James Field's Blog, page 10

Part 12. In the middle of a nightmare…

Was Morris still asleep, in the middle of a nightmare like Sibyl had warned?-

Bert lifted each foot in turn to study his bloodied and bruised soles. He cursed himself for not wearing his boots. Prancing around in his underpants and a thin coating of tar and feathers was silly enough; it was stupid to go barefoot. What was he thinking? His duties as a security guard meant he had to trudge the Cloud Estate’s boundary walls. He couldn't do that until he found footwear. But he knew he had a pair of old rubber wellies at the gatehouse where his mate Alf lived. After he’d freed Morris, he’d make his way there to collect them.

First, though, came the problem of freeing Morris and his pickup from their prison of tree trunks. Bert grimaced and shook his head. He needed a crane and chainsaw. He dabbed at his sides, searching for pockets that weren’t there. With a snort of frustration, he tugged at his ear and bit his lip: not only had he forgotten to wear boots, but he’d also left his phone and knife at home.

*

Morris, who had taken an overdose of Sibyl’s potent sleeping draught, jerked awake, perspiration flooding down his face. Sibyl had warned him he might have nightmares, and he’d dreamt of man-eating slugs, seven feet tall, and pumpkins as big as houses, chasing him. He stretched, yawned, scorned himself for being childish, and tried to turn over on his side. But straps across his chest and waist held him back, and in a flash he recollected where he was.

He’d planned to make a night call on Wittree’s garden and ruin his giant pumpkin with a handful of slugs. But he’d fallen asleep in his pickup and driven off the road. Had he crashed? Was he dead?

His mouth slackened as his mind replayed the moment he fell asleep at the wheel. He’d rolled along at a snail’s pace and headed for the impenetrable forest border. Surely he couldn’t be far from the road?

It seemed he was. He whipped his head around, eyes bulging, but could see nothing but woodland. Trees crammed his pickup on all sides. With shaking fingers, he fumbled to release his seat belt. When he tried to open the doors, neither would budge more than a crack, and the tight-packed trunks prevented him from manoeuvring out.

Morris closed his eyes. Was he still asleep, in the middle of a nightmare like Sibyl had warned? Something thumped against his pickup and his eyes burst open. Two beady pupils gawked in at him through the door window, mere inches from his face, and the pupils belonged to a giant, fluffy slug.
 
To be continued… 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-
Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay

Part 11. A barely visible path in the woodland…

Bert strolled along a barely visible path and hummed an unrecognisable ditty.-

Wild woodland covers most of The Cloud Estate, a blend of pine, oak, beech, and ash. In less of a hurry now, Bert strolled along a barely visible path and hummed an unrecognisable ditty. He stopped every so often to glimpse at the blue sky through the screen of trees. In those rare places, he tipped his head back to smile at the morning sun’s warmth. Squirrels cautiously watched him from the trees, and a small bird on a branch stared at him, too stunned to move.

Then Bert called to mind Alf’s phone call: something about a giant slug carrying Morris in his pickup into the forest. Anyone would think it was me, chuckled Bert, the way I look now. “Come on, Chums,” he said to his Alsatians, who still growled at him. “We need to find Morris and see if we can help him.”

The Cloud Estate’s modest lake was on the mansion’s opposite side to where Bert now strolled. After twenty minutes, he emerged from the trees and followed a cinder road that circled the mansion and its broad lawns. With the mansion behind him, he plunged into the forest again, this time on a tractor path cut through an equally tight forest. The path headed down a slope, sometimes over pine needles, sometimes over gnarled roots and sharp stones that tore at Bert’s bare feet, and then up into a thicket.

It wasn’t hard for Bert to find where Morris’s pickup had left the path. It had torn away clumps of moss and lush green grass. Thin branches dangled, snapped and bent at unnatural angles, pointing the direction. A faint peaty smell rose from the newly exposed turf.

As he zigzagged his way in and out of the undergrowth, Bert kept taking sidelong glances into the foliage. Strong indeed, whatever had drawn the heavy pickup through the tangle of thicket. A slug, Alf had said, a man-eating monster. More likely, thought Bert, pursing his lips, this is one of Alf’s pranks.

When Bert reached Morris’s trapped pickup, he held back, just in case, and scanned the dense forest for signs of the slug. Thin rays of sunshine danced across the forest floor and a squirrel sat alertly on the pickup’s roof, cracking a husk between its teeth. “Seems safe,” muttered Bert, and hobbled the last few steps.

After walking for almost an hour, blood seeped from the soles of his feet. Normally, he would have ridden on his ATV, but not while a thick layer of tacky tar and feathers threatened to muck it up. Once here, he had hoped to hitch a lift in the back of Morris's pickup, but it was stuck so firmly between trees he didn't see how it ever got there, or how they could ever get it out.
 
To be continued… 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by NN2708 from Pixabay

Part 10. Slow, wet tar…

Slow, wet tar. Bert smelled like a new-laid road.-

The pot of tar was in the garden shed. Bert gathered six cushions from around the lounge and set his plan in action. A low flame under the pot soon had the tar warm and runny. After swapping his boxer shorts for a pair of skin-tight underpants, he pasted the gummy mass over his bare skin. He moved slow, wet tar.

Since he’d have to trudge about all day on security duty over at The Cloud Estate, the next part of his plan was genius. He tore the cushions apart and daubed the feathers over every inch of his tarred body. The feathers would not only camouflage him, they’d also keep him warm.

Bert kept patting handfuls of down—everywhere including eyelids and ears—until no more would stick. Finished, he spat a few feathers from his mouth, stood back to look at himself in an old cracked mirror, and wondered what the heck he’d done. Now that he resembled a giant fluffy slug, how could he find the courage to show himself to the world?

But then again, thought Bert, nobody will recognise me, which is the whole point. Later, at the masquerade party, Olive will never guess it’s me. He inched the shed door open a crack and peered out. His two Alsatians sniffed at him and growled. Not surprising, thought Bert. I smell like a new-laid road. “Take it easy, Chums. It’s only me.” But the dogs remained suspicious and kept their distance.

Seeing nobody was about, Bert made a dash for The Cloud Estate. He bounded between trees along a faint path until he reached a solid steel door in a high stone-built wall. There he tapped his security code into the lock, stepped inside, and sighed a breath of relief: no one could see him within the estate’s private boundaries.

This ain’t so bad, thought Bert, admiring his thick layer of tar and cushion feathers. Better still, by the evening’s masquerade party, he’d have grown used to it. Shaky laughter bubbled in Bert’s throat; it might even be fun.
​
He drew a deep breath, almost choked on a feather, and thought he’d better keep his mouth shut. Breathing through his nose wasn't much better. The feathers tickled and he sneezed every few steps.
 
To be continued… 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay

Part 09. Borrow a suit of armour…

Perhaps Bert could borrow a suit of armour from The Cloud Mansion.-
 
Just then, Bert’s mobile phone rang: “Go ahead,” drooled the Clint Eastwood ringing tone, “make my day. Go ahead, make my...” Bert jabbed the answer button with his fat finger and lifted the phone to his ear. “Yeah, Bert here. What do you want?”

“It’s me.”

“Yeah, Alf, it always you when it’s you who rings, ain’t it.”

“I want to warn you about Morris.”

“Morris?”

“He’s fast asleep in his pickup in the middle of the forest down by the lake. Keep your eye on him when you come on duty. We don’t want no harm coming to him.”

Bert ran his hand over the stubble on his head. “What’s he doing in the middle of the forest?”

Alf didn’t answer for a moment, and then he whispered, “A giant slug carried him there.”

Alf seldom made jokes, and this one wasn't especially funny, but Bert laughed anyway and waited for his friend to tell him the real reason.

Tired of being ignored, Olive sniffed and turned. “I’m off,” she said. “See you at the masquerade party tonight—if you recognise me.” She did a graceless twirl in the doorway and blew a kiss.

Alf talked in Bert’s ear, but Bert wasn’t listening. He couldn’t stand the thought of Olive with someone else. As soon as he heard the front door slam, he snapped his phone shut, dropped his dumbbells with a clang, and flopped down on his sofa. One dumbbell rolled to his feet. He kicked it into the kitchen and bowled the trashcan onto its side, spilling its smelly contents. He didn’t care; all he cared about was Olive’s cheating on him at the masquerade party later that evening.

Through a haze of despair, an idea formed. It was a masquerade, right? Nobody would recognise anybody else, right? The answer was simple. He’d dress up, go to the masquerade party, and spy on Olive.

A good plan, but what to go as: Batman, Superman, Spiderman? No, he didn’t have a costume, and anyway, those guys were so small and skinny. Perhaps he could borrow a suit of armour from The Cloud Mansion. That would work well, except he was far too big to fit any of them.

He couldn’t think of anything and dropped the idea. But then he saw his phone laying on the sofa by his side. Hadn’t Alf said something about a giant slug? He thought about it. Body painters walked around naked except for a coat of artistic paint. Surely, he could do the same?

It just so happened that a roofing contractor had fixed their roof a little while ago, and when he’d run off in a hurry, he’d left a large pot of tar behind. Big and heavy as he was, Bert thought there’d be plenty of goo left to smear over his body. Of course, sticky as he’d be, he wouldn’t dance with anyone at the masquerade. That wasn't a problem, all he really wanted was to stay in the background and keep an eye on Olive. It was a brilliant plan.
 
To be continued… 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Knight Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay Wall Image by JL G from Pixabay

Part 08. Twenty-kilogram dumbbells…

Bert picked up a pair of dumbbells, each weighing twenty kilograms, and began pumping arm curls.-

Bert shoved his empty plate to one side and drummed the table with his fingers. “Olive, isn’t it time to grow up and stop being so fruvolous?”

“You mean frivolous.” Olive took his plate and loaded it into the dishwasher. “And no, it isn’t frivolous to have fun with our friends and neighbours at a masquerade party.” She stirred five teaspoons of sugar into an oversized mug of tea, carried it across to Bert, and stroked his bulbous cheek. If you wanted, you could come too.

“Not so much of the ‘old’,” said Bert. “I’m only thirty-something.” He lumbered into the lounge, picked up a pair of dumbbells, each weighing twenty kilograms, and began pumping arm curls. He imagined Olive at the masquerade party, flaunting her body and close dancing with one masked man after another. After the unmasking, she’d throw herself at the most romantic man and lead him home to her house, next door to his, for a cosy little nightcap.

As Bert pumped his dumbbells, Olive sauntered to the door and leaned her plump shoulder against the frame. “Do you miss living at The Cloud Estate?” she asked. “In the gatehouse, with Alf?”

Bert often thought about his old way of life at the estate. It had been simple then: all delicious meals in Sibyl’s kitchen, punch-ups with Alf, and no futile complications with women. If only Olive wasn’t such a flirt, he thought. He wiped sweat from his brow and gazed at Olive with puppy eyes. “Can’t you stay home tonight?”

“No, Bert, this masquerade party will be fun. When does your shift finish?”

“Ten-o’clock this evening.”

Olive clapped her hands. “The party will still be young. Come when you finish, Bert, please.”

Bert lowered his head, dumbbells dangling by his sides. Olive would ignore him and go to the masquerade party, regardless of what he said. For a moment, he considered dropping her to spare himself the heartache she had caused him. She would never settle down with children and pets. Her hobby was breaking as many hearts as she could, and she’d broken his often, including now, by attending this stupid masquerade party.
 
To be continued… 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by Henryk Niestrój from Pixabay

Part 07. Finish your breakfast and let’s get going…

"Finish your breakfast," said Sibyl, "and let’s get going."-

Sibyl flipped the bacon and three eggs. Sausages, mushrooms, hash brown, beans, and tomatoes hissed and popped in other pans.

“Don’t you believe me?” said Alf, a distressed expression on his face. He grabbed a knife and fork in each fist and banged them on the table. “A plague of man-eating slugs has invaded us, out to murder us all, starting with Morris, and you stand there making breakfast?”

Sibyl glanced over her shoulder. “How many slugs did you see?”

“Just one, but there must be more.”

“A giant slug?”

“Yeah. Big as me, but fatter. I saw it with all three eyes.”

Sibyl heaped the food onto a plate as large as a dustbin lid and placed it in front of Alf.
Did you follow?”

“Yeah, but I kept out of sight. It carried Morris’s pickup into the forest and trapped it between loads of trees so he can’t get out.”

“Eat,” said Sibyl, hands on broad hips, shoulders squared, stocky legs spread. “Why didn’t you try to help?”

“I’m employed to keep trespassers out, not tackle the supernatural. That’s more in your line. Anyway, I’m off duty soon. It’s Bert’s watch in an hour.”

Sibyl held her stiff stance but tapped her toe a few times. “A giant slug, you say. Are you sure?”

“If you don’t believe me, come and look. If the slug is still around, you can deal with it, and I’ll get Morris and his pickup out of there.”

“Right. Finish your breakfast and let’s get going.”
*
At the same time Alf ate breakfast at The Cloud Mansion, Bert swallowed breakfast in his terrace house at The Stables. He’d moved out of the gatehouse that he’d shared with Alf over at The Cloud Mansion and now lived at number one, Flintstone Terrace. His fiancé, Olive, who lives next door at number two, Flintstone Terrace, came to make him breakfast, but he had to admit that Sibyl was a better cook. Olive’s eggs were burnt and solid, the bacon was tough as old leather, and the sausages were still half frozen in the middle. It didn’t matter, because he knew Sibyl would give him another breakfast plus mouth-watering dishes for elevenses, lunch, and dinner.

There was no doubt he missed Alf and Sibyl’s company, but Olive filled his life with meaning and he loved her so much that his heart bled. If only she would set a date for their wedding and stop flirting with every Tom, Dick, and Harry.

Olive sat opposite him, eating iced buns and leafing through a romance magazine. She’d already studied the ‘Find a friend’ pages and had stopped at the horoscope. “See what it says under your stars,” she said. “You’re in for a romantic shock, so enjoy the spell.”

Bert reached across the table and stabbed the magazine with a fat finger. “See what it says under your stars: Neptune is in your anus.”

Olive giggled, licked the icing from her fourth bun, and patted the back of Bert’s hand. “Shame you’re on duty tonight and can’t come to the masquerade party.”

The touch of Olive’s hand sent a thrill along Bert’s arm but it didn’t improve his mood. Olive had shown him a lot of love lately; something this masquerade party nonsense would put a stop to. In her usual style, she’d try to seduce every man there.
 
To be continued... 

The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by Łukasz Cwojdziński from Pixabay

Part 06: Life is a goofy fairy tale…

It wouldn’t surprise Alf if he saw a dragon one day.-

Alf stood back and admired his prank. He doubled over, slapped his knees, and roared with laughter. He’d return later and set Morris free, in plenty of time for the evening’s masquerade party over at Ye Olde Inn. Of course, he’d play innocent. Nobody would guess how Morris’s pickup had ended in the middle of the forest, pinned in by trees on all sides. People would tease the pompous little gardener forever more.

After all, many weird episodes took place on The Cloud Estate. Like the times Bert and he were swept back in time, a ghost haunted the mansion, and gypsies invaded and Sibyl had to battle their sorcery. Not to mention the time Bert and he stole one of the young master’s unfinished experiments—a matter transporter—and utterly wrecked Chief Inspector Dobbs’ apartment.

Alf shook his head. Even the young masters were eccentric, mad, or both. A football floated close to one of their heads and they claimed it was an alien they’d picked up on another planet someplace out in space. They were seldom home. Where were they now? Gallivanting around the galaxy in their homemade flying saucer for all he knew.

Life at The Cloud Estate and over at The Stables was one huge, incredible yarn, a goofy fairy tale. It wouldn’t surprise him if he saw a dragon one day, or one of Morris’s nightmarish slugs, large as a man, come to terrify the world. His days couldn’t be better.

Alf finished his rounds at The Cloud Estate and made his way to the mansion for breakfast. Sibyl greeted him in the kitchen with her usual good-hearted scowl. She was taller than her husband, Morris, twice as heavy, and managed The Cloud Mansion like she owned it, hosting ghosts and spirits for the night—or longer.

“Have you seen Morris this morning?” asked Sibyl as soon as Alf strode through the door. She threw a dozen rashers of home-cured bacon into an iron frying pan and readied two others for eggs, mushrooms, and hash. “He left without telling me where.” When she noticed Alf’s face, she froze. “What?”

“I think we’re in trouble,” said Alf, fighting to keep his expression serious.

“Why? What’s happened?” Sibyl made a quick survey of her shelves filled with potions and mystical artefacts. Probably checking she was fully stocked and ready for any circumstance.

Alf sat at the solid kitchen table and spread his hands across its surface. “I was on duty and saw a disturbance with me third eye. It was Morris in his pickup.”

“Yes.”

“Well...”

“Tell me.”

“Promise you won’t laugh.”

“I promise I’ll clobber you with this frying pan if you don’t tell me.”

“Okay. I saw a giant slug, big as me, lift Morris’s pickup and carry it into the forest.”
 
To be continued...

The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by Anja-#pray for ukraine# #helping hands# stop the war from Pixabay

Part 05: One hundred meters into the forest...

Crusher jiggled the car into place and positioned it tightly between tangles of solid tree trunks.-

Alf bounced on his feet and set off towards Morris at a fast jog. Ten minutes later, he reached Morris’s pickup and tapped on the window. “Are you all right in there?” he called. When Morris didn’t answer, Alf opened the door and shook Morris’s shoulder. The estate’s gardener didn’t so much as lift a finger, but snored away blissfully. Alf sniffed and almost gagged; he didn’t smell alcohol as suspected, but an overpowering fume of festering garlic. Must have eaten a whole bunch of them, he thought.

Then he noticed a pair of binoculars and a glass jar full of slimy black slugs on the passenger seat and guessed Sibyl had sent him out to collect ingredients for her brews and potions. Alf held his breath, reached across Morris’s lap, and set the pickup in neutral gear. As he did so, Morris murmured in his sleep, something about deadly slugs invading the world.

Alf rubbed his hands together and chuckled—time for some fun. He doubted Morris would remember exactly where he’d fallen asleep at the wheel. What would he think if he awoke in the forest, miles from the road? This was too good an opportunity to miss, another chance to humiliate the toffee-nosed Morris and tease him with it at the masquerade party later that evening.

Morris’s pickup weighed a ton, but Alf reckoned his little robot friend, Crusher, could lift it with ease. Alf sent a mental command, and the robot dragged the pickup away from the tree it had bumped into. Then Alf commanded Crusher to the car’s front. The robot bent down to grab the car’s bumper and lifted. Its hydraulics whined under the strain, and the bumpers creaked, but the pickup’s front end rose smoothly into the air.
“Right then, Crusher, me old buddy,” said Alf. “Follow me.”

Just as the sun drove away the night’s darkness, Alf strode off towards the Cloud Estate’s small lake. Crusher whirred and clonked behind him, dragging Morris in his pickup. The overgrown forest track was full of rocks and potholes, and shrubs and branches scratched against the pickup’s sides. When Alf glimpsed the lake, he left the trail and set off into the tight-packed trees.

Often, to navigate past boulders and trees, Crusher had to drop the car’s front end and lift the back end around. One hundred meters into the forest, Alf found the perfect spot. Crusher jiggled the car into place and positioned it tightly between tangles of solid tree trunks. Now Morris would find it impossible to open his doors or drive in either direction.
And still Morris slept on, seat belt holding him snug. He snored softly, unaware someone had trapped him in his car, miles from anywhere, with no way out.
 
To be continued 
​
The real world: 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by Larisa Koshkina from Pixabay

Part 04: Morris's car collided with a tree…

Morris's automobile veered off the road, collided with a tree, and stalled.-

Morris knew where Wittree lived, and it wasn’t far away. He’d need to drive off the Cloud Estate, head to the nearest town, Chiswick, park a short distance from his rival’s garden, and creep the last few meters under the cover of darkness.

His pickup rumbled into life, and he backed out of the garage. Not wanting to draw attention, he drove through the dark with only his parking lights on and kept his speed down to a crawl. He yawned and squeezed his eyes shut a couple of times. If he couldn’t sleep, he’d sabotage Wittree’s pumpkin to pass the time.

With the Cloud Mansion out of sight behind a bend, and the estate’s pebble road crunching softly beneath his tires, Morris traveled even slower. Dark trees crowded him on both sides, and their coming and going in the somber light had a delightful, mesmerizing effect.

His chin dropped to his chest, and the car seat cradled him in sumptuous comfort. As he breathed in, it occurred to him that Sibyl’s sleeping potion had finally worked; as he breathed out, he forgot he was riding in his pickup. Nothing mattered now: sweet sleep crept over him and all other sensations floated away into oblivion.
*
The same morning as Morris fell asleep while driving his pickup, Alf was halfway through his night shift. No trespassers or potential thieves had tried to break into the Cloud Estate during the night, and as a security guard, it was his job to keep it that way. He missed his old mate, Bert. A few months ago, they worked together and kept each other company. Now he only had Crusher, a squat but robust robot that served as an excellent partner. Except, unfortunately, that it couldn’t speak. And anyway, what did robots talk about, quantum physics?

The Cloud Estate’s young masters had adapted a titanium plate in Alf’s brow, allowing him to order Crusher about by brainwaves. It also enabled him to use his third eye to see in the dark, even through obstacles. Trespassers didn’t stand a chance these days. Nobody could move about on the estate without him seeing. As a typical example, from a far-off distance, he’d seen Morris back out of his garage and drive away in his pickup.
It was odd that Morris was in his car late at night. Strange also that he only drove with sidelights and inched along at a walking pace. The oddest event, however, was when his automobile veered off the road, collided with a tree, and stalled.
  
To be continued 
​
The real world: 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-Image by jggrz from Pixabay

Part 03: A pumpkin's tough skin…

The aggressive slugs were able to munch through a pumpkin’s tough skin.-

Morris’s heart thudded in his ear like a kettledrum. The kitchen had its own spooky life. He shivered from the cold and his unsettled nerves. With every hair on the nape of his neck urging him to escape, he dashed back to the bedroom, leaving the kitchen and hall lights blazing, and dived into bed.

He tugged the bedsheets over his face; they were still deliciously warm. But now, panting for breath from his toil, he was more awake than before he’d crouched to the kitchen for a slug of Sibyl’s sleeping potion.

He closed his eyes and tried to calm his mind. Two affairs bothered him: one was the masquerade party over at Ye Olde Inn later that evening. He couldn’t decide whether to dress as a giant carrot or a giant turnip. Sibyl couldn’t help him choose, because she didn’t approve of such nonsense and wouldn’t be going. She went nowhere, saying she prefers the company of the mansion’s ghosts.

Mostly though, his mind was on the up-and-coming horticultural competition. His biggest pumpkin was so large he couldn’t reach his arms around it, but he’d heard rumours of another gigantic example over at the Wittree’s house. For the last two years, Morris had won. Three years in a row would be a new record.

But, alas, sleep was nowhere in sight, and lying in bed was torture. Time to give up. When he peered at his alarm clock, he saw that it was 4 a.m. Unable to sleep, Morris climbed out of the four-poster bed and dressed. With sleep so damn impossible, he knew exactly how to exploit the time—by sneaking over to the Wittree house and sabotaging the man's pumpkin.

Wittree couldn’t sneak a peek at Morris's garden on the hermetically sealed Cloud Estate, but nothing was stopping him from spying on his competitor. What better time than now to snoop. And if he found a pumpkin bigger than his, he’d soon put pay to it.

Careful not to wake Sibyl, Morris tiptoed from the room, thanked himself for leaving the hall lights on, and made his way to the potting shed. There, he collected his binoculars and a jar of slimy black slugs. They were disgusting creatures: fat as his thumbs, squiggly, and covered in mangy fluff. He’d fostered them himself: they adored the soft pulpy flesh of pumpkin and were especially aggressive, able to munch through a pumpkin’s tough skin.

By throwing a few of them into his rival’s garden, his pumpkins would deflate like overstretched bubble gum. God forbid any of the slugs should find their way into his own garden, though; that really would be a nightmare.
 
To be continued 
​
The real world: 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by Yuri_B from Pixabay