems at work, memories of childhood and old companions, reflections on pranks played at school, and the prospect of chores at home all clamoured for immediate consideration. They jostled and battled each other for that prestigious spot at the head of the queue, but their violent clashes only assisted in tiring me further.

What was I to do? The additional coffee I’d consumed just minutes prior to my retiring had seemingly deserted me at this early stage.

Secondary, sometimes ludicrous ideas, spinning around inside my skull, served to drive my fear back, deeper and deeper into the vacuous hole they had dug.

Dread of the perpetual change, that sleep clearly brought, now balanced nearer the fulcrum point, its momentum weakening against the desire and need for physical and mental rest, which sat together, far out on the opposing arm of the scales. Recovery of your bodily energy came at the cost of one small coin of your inner self.

This was a hollow bargain at best.

Simply lying here, nerves taut, I sensed the swamp tugging me under, and time drew to a stop, as I approached the lip of the black hole. Concentration clawed at a vapour-thin shore, and eventually lapsed into a cycle, empty of any purpose. Vague memories chased their tails.

They waited for me to follow.

Threads that anchored me to the surrounding walls snapped with silent sighs of relief, and my anxiety grew weary of the exertion it had maintained. It barely glimmered, fading with the mind that had nurtured it with care.

I realised, with dulled nervousness, that it would be gone by morning.

Transformation was an awesome foe, wielding a weapon that we all required.

I defiantly turned in the bed, and the shape of Christine’s body filtered through to my weakening eyes. My hand laid itself to rest on her marble shoulder.

Christine, at least, protected, I blissfully embraced defeat.

 

 

SAF

 

Metamorphosis – Part 1 of 2

This is a very old short story of mine. One I wrote on a typewriter, before I had my first computer. I think I  must have been 19 or 20 at the time. But I’ve said too much, I only wanted to date the story not myself. Enjoy.

 

 

I woke up.

It was like awareness intruding on my peace. The sheer and sudden clarity of vision, sound, smell, touch, all came without the benefits of thought. Once the initial storm had subsided, there was time to make some sense of the flood.

The curtains were edged with the gilt of morning light, a galaxy of dust caught in the beams. A silent chaos of softly swirling dirt-stars, no rhyme to their motion, no reason to their ends. These dancing sequins cycled above a now familiar environment.

The room was as always. Every object sat comfortably in place, and none were disturbed. The knob on the uppermost drawer of the old dresser, which rotated so helpfully, given the correct encouragement, had not leapt from its housing to bathe in the luxury of the thick, blue-grey carpet. The framed photographs of husband and wife remained angled toward each other, in mutual appreciation, demonstrating the love shared by their three-dimensional counterparts.

If the stack of books in the far corner had ventured anywhere, or hurled their pages about in joyful rebellion, each had now sensibly returned to its rightful position in the pile and undertaken a precise self-repair, all in absolute silence. The entire array of perfume bottles, with their expansive range of caps and stoppers, had retained their respective contents with stoic loyalty, never permitting a lone drop its freedom, and maintaining the tell-tale liquids at their pre-nocturnal levels.

One scent, however, filled the room with its delicate touch.

It was her favourite, of course, and its presence always commanded attention. It beckoned me now to shift my head and nose and eyes in another direction.

She could imprison the passion of any man. She lay there in sleep, shrouded in an aroma as tangible as that perfect form. A subject for study, encased in blissful, tranquil unawareness, totally unflustered by my own fascinated gaze.

Her exact shape was lost in heavy folds and smoothly falling curves, but the true contours could be gauged easily enough. The legs were drawn up slightly, one resting slightly on the other, one foot just millimetres from my shin. A loving, tantalising kick, frozen before it found its mark. One arm was concealed from view entirely, while the other thrust a timid, pale hand into the air, and out from the impenetrable warmth of the covers. The hand was poised uneasily, flimsily on the low foothills of the pillow.

Half a face lay not far beyond, the silken lines of the neck plunging into shadow.

The other half-moon had been mercilessly swallowed by a ravening white beast. The creature had lingered, camouflaged, hoping for the weary and unwary to place their heads over its toothless, boneless jaws, which had gaped slowly wider, like a fat snake devouring an ostrich egg.

The exposed semi-face demanded closer inspection before it too was digested.

An eye merely suggested its presence, wrapped in an envelope of intricately folded skin, trimmed with charcoal bristles. The nose was lightly glossed, and pushed marginally aside as it perched on the lip of the pillow-monster’s mouth. Her own mouth was paralysed, half-gaping, forming a last unheard plea for rescue.

Then, it struck me.

All of this possessed an air of complete and utter strangeness.

Were there not new hairs fighting for recognition amidst her tangle of dark strands that were already well-known to me? Could not her pores have secretly multiplied in the darkness, with no chance of my ever counting their number? Was it not possible that some of the lines I now witnessed were enjoying their existence for the first time?

I knew no way to be sure.

More terrifying still, was her obvious emptiness.

Somewhere in that shadowed wilderness, her soul had fled. The body, drained of energy, had released her, unhindered, into the room, failing to comprehend the value of what it once held. The corpse that was draped before me still felt warm.

Her breath crept silently from an unguarded opening, the mountainous ridges of the eiderdown granting her an air of total stasis.

Life had seen her swimming with a vital spirit. Warmth flowed through her, but it had never been alone. It had been accompanied by the most vibrant fire, a surging, sparkling electricity.

Her touch reached well below the skin and her voice projected vibrations to caress the heart, to bounce around the lungs and to move every particle of me in some small manner. Her liquid movements were a dream to behold and could even be felt with the same certainty of vision, whenever my eyes were denied the pleasure. Her laughter trickled out in sweet, natural brooks of pure honey. Her ways, her habits, her opinions were all a favourite piece of music to me. I could listen and listen, with no fear of disappointment, noting over and over the captivating phrases, the gliding melodies, which occasionally, miraculously, escaped my notice if I was ever inattentive.

Her soul had personality. Her body, now, had none.

Change.

She had been taken on the winds.

Our environment had remained inviolate. The room and all its contents shouted the fact with static pride.

The woman I knew had strayed elsewhere, however. She had vacated this pale shell, which radiated only a latent heat. I shivered, watching it all bleed away, uselessly warming the air.

Icy water was pumping through my veins, given its powerful momentum by the thought of losing her.

“Christine!”

My touch aroused her. Her soul darted back, answering to her name, through the closing mouth, to grace her with life, as if ashamed that its absence had been registered.

“Unh. What? What is it? Bad dream?”

Her hand inquired of my forehead as to exactly what had passed beneath its deep, sweating furrows. Fear, I was sure, would be picked out clearly.

Assurance oozed from her fingers, and their delicate whisper of sensitivity informed me that she had finally returned.

 

Part 2 tomorrow…

SAF

 

 

Tunnel Vision

(A very short story, this is reposted from my general – and usually non-fiction – blog and I just felt it’d like a new home here. It was originally written for a short story competition, sponsored by Virgin Trains. Basically, it had to be “about time” and no more than 500 words. It didn’t have to feature a train, but it just so happened mine did. Mine didn’t win, but don’t let that put you off )

 

Clackety-clack. Tickety-tock. Tockety-tick. The rhythm of the train is like a runaway clock.
The miles race by, but the journey drags.
Our passenger wonders whether he wouldn’t prefer it to drag some more. Two hours to go plus another hour before the interview, and he’s already nervous. Ridiculous. He should be using the time to do something worthwhile – or at least distracting – like read. Or brush up on the job particulars – again.
He turns his face to the window and tries to lose himself in the countryside. But for the present there’s only a rushing wall of trees and shrubs.
Suddenly, with a roar, that’s gone too. Swallowed up by a tunnel.
Black after black streams past. The interior – his fellow travelers (although nothing to do with him), the few empty seats – projected on the dark screen like a phantom movie. In the midst of it all, a close-up of his own face.
A reflection. His eyes full of questions about where he is going.
His whole life flashes before him. A quick-fire flicker of possibilities. The interview. A handshake, a welcome on board. Spreading the news. More handshakes, pats on the back, learning to like it, the celebrations. Hugs and kisses goodbye. The move, the stress, the big adventure. The scary first day, finding his way around, introductions, more handshakes.
Then it happens.
A chance meeting. Eyes search each other. Is she a colleague or a client? Impossible to say. She’s just a shadow. A shadow to share his life with. Marriage – months, a year maybe down the line. Two children, a boy and a girl. They’re all grown up now. Had job interviews of their own – done really well for themselves. She even has a family of her own now.
Grandchildren. Who’d have thought.
As he stares at the speeding yet still darkness outside, he has the odd sensation that the train is heading in the opposite direction. And he remembers experiencing that same thing on a journey many years before. On most of his journeys, in fact.
Briefly, he locks eyes with his reflection. His hair seems white, the lines on his face are etched more deeply than he had ever imagined and his gaze is full of questions about where he has been.
Daylight erupts out of nowhere. They’re back to the rush of trees and shrubs. A blur of green.
He’s on his way home now. The interview a mere memory and often not even that. His back is to the engine and he wonders when looking forward became looking back. He can only blame it on a trick of the tunnel. The Twilight Zone.
He listens to the rhythm of the tracks.
Clunk-clack-clack. Tock-tick-tock. Tock-tick.
Slowing down. Must be approaching a station.
But it’s not his, not yet.
He digs into his bag for a book to read or a crossword to solve. Some way to fill the remainder of the journey.
Something worthwhile, or at least a distraction.

 

SAF 2006

POOPER SCOOPER

Another Abba song violated. This one’s about the special relationship between a dog-owner and their, well, dog.

Pooper Scooper cleaning up behind you
Picking up your poo
So it won’t cause pain
To others walking down the lane

I try to keep you on your leash
When I take you for walks past Tesco
All you do is run and sleep and eat
Sniffing every tree trunk and lamp post
(Sniffing every tree trunk and lamp post)

So generally I tend to know what’s coming
(Yes I know what’s coming)
But there won’t be any mishaps
(Cos yes we know it’s gonna be)
Cos it’s gonna be hygienic
When you do your little craps!

I take a
Pooper Scooper and a little baggie
Out on all our walks
(Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)
Smiling, having fun
(Sup-p-per Troup-p-per)
When you do a number one
But use the

Pooper Scooper to clean up behind you
Picking up your poo

(Poop-pah-per Scoop-pah-per)
So your number twos

(Poop-pah-per Scoop-pah-per)
Won’t stick to other people’s shoes

Have a little doggie as your friend
You’ll never again be lonely
But you have to take care of both ends
It would be the same with a pony
(It would be worse with a pony)
There are moments when I feel like being lazy
(Feel like being lazy)
When I’m running short on time

(But then I think of everything)
Everything you leave behind you
On the pavement is a crime

I take the
Pooper Scooper so that no one fines me
And the passers by
(Poop-pah-per Scoop-pah-per)
Needn’t get upset
(Poop-pah-per Scoop-pah-per)
Or watching out where they step
I take my
Pooper Scooper to clean up behind you

Clearing up your mess

(Poop-pah-per Scoop-pah-per)
So it won’t distress

(Poop-pah-per Scoop-pah-per)
The people in their Sunday best

I’ll fill your bowl, when we get home
Inside the house you’ll stay til your next chance to roam
And when you feel the need to go
Hold it in tight
Cos I just wanna get some sleep tonight

I take a
Pooper Scooper and a little baggie
Out on all our walks
(Poop-pah-per Scoop-pah-per)
Smiling, having fun
(Poop-pah-per Scoop-pah-per)
When you do a number one
But use the

Pooper Scooper to clean up behind you
Bagging up your poos

(Poop-pah-per Scoop-pah-per)
So your number twos

(Poop-pah-per Scoop-pah-per)
Won’t stick to other people’s shoes

SAF

Bohemian Shopping Rhapsody

(Staff, Customers, Young Lad)

UP ON: Supermarket. Young Lad morosely pushes his trolley around, fending for himself. Gentle piano intro. As he makes his way around the aisles, he begins to sing. Customers join in when the lyrics dictate. We’ll leave the choreography to the imagination. The tune: the clue’s in the title

YOUNG LAD

(Sings)

Here at the weekend

Making my shopping trip

Caught in the big crowds

They can’t help but give me the pip

Stroll down the aisles

Look up at the shelves and see -

I’m not a tall guy, I need a bit of help

Because I’m reaching up, bending down

A little high, little low

Any way the trolley goes, doesn’t really matter to me

To me

Mama, just hurt a man

Think I hit him really bad

With my trolley, now he’s mad

Mama, needed cinnamon

But now I’ve got to run away -

Mama oooo -

Wasn’t looking where I went

Guess I’ll come back again for that tomorrow

Carry on, carry on, as if nothing really happened

Next stop it’s frozen goods

Sends shivers down my spine

But I come here all the time

And get my pizzas here – I’ve got to go

Gotta get some oven chips and ready meals

Mama oooo – (any way my trolley goes)

I don’t want to cook

I sometimes wish I’d never left home at all

I see a pack of canaletto and some ham

And some sauce, and some sauce, show me to the canned mango

Bolognese and baked beans – very very quick and cheap

Canned tomatoes, canned tomatoes

Plain digestives, Fairy Liquid

Frosted shreddies, Cheerios – And Wash & Go!

But I’m just a poor boy, I can’t afford that

He’s just a poor poy, hasn’t even got a cat

Spare him a pound for this week’s lottery

Excuse me, excuse me – will you let me through

Who’s this lad? No! – We will not let you through – let him through

Must be mad! No! – We will not let you through – let him through!

Must be mad! – Go join the other queue – let me through!

Come on let me through! – let me through!

Come on let me through! – let me through!

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no -

Need some bangers, crispy burgers, but they’re vegetarian -

No good for me cos they’re all made out of Quorn, no meat, no meat!

Just one bottle of vodka, a couple of wine -

Nothing too sweet, red or white will be fine -

Oh bugger – don’t do this to me, not now -

Looks like they’re right – looks like they’re right out of beer!

Alcohol is vital

Anyone can see

Alcohol’s essential – alcohol’s essential to me!

Any way my trolley goes…

SAF

Indian Takeaway: The Musical

(Clerk, Cooks, Benny, Bjorn, Agnetha, The Other One)

UP ON: indian takeaway.

Cooks are busy in the background, Clerk manning the counter. Enter four youths – agnetha, Benny, Bjorn, and the other one – wearing abba costumes as if fresh from a fancy dress evening. they head up to the counter.

Clerk:

(nods)

What can I get you?

cue gentle intro, the clerk starts glancing around as if wondering where the music is coming from. Agnetha, benny, bjorn and the other one launch into song:

Abba:

(singing)

[To the tune of Chiquitita. Possibly some choreography!]

Chicken Tikka and a Jaflong

Three stuffed naan and one peshwari

Two spiced papadoms

And a side of onion bhajis.

Then we’d like a chicken ceylon

And I think a prawn masala

Four lots of pilau rice

And a King Prawn dupiaza

Chicken phal is a touch too hot

Best just give me a kourma

That and a rogon josh

And my mate will have a bhuna

I’m usually sure of myself

And I have a lamb biryani

We should try something new

What the hell’s a murug makhani?

CHORUS

Chicken Tikka’s really pretty mild

And it really goes down a treat on a bed of pilau

You’ll regret it once again

Just like last weekend

If you have the vinda loo

Yes we’ve all been out on the beer

And the stars are out in the sky and shining above us

Let’s go over that once more

Like we did before

Starting off with Chicken Tikka.

So I think that’s just about it

That is one shit load of curry

But we’re all kind of starved

Could you fix it in a hurry?

So I hope you got all that down

I know it’s a lot to remember

Oh and throw in an extra naan

And a lamb pasander

REPEAT CHORUS

It’ll cost some dosh

But if it proves too much

we can lose the rogon jo-osh.

once the song is done, we hold on the scene for a beat.

Clerk:

(working it out in his head)

Uh, that’ll be £248.95.

Abba fall into conversation, as each of them chips in the money, ready to pay up.

SAF

BLUES SONG

(by Stagnant Waters)

I woke up this morning.

(strike a chord)

Shit.

SAF

Wild Child

(I suppose it’s time to show this site is not all about the silliness. So here’s something rare from me – a poem.)

Wild child behaviour

On sunshine days

Lifetime of rain

Perhaps just a phase

Black cloud demeanour

Trying to hide

Silver fork lightning

Clashing inside

Thunderclouds cracking

Like laughter at wakes

This stormfront horizon

Reluctant to break.

SAF