James Field's Blog, page 16

Part 05: Penelope the Preacher woman…

Penelope the Preacher woman. Olive skidded around a sharp bend, came into sight of her garage, and shot the car into it with practised judgement. The tyres squealed, and she almost rammed the back of the garage with her front bumpers. She shut off the engine, climbed out quickly, gathered her new possessions from the boot, and raced back toward her house.

From the cover of a bank of alder bushes, she peered out. She couldn’t risk another meeting. Fortunately, the evening was growing dusk. Two chattering teenage girls shuffled down the lane; spoilt brats who spend their time riding around and tending their horses. Snotty nosed toffs with more money than sense. The girls passed the gate of number three Flintstone Terrace and half halted, half kept going, sniggering and pointing.

Olive couldn’t hear them, but she knew what they were saying. The gossip was all over the hamlet: That’s where the hermit lives; what’s her name? Penelope, a religious freak who never comes out till evening; some preacher woman who rejects material objects; a long-lost twin of Olive the flirt; both of them crazy in their own way.

The two girls ambled on, their peals of hilarity blurring with distance. Hidden behind the alders, Olive rubbed the palm of one hand with the fingers of the other. The palm was moist with nervousness. But she grinned. Her ploy had them all fooled.
 
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 .
-

Part 04: A barely clothed manikin…

A barely clothed manikinOlive sauntered to the kerb and peered into a store window, puckered her lips, and pretended to show interest for the wares within. With the corner of an eye, she followed the approaching man. He stopped when he reached her and gazed over her shoulder into the shop window. “Hello, Olive.”

Olive acted startled and fanned her fingers across her breastbone. She couldn’t recall the man’s name. He was new, and dishy. “Oh! Hello, how are you?”

“Better now I’ve seen you. Anything here takes your fancy?”

“Oh, lots of things. You know how we women are.”

“That’d look good on you.” The man pointed at a barely clothed manikin.

Olive’s knees locked together. She suddenly realised the shop sold sex toys and erotic lingerie. Slowly, she wheeled around and anchored her attention on the man. He was tall, a few years younger than her, with broad shoulders and a twinkle in his eye.

For a moment, his eyes hung on the manikin, then he shifted his gaze and whispered into Olive’s ear. “Always on the look out, eh! Bert’s a lucky fellow if you ask me.” The man winked and passed on.

Back in her car, Olive cruised through Chipwick’s high street and made for home. As she left, she peeped at her watch. It was five minutes before seven in the evening.

At a quarter past seven, she veered into The Stables. A few modern villas shouldered the entrance, but once inside the hamlet, the rutted lane meandered through meadows spotted with grazing horses, the lush-green land covered with scatterings of dry leaves and bark.

As she reflected on the cocky man, she drove a little too excitedly and almost ended in the ditch. A fling would be easy. All she needed to do was place a saucy message between the notes of his wages. But she sighed and cast the idea out of her mind. An affair would put her plans at risk, and that she wouldn’t do.
 
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 Here and now, unfortunately, ends my journey on Pixabay from Pixabay

Part 03: In this post: Olive buys a thirty-two-volume Encyclopaedia Britannica…

Olive buys a thirty-two-volume Encyclopaedia Britannica…The shop assaulted Olive’s nostrils with a blend of old-people’s home and musty cloth, making it difficult to breathe. The owner had vaguely grouped furniture and displays by room. Olive flitted over a hardwood floor and bumped into a table laden with dainty figurines, collectable plates, china cups, and thimble collections. Luckily, nothing fell. She passed a kitchen nook where antiques cluttered a primitive pot-bellied stove and headed straight for a chamber stuffed with vintage books and comics.

On her first visit, many months ago now, she’d found a thirty-two-volume Encyclopaedia Britannica, bound in leather. About as useless as a telephone directory these days, but suited her purpose well. She’d bought them with the ten pounds Bert had given her and had been taking them home six at a time. These were the last.

After making sure nobody was about, she dumped the books in the boot of her car and drove to a newsagent. There, she purchased a modern thick bible to go with the two worn examples she’d already picked up from the antique shop.

She strolled out of the newsagent, slipped into a tearoom next door, and treated herself to a large doughnut and a pot of tea. She carried them to a round table with a chair in the dim rear of the cafe and gobbled them as fast as she could. As she came out and returned to her car, she again glanced along the street.

A young, handsome man approached, whom she recognised. He worked at The Stables as a farmhand. Like dozens of other employees, he held his palm out for his wages each week on a Thursday.

Cash, none of that modern-day digital funds transfer into bank accounts. Despite the unfortunate encounter, Olive suppressed a fit of giggles. Soon now, she’d empty The Stable’s treasury into her own strongbox and from then on nobody would receive a penny in pay.
 
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 Michal Jarmoluk from Pixabay

Part 02: In this post: Olive sneaks into an antique shop…

Olive sneaks into an antique shopOne month later, seated at her cluttered dressing table, Olive took a large mirror and laid it in front of her. Then she placed a sheet of writing paper on the glass and wrote: "Now is the time for all good women to leave their life of poverty and buy a Mercedes Benz."

She studied her round, friendly script and then rewrote the sentence in a small, finicky hand, that of a harsh religious freak. Ten times she rewrote the words in that false pinched writing. Satisfied, she tore up the paper and placed it to one side, ready to burn in the lounge fireplace downstairs. She replaced the mirror and tapped it with satisfaction. A glass underlay doesn't leave an imprint.

A quick glance at her cheap, heavy watch informed her it was six-thirty in the evening of a peaceful spring day. A Wednesday. Soon, she'd have a $200 fitness tracker strapped to her wrist. Eager to progress with her plan, she picked up her bulky handbag and her tatty gloves and skipped downstairs.

The Stables forbade cars to park anywhere in the hamlet for longer than fifteen minutes. Those who lived and worked there, like her, parked their car in a row of garages by the main gate. Some residents used bicycles to get about, but Olive preferred to walk. If she waggled her backside just right, she usually attracted a wolf-whistle or two.

Her 2004 model Morris Mini coughed into life, and she drove out of the garage, away from The Stables, toward the London suburb of Chipwick. The town is one of those petty little places with a scruffy high street, overpriced grocery shops, and shoddy pubs. But it serves as a centre for the locals.

She parked on a double yellow line and pretended to look at the tires; kicking them to see how much air they held. While she did, she cast secretive glances up and down the street. With no traffic warden in sight, or anyone she recognised, she hurried into one of those dingy shops that bought junk and sold antiques.
 
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 Rudy and Peter Skitterians from Pixabay

Part 01: In this post: Olive through the looking glass…

Olive through the looking glassIf you ever visit The Stables, in London’s suburbs, you’ll find it’s like stepping back in time one hundred years. Horse-drawn carts, dirt track lanes, thatched roofs, black-beamed houses. The Stables is a quaint village for the rich, a club for snobs, a den where cash rules. This is where Olive lives and works: a low-paid bookkeeper.

She sat at her dressing table, studying her image, and sighted a curvy, somewhat podgy, blonde woman at the moment, past her heyday, wearing a fluffy pink pullover. Her hands were compact and nimble, with blood-red fingernails. The rest of her make-up was as brightly coloured as her bedroom, which, with its frilled curtains and deep luxurious bed, was the best room in her house at number two, Flintstone Terrace.

“I look like a vintage film star,” she said, and stuck her tongue out at herself. Large, glistening tears expanded in the corner of each eye, then dribbled down her cheeks, ruining her make-up. “But you’re a penniless slob.”

From her purse she extracted a bright-gold credit card, opened a small drawer in her dressing table, and tossed the useless piece of plastic onto a pile of other cards, all drawn to their limit.

“What am I going to do now?” she asked her reflection.

When no answer came, she plonked down the narrow stairs and slumped into a chair at her kitchen table.

“What’s the matter with you?” said her fiancé, Bert, looking up from his Hulk comic. “Looks like you're ready to drown yourself. Fancy a cup of tea?” He swung his massive bulk in his chair, reached across to a worktop behind his back, and flicked the kettle on.

“You better go home,” said Olive. “I’m not in the mood for making dinner.” Bert lived next door, at number one, Flintstone Terrace, so he didn’t have far to go.

“Oh,” said Bert. “Ain’t you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Despite his gross appearance, Bert was a good listener: affectionate and always ready with a shoulder to cry on. The advice he gave, however, was constantly pathetic. “I was in town, buying some perfume, and when my credit card wouldn’t pay, the stuck-up attendant snatched the bottle out of my hand. People laughed at me. I’ve never felt so embarrassed.”

“Perhaps you should’ve bought something cheaper. Some of those roll-on deodorants smell nice.”

“It didn’t help when I told the snotty-nosed bitch to stick the bottle up her arse. She called security, and they threw me out onto the street. Just think, someone might have recognised me.”

“Can’t say I haven’t warned you, Olive.”

“Warned me. About what?” She often swore; so what? Anyone who resided in a village crammed with rich snobs and went around like a pauper would swear.

“Just don’t you go back to your old tricks again. That’s all.” Bert drew a ten-pound note from his wallet and thrust it across the table. “Here, buy some of that Cola flavoured lipstick we both like.” He winked at her, his eyes bright and glossy.

“I told you. I’m not in the mood. Go home!” She rose to her feet and opened the kitchen door. Outside, dusk had fallen, and a cold, damp breeze made her shiver.

Bert broke eye contact and let his head fall forward. “Alright.” He ducked as he squeezed through the door. “Love you, Olive.”

“I know you do. Now be off with you.” She watched as he slouched along the back lane and disappeared inside his house.

A muffled silence followed, broken by the soft sound of leaves rustling in the breeze. The mist twined itself around trees and lamp posts, and drops of dew glistened on telegraph wires like a string of pearls in the light.

Pearls. Olive wrapped her arm around her waist and took slow steps towards number three, the residence on the other side of her house. Number three terrified her because people had died in there and all sorts of weirdoes had hired it. Midget aliens were the last to live there. That’s what Bert called them, anyhow.

Now, the house was vacant, and Olive thought she might find something of value, like a pearl. A pickpocket hired it once and left in a hurry, maybe leaving a trinket or two somewhere.

A simple latch held the back door closed. The house’s layout was exactly like Bert’s and hers. Kitchen, dining room and lounge all in a row, and three bedrooms upstairs. No bathroom, and an outside toilet in the yard.

Olive found herself in the main bedroom. There was just enough daylight to see. Unlike her bedroom, this was a dump, with tea-brown wallpaper curling at the edges and chipped-wooden furniture fit for a junk shop. A single bare light bulb hung from the ceiling’s centre, covered in a haze of cobwebs.

A picture caught her eye, hanging above the metal-framed bed. She lifted it down and carried it to the window. Two elegant women posed, dressed identically in Victorian fashion: wealthy twins.

She sat at the dressing table and gazed into the looking glass. A jagged crack ran from top left to bottom right, splitting her image in two.

What had Bert said? Not to go back to her old tricks again. Did he think she would find a rich lover to solve her financial crisis? Bert was insanely jealous, perhaps with reason, but the cracked mirror had triggered a much better plan in her cunning mind. The picture of the twins and the stark vacant house could take their share of the credit too.
​
A burst of giggles stirred in her tummy and mingled with a flush of excitement in her cheeks. Her scheme would take nerve and skill, but her future looked golden. Never again would poverty embarrass or shame her. She couldn’t fail.
 
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 creatifrankenstein from Pixabay

A crime drama: Twin Cheats

Twin Cheats: a crime drama novella, with a pinch of humor and a punch of misery. -
​Olive, tired of living a pauper’s life, steals a fortune from her wealthy employer. Soon after, her pious twin sister rings on her doorbell, demanding she repent and give the money back. Or else!
 
‘Twin Cheats’ is book number five in the ‘Life in The Clouds’ series. Each is a stand-alone story, but with a common setting. The Stables is an exclusive hamlet on London’s outskirts. If you visited, you would think you’d stepped back in time one hundred years. If you are rich and eccentric enough, they might even let you stay. Those employed there, however, are a bunch of oddballs, so best to avoid them.

Be ready, this new serialised novella starts in a few days. 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.

In this post: The end…

The final instalment of Evil Portent-
Life in the Clouds #4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Previously from posts 49 - 52
 
The horse trotted, reserving its energy, but they covered distance fast. As they neared the forest edge that hemmed the Guardian's citadel, Bert stopped, lowered the Alien Father to the ground, and dropped to his side.

​“Back on my planet," said Bert, "we have animals called sheep. They’re a lot like you, docile, but not half as brainy. We call the male sheep rams and they can be aggressive. Some have caused serious injuries, even death, to people.” He placed his hand on the Alien Father’s shoulder and fixed him with a stare. “I’m asking you to be a ram. Can you do it?”
 
“I won’t run away this time,” said the Alien Father, tightening his impressive muscles.
 
“Good."
 
"We have to take the Guardians by surprise."
 
"Yeah, that's what I reckon, too. Got any ideas?"
 
The Alien Father gave a curt nod and answered with a steady low-pitched voice. "I'll stay here and count to a hundred while you sneak closer. Then I'll kick one of their lawnmowers again and draw their attention. When they come out of the citadel to chase me, you go in. How about that?”
 
“Got it. Count to one hundred.” It wasn’t much of a plan, thought Bert, and he didn’t want the Alien Father hurt. But if the little fellow was brave enough to do his part, and then run off, good. He’d take care of the rest. “Here, take my knife. It’ll give you courage.”
 
The Bowie Knife looked like a sabre in the Alien Father’s grip. The tip rested on the ground. “Don’t you need it?”
 
“I’ve got another one,” said Bert. It was a lie, and he almost changed his mind. "Why didn't you take the ray gun back on my planet? It was on the lawn. You almost tripped over it."
 
"Why didn't you?"
 
Not wanting to start an argument, Bert spurred Bigfoot and rode off. He stopped when he faced the citadel’s doors, keeping out of sight in the trees. Right on cue, the Alien Father darted out and booted a lawnmower onto its back.
 
Instead of retreating into the trees, as Bert expected, the Alien Father sprinted across the neatly cut grass and kicked another lawnmower onto its side.
 
The citadel’s double doors cracked open, and a huge Guardian emerged, wielding a ray gun. The Alien Father whirled about, bent over to touch his toes, and let his guts unleash a riot of gas. Produced from his unusual meal and extreme nervousness, it sounded like a long sharp military blast from a bugle.
 
“You measly little turd,” screeched the Guardian as it charged, “You’ll pay for that with a boot up your arse.”
 
“Now,” said Bert, and sent Bigfoot bolting across the lawn. The Guardian skidded and stopped, undecided which way to run. Seeing Bert on horseback and two savage dogs rushing for the citadel door, it wheeled around and raced back.
 
Galloping at full speed, Bert reached the citadel first and bolted inside. The space was as large as a tennis court, and the Guardian's Doodad rested on a low plinth in the centre of the uninhabited space. A tunnel swirled and wheezed, open to the Guardian's planet of evil.
 
“Stamp on it,” shouted Bert into the horse’s ear, and one second later a front hoof found its mark, smashing the gadget into a trillion pieces. In a flash, the tunnel collapsed, closed for ever.
 
Behind him, the Guardian scowled in the doorway, ray gun raised, rage foaming from the corners of its fat lips.
 
Bert cursed. He’d been careless. He should have set his dogs on the ugly creature. It had them trapped, too far away to reach before it pulled the trigger. A fearful gnarl creased the Guardian’s brow as its finger squeezed.
 
In that same moment, a glint of steel flashed. The Alien Father inched up behind the Guardian, both hands clasping the razor-sharp Bowie knife above his head. His face was red and blotchy as if he’d been holding his breath, which then exploded from his mouth as he drove the knife into the back of the Guardian’s thigh.
 
The Guardian gasped, eyes suddenly as wide as jam tarts cooling on a windowsill, and it swatted its leg as if a hornet had stung it.
 
That was all the time Bert needed. His horse and dogs reached the stunned Guardian and bowled it over. The Alsatians tore at its throat, and a well-placed front hoof caved its skull in.
 
There was no joy for Bert over the victory. He was a 'has been' burglar, not a murderer. His arms fell limp by his sides, his chin trembled, and his voice dropped almost to a whisper. “It’s over, Rambi, you can come out.”
 
The Alien Father peeked around the door frame. Seeing the Guardian lying there, he tiptoed into view, sunk to his knees, and clasped his hands over his face. “You did it,” he muttered through his fingers. “You closed the Guardian’s tunnel. They can never come here again.”
 
“Without you, Rambi, it would have cost my life. You’re my hero.” Bert dragged his knife from the fallen Guardian and handed it hilt first to the Alien Father. “Keep it. It’s yours.”
 
A bloom of red spread across the Alien Father’s cheeks. Then an assured smile crossed his face, and he wagged his head up and down. “Rambi?”
 
“Yep. From now on I’ll call you Rambi. It's a proper name, like Rambo and Bambi.”
 
Above them, the terrifying projected image and trumpet sound continued. “I’ll soon stop that,” said Bert, scanning for the source.
 
“No, leave it!”
 
Bert didn’t understand but was happy to let Alien Father take charge. “Why?”
 
“Guardians are still on my planet, rounding up our children. If you interrupt the projection, they’ll realise something is wrong. Best to take them unawares.”
 
As if to prove his point, a flying scooter appeared over the top of the citadel and slowly descended. The Alien Father snatched up the dropped ray gun, waited until the Guardian landed, and pulled the trigger. A dazzling zap pummelled the Guardian, and it burst into fizzing flames.
 
They released the children, dragged the remains of the scooter and its carriage into the forest, told the petrified kids to dash down to the village, and hid while they waited for the next Guardian to arrive.
 
“You’ll be here a while, doing this,” said Bert, impressed at the Alien Father’s newfound confidence. “You don’t need my help for a while. I’ll be back shortly.”
 
Five hours later, Bert returned to the rock camp, his horse and dogs panting. On the way, he’d passed several groups of children, tear-stained, yelping, plunging down the hill as swift as their stubby little legs would carry them. He found the Alien Father behind their rock camp, squatting on hands and knees, where he’d been sick.

“Hey, Rambi.” Bert helped the dwarf to his feet and moved him farther behind the rock, where the trees provided shade and the air was cool. “Stomach puking up that strange food I gave you?”

The Alien Father shook his head. “No, not the food. It’s this slaying.”

“Yeah.” Words stuck in Bert’s throat and he wished he could relieve his friend’s misery. He sat beside him and tugged him into a hug. “Want me to take over?”

“No. You’ve done enough. I have to prevail alone.” The Alien Father sniffed, freed himself from Bert’s massive arms, and thrust out his chest. He pointed to a stack of ray guns. “See. I’ve been collecting them. I’ll not run out of firepower.”

“You won’t be alone for long.” Bert told him he’d spoken to the Elder and disclosed all that had happened. In a wave of jubilation, the Elder had promised to send a small group of young men to help the Alien Father, with plenty of supplies for a lengthy campaign.
 
Words stuck in Bert's throat. His next piece of information stirred mixed emotions. Eventually, because his decision was the right thing to do, he forced enthusiasm. “I’ve brought the Doodad with me. You’re useless at hiding it. I’m going home. For ever.”

A groan accompanied the roll of the Alien Father’s eyes, making Bert want to hurry, to avoid the sadness of departure.

“When I get home, I’ll smash the Doodad at my end, but don’t turn your end off until the tunnel closes. I’ve got a present for you.” With that, Bert, Bigfoot, and the Chums torpedoed themselves into the tunnel.
 
Part 53:

*
Olive remained prostrate on the lawn, whimpering, her limbs giving a brief twitch every so often. Bert closed the tunnel, slipped the Doodad into a saddlebag on his horse, and knelt beside his beloved.
 
At the same moment, Florence, Chief Inspector Dobbs, and Vicar Bitter came ambling into view. When they saw Olive and Bert, they rushed the rest of the way.
 
“What has happened here?” demanded Chief Inspector Dobbs.
 
“Has this anything to do with the devil-worshipping dwarfs at number three?” said Vicar Bitter.
 
“Men,” said Florence, shaking her head. “Call for the doctor and help me get Olive inside.”
 
Bert sneaked off to his own house. He fed his dogs, tied Bigfoot to the outside toilet handle with a bale of straw at his feet, and hurried indoors. In the middle of his lounge, he opened the tunnel and tossed all his supplies of energy powder, spinach, and vodka into it.
 
Then he closed the tunnel, dropped the Doodad back into the horse’s saddlebag, and joined the others at Olive’s house next door. Olive rested on the sofa, a wet cloth on her brow and Florence sitting beside her, stroking her hand.
 
The men sat at the kitchen table, laden with cold meats and pickles, cheese and crusty bread. Bert knew Olive had made the snack for him; she was the sweetest woman on Earth. The sight of it caused his mouth to water, but he couldn’t eat until Olive was better. Until then, he’d never eat again. “How is she?” he asked, wringing his hands.
 
“Nothing broken,” said Florence, “but she’s delirious. She keeps mumbling about alien monsters.”
 
Bert gave a short, disgusted snort. “When I found her on the lawn, she talked about little men with wonky eyes and bulging muscles from another planet. Can’t understand why people believe in aliens. They must be daft.”
 
Vicar Bitter’s mouth was full of food, so he said nothing and nodded his agreement. But Chief Inspector Dobbs paused with a sandwich in front of his mouth. “What did you find out about the midgets at number three?”
 
“Oh, yeah, them. Nothing. They were gone when I got there. Vanished.”
 
Half the sandwich disappeared into Chief Inspector Dobbs’ mouth. “So why,” he uttered, spitting crumbs, “is Olive in the state she’s in?”
 
“My guess is food poisoning,” said Bert. “That meat you’re eating smells off. You two will soon be babbling about ghosts and spooks, just like her. I think we should all become vegetarians, that’s what I think.”
 
Vicar Bitter dashed from the room, hand clamped over his mouth, headed for the outside toilet. Chief Inspector Dobbs swallowed noisily and shoved his plate away. “I think I’ll pop home, Florence. Will you stay with Olive?”
 
“Of course. And when the doctor has finished here, I’ll send him to check you and Vicar Bitter.”
 
In the days that followed, when life settled back into its everyday routine and Olive had fully recovered, Bert took the Doodad and translator badge to his bosses at The Cloud Mansion. The young masters often spoke of their adventures into outer space. They’d know what to do with his gadgets.
 
Now Bert had experienced a space adventure of his own, but he kept it to himself. To this day, in memory of his friend Rambi, he remains a vegetarian.
 
The End.
 
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 TanteTati from Pixabay

Sci fi series: Evil Portent

Hello! If you like mystery/thrillers with a dash of the supernatural, a pinch of romance, and a solid dollop of humour, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘ Life in the Clouds ’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published. Current book: Evil Portent.
​-
Image by TanteTati from Pixabay-
Life in the Clouds #4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Previously from posts 49 - 52
 
The horse trotted, reserving its energy, but they covered distance fast. As they neared the forest edge that hemmed the Guardian's citadel, Bert stopped, lowered the Alien Father to the ground, and dropped to his side.

​“Back on my planet," said Bert, "we have animals called sheep. They’re a lot like you, docile, but not half as brainy. We call the male sheep rams and they can be aggressive. Some have caused serious injuries, even death, to people.” He placed his hand on the Alien Father’s shoulder and fixed him with a stare. “I’m asking you to be a ram. Can you do it?”
 
“I won’t run away this time,” said the Alien Father, tightening his impressive muscles.
 
“Good."
 
"We have to take the Guardians by surprise."
 
"Yeah, that's what I reckon, too. Got any ideas?"
 
The Alien Father gave a curt nod and answered with a steady low-pitched voice. "I'll stay here and count to a hundred while you sneak closer. Then I'll kick one of their lawnmowers again and draw their attention. When they come out of the citadel to chase me, you go in. How about that?”
 
“Got it. Count to one hundred.” It wasn’t much of a plan, thought Bert, and he didn’t want the Alien Father hurt. But if the little fellow was brave enough to do his part, and then run off, good. He’d take care of the rest. “Here, take my knife. It’ll give you courage.”
 
The Bowie Knife looked like a sabre in the Alien Father’s grip. The tip rested on the ground. “Don’t you need it?”
 
“I’ve got another one,” said Bert. It was a lie, and he almost changed his mind. "Why didn't you take the ray gun back on my planet? It was on the lawn. You almost tripped over it."
 
"Why didn't you?"
 
Not wanting to start an argument, Bert spurred Bigfoot and rode off. He stopped when he faced the citadel’s doors, keeping out of sight in the trees. Right on cue, the Alien Father darted out and booted a lawnmower onto its back.
 
Instead of retreating into the trees, as Bert expected, the Alien Father sprinted across the neatly cut grass and kicked another lawnmower onto its side.
 
The citadel’s double doors cracked open, and a huge Guardian emerged, wielding a ray gun. The Alien Father whirled about, bent over to touch his toes, and let his guts unleash a riot of gas. Produced from his unusual meal and extreme nervousness, it sounded like a long sharp military blast from a bugle.
 
“You measly little turd,” screeched the Guardian as it charged, “You’ll pay for that with a boot up your arse.”
 
“Now,” said Bert, and sent Bigfoot bolting across the lawn. The Guardian skidded and stopped, undecided which way to run. Seeing Bert on horseback and two savage dogs rushing for the citadel door, it wheeled around and raced back.
 
Galloping at full speed, Bert reached the citadel first and bolted inside. The space was as large as a tennis court, and the Guardian's Doodad rested on a low plinth in the centre of the uninhabited space. A tunnel swirled and wheezed, open to the Guardian's planet of evil.
 
“Stamp on it,” shouted Bert into the horse’s ear, and one second later a front hoof found its mark, smashing the gadget into a trillion pieces. In a flash, the tunnel collapsed, closed for ever.
 
Behind him, the Guardian scowled in the doorway, ray gun raised, rage foaming from the corners of its fat lips.
 
Bert cursed. He’d been careless. He should have set his dogs on the ugly creature. It had them trapped, too far away to reach before it pulled the trigger. A fearful gnarl creased the Guardian’s brow as its finger squeezed.
 
In that same moment, a glint of steel flashed. The Alien Father inched up behind the Guardian, both hands clasping the razor-sharp Bowie knife above his head. His face was red and blotchy as if he’d been holding his breath, which then exploded from his mouth as he drove the knife into the back of the Guardian’s thigh.
 
The Guardian gasped, eyes suddenly as wide as jam tarts cooling on a windowsill, and it swatted its leg as if a hornet had stung it.
 
That was all the time Bert needed. His horse and dogs reached the stunned Guardian and bowled it over. The Alsatians tore at its throat, and a well-placed front hoof caved its skull in.
 
There was no joy for Bert over the victory. He was a 'has been' burglar, not a murderer. His arms fell limp by his sides, his chin trembled, and his voice dropped almost to a whisper. “It’s over, Rambi, you can come out.”
 
The Alien Father peeked around the door frame. Seeing the Guardian lying there, he tiptoed into view, sunk to his knees, and clasped his hands over his face. “You did it,” he muttered through his fingers. “You closed the Guardian’s tunnel. They can never come here again.”
 
“Without you, Rambi, it would have cost my life. You’re my hero.” Bert dragged his knife from the fallen Guardian and handed it hilt first to the Alien Father. “Keep it. It’s yours.”
 
A bloom of red spread across the Alien Father’s cheeks. Then an assured smile crossed his face, and he wagged his head up and down. “Rambi?”
 
“Yep. From now on I’ll call you Rambi. It's a proper name, like Rambo and Bambi.”
 
Above them, the terrifying projected image and trumpet sound continued. “I’ll soon stop that,” said Bert, scanning for the source.
 
“No, leave it!”
 
Bert didn’t understand but was happy to let Alien Father take charge. “Why?”
 
“Guardians are still on my planet, rounding up our children. If you interrupt the projection, they’ll realise something is wrong. Best to take them unawares.”
 
As if to prove his point, a flying scooter appeared over the top of the citadel and slowly descended. The Alien Father snatched up the dropped ray gun, waited until the Guardian landed, and pulled the trigger. A dazzling zap pummelled the Guardian, and it burst into fizzing flames.
 
They released the children, dragged the remains of the scooter and its carriage into the forest, told the petrified kids to dash down to the village, and hid while they waited for the next Guardian to arrive.
 
“You’ll be here a while, doing this,” said Bert, impressed at the Alien Father’s newfound confidence. “You don’t need my help for a while. I’ll be back shortly.”
 
Five hours later, Bert returned to the rock camp, his horse and dogs panting. On the way, he’d passed several groups of children, tear-stained, yelping, plunging down the hill as swift as their stubby little legs would carry them. He found the Alien Father behind their rock camp, squatting on hands and knees, where he’d been sick.

“Hey, Rambi.” Bert helped the dwarf to his feet and moved him farther behind the rock, where the trees provided shade and the air was cool. “Stomach puking up that strange food I gave you?”

The Alien Father shook his head. “No, not the food. It’s this slaying.”

“Yeah.” Words stuck in Bert’s throat and he wished he could relieve his friend’s misery. He sat beside him and tugged him into a hug. “Want me to take over?”

“No. You’ve done enough. I have to prevail alone.” The Alien Father sniffed, freed himself from Bert’s massive arms, and thrust out his chest. He pointed to a stack of ray guns. “See. I’ve been collecting them. I’ll not run out of firepower.”

“You won’t be alone for long.” Bert told him he’d spoken to the Elder and disclosed all that had happened. In a wave of jubilation, the Elder had promised to send a small group of young men to help the Alien Father, with plenty of supplies for a lengthy campaign.
 
Words stuck in Bert's throat. His next piece of information stirred mixed emotions. Eventually, because his decision was the right thing to do, he forced enthusiasm. “I’ve brought the Doodad with me. You’re useless at hiding it. I’m going home. For ever.”

A groan accompanied the roll of the Alien Father’s eyes, making Bert want to hurry, to avoid the sadness of departure.

“When I get home, I’ll smash the Doodad at my end, but don’t turn your end off until the tunnel closes. I’ve got a present for you.” With that, Bert, Bigfoot, and the Chums torpedoed themselves into the tunnel.
 
Part 53:
In this post: The end…
*
Olive remained prostrate on the lawn, whimpering, her limbs giving a brief twitch every so often. Bert closed the tunnel, slipped the Doodad into a saddlebag on his horse, and knelt beside his beloved.
 
At the same moment, Florence, Chief Inspector Dobbs, and Vicar Bitter came ambling into view. When they saw Olive and Bert, they rushed the rest of the way.
 
“What has happened here?” demanded Chief Inspector Dobbs.
 
“Has this anything to do with the devil-worshipping dwarfs at number three?” said Vicar Bitter.
 
“Men,” said Florence, shaking her head. “Call for the doctor and help me get Olive inside.”
 
Bert sneaked off to his own house. He fed his dogs, tied Bigfoot to the outside toilet handle with a bale of straw at his feet, and hurried indoors. In the middle of his lounge, he opened the tunnel and tossed all his supplies of energy powder, spinach, and vodka into it.
 
Then he closed the tunnel, dropped the Doodad back into the horse’s saddlebag, and joined the others at Olive’s house next door. Olive rested on the sofa, a wet cloth on her brow and Florence sitting beside her, stroking her hand.
 
The men sat at the kitchen table, laden with cold meats and pickles, cheese and crusty bread. Bert knew Olive had made the snack for him; she was the sweetest woman on Earth. The sight of it caused his mouth to water, but he couldn’t eat until Olive was better. Until then, he’d never eat again. “How is she?” he asked, wringing his hands.
 
“Nothing broken,” said Florence, “but she’s delirious. She keeps mumbling about alien monsters.”
 
Bert gave a short, disgusted snort. “When I found her on the lawn, she talked about little men with wonky eyes and bulging muscles from another planet. Can’t understand why people believe in aliens. They must be daft.”
 
Vicar Bitter’s mouth was full of food, so he said nothing and nodded his agreement. But Chief Inspector Dobbs paused with a sandwich in front of his mouth. “What did you find out about the midgets at number three?”
 
“Oh, yeah, them. Nothing. They were gone when I got there. Vanished.”
 
Half the sandwich disappeared into Chief Inspector Dobbs’ mouth. “So why,” he uttered, spitting crumbs, “is Olive in the state she’s in?”
 
“My guess is food poisoning,” said Bert. “That meat you’re eating smells off. You two will soon be babbling about ghosts and spooks, just like her. I think we should all become vegetarians, that’s what I think.”
 
Vicar Bitter dashed from the room, hand clamped over his mouth, headed for the outside toilet. Chief Inspector Dobbs swallowed noisily and shoved his plate away. “I think I’ll pop home, Florence. Will you stay with Olive?”
 
“Of course. And when the doctor has finished here, I’ll send him to check you and Vicar Bitter.”
 
In the days that followed, when life settled back into its everyday routine and Olive had fully recovered, Bert took the Doodad and translator badge to his bosses at The Cloud Mansion. The young masters often spoke of their adventures into outer space. They’d know what to do with his gadgets.
 
Now Bert had experienced a space adventure of his own, but he kept it to himself. To this day, in memory of his friend Rambi, he remains a vegetarian.
 
The End.
 
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 .
-

Sci fi series: Evil Portent

Hello! If you like mystery/thrillers with a dash of the supernatural, a pinch of romance, and a solid dollop of humour, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘ Life in the Clouds ’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published. Current book: Evil Portent.
​--Image by Christian Dorn from Pixabay-​ Life in the Clouds #4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Previously from posts 48 - 51
 
Olive lay sprawled on the lawn, unconscious, but still breathing. Hot tears flooded Bert's eyes. All of this was his fault, a result of his dumb, meddling stupidity. To see his beloved fiancé in such a sad state was more than his heart could bear, and it fluttered in his chest like an Ostrich with a knot in its neck.
 
The Alien Father rushed from hiding and plunged head first into the throbbing tunnel, back to his own world. There was no time for Bert to reflect on whether he should stay and tend to Olive, or have it out with the Guardians. With a soft nudge from his heels, Bigfoot reared on its hind legs and then charged into the tunnel’s mouth, his Chums running beside him.
 
The shift between planets happened so fast it seemed no worse than jumping through a loop, a trick he’d often practised with Bigfoot. The abrupt switch of scenery, however, spooked the horse, and it took all Bert’s coaxing to halt his gallop. “It’s alright,” soothed Bert, stroking the animal’s neck. “It’s a new trick. Sorry, I should’ve warned you.”
 
“New trick,” snorted Bigfoot. “Okay, let’s do it again.”
 
“Later,” said Bert. “Work first.”
 
Back outside the Alien Father’s house, the Guardian slumped against a wall, its chest caved in, dead. Bert dropped from his horse and called his Chums to his side. A quick search revealed their bodies covered in bumps and bruises, but no bones broken or severe cuts.
 
The Alien Father had already turned the Doodad into the ‘off’ position, closing the tunnel and stopping Earth time. A wave of relief passed through Bert. Back home, Olive lay prone on the lawn, and when he returned, if ever he did, he wanted her still lying there, where he could care for her.
 
“The Guardian was alone,” said the Alien Father. “But others will come. What shall we do?”
 
Bert wasn’t good at taking charge and giving orders. He usually let his best mate, Alf, do that. He tilted his head from side to side, weighing choices. “I think you should hide the Doodad and join the villagers at the Temple where it's safe.”
 
“What about you?”
 
Before answering, Bert tugged on his bottom lip. “Well, I’m going to the Guardian’s citadel.” He wasn’t sure what he’d do when he arrived, but it seemed the obvious move.
 
“Take me with you. Mount your magnificent beast, make room for me, and pull me up.”
 
Bert’s mouth fell open. “You want to come too?”
 
“Yes. Just give me a second to hide the Doodad.”
 
Bert blew into the nostrils of his horse and stroked its long neck. “Be brave, my friend,” he breathed. “Remember the tricks we’ve practised, we’ll need them now.”
 
The horse nodded. “I remember. You want me to fight. I understand. You and me. Fight.”
 
“Good,” said Bert. “You, me, our Chums, and the Alien Father. The magnificent five versus the curse of the universe: the Guardians.”
 
The horse trotted, reserving its energy, but they covered distance fast. As they neared the forest edge that hemmed the citadel, Bert stopped, lowered the Alien Father to the ground, and dropped to his side. “Back on my planet," said Bert, "we have animals called sheep. They’re a lot like you, docile, but not half as brainy. We call the male sheep rams and they can be aggressive. Some have caused serious injuries, even death, to people.” He placed his hand on the Alien Father’s shoulder and fixed him with a stare. “I’m asking you to be a ram. Can you do it?”
 
“I won’t run away this time,” said the Alien Father, tightening his impressive muscles.
 
“Good."
 
"We have to take the Guardians by surprise."
 
"Yeah, that's what I reckon, too. You stay here and count to a hundred while I get closer. Then kick one of their lawnmowers again and go hide yourself before they see you. When they come out of the citadel, I go in. Got it?”
 
The Alien Father gave a curt nod and answered with a steady low-pitched voice. “Got it. Count to one hundred.”
 
It wasn’t much of a plan, thought Bert, but he didn’t want the Alien Father hurt. If the little fellow was brave enough to do his part, and then run off, good. He’d take care of the rest. “Here, take my knife. It’ll give you courage.”
 
The Bowie Knife looked like a sabre in the Alien Father’s grip. The tip rested on the ground. “Don’t you need it?”
 
“I’ve got another one,” said Bert. It was a lie, and he almost changed his mind. "Why didn't you take the ray gun back on my planet? It was on the lawn. You almost tripped over it."
 
"Why didn't you?"
 
Not wanting to start an argument, Bert spurred Bigfoot and rode off. He stopped when he faced the citadel’s doors, keeping out of sight in the trees. Right on cue, the Alien Father darted out and booted a lawnmower onto its back.
 
Instead of retreating into the trees, as Bert expected, the Alien Father sprinted across the neatly cut grass and kicked another lawnmower onto its side.
 
The citadel’s double doors cracked open, and a huge Guardian emerged, wielding a ray gun. The Alien Father whirled about, bent over to touch his toes, and let his guts unleash a riot of gas. Produced from his unusual meal and extreme nervousness, it sounded like a long sharp military blast from a bugle.
 
“You measly little turd,” screeched the Guardian as it charged, “You’ll pay for that with a boot up your arse.”
 
“Now,” said Bert, and sent Bigfoot bolting across the lawn. The Guardian skidded and stopped, undecided which way to run. Seeing Bert on horseback and two savage dogs rushing for the citadel door, it wheeled around and raced back.
 
Bert reached the citadel first and bolted inside. The space was as large as a tennis court, and the Guardian's Doodad rested on a low plinth in the centre of the uninhabited space. A tunnel swirled and wheezed, open to the Guardian's planet of evil.
 
“Stamp on it,” shouted Bert into the horse’s ear, and one second later a front hoof found its mark, smashing the gadget into a trillion pieces. In a flash, the tunnel collapsed, closed for ever.
 
Behind him, the Guardian scowled in the doorway, ray gun raised, rage foaming from the corners of its fat lips.
 
Bert cursed. He’d been careless. He should have set his dogs on the ugly creature. It had them trapped, too far to reach before it pulled the trigger. A fearful gnarl creased the Guardian’s brow as its finger squeezed.
 
In that same moment, a glint of steel flashed. The Alien Father inched up behind the Guardian, both hands clasping the razor-sharp Bowie knife above his head. His face was red and blotchy as if he’d been holding his breath, which then exploded from his mouth as he drove the knife into the back of the Guardian’s thigh.
 
The Guardian gasped, eyes suddenly as wide as jam tarts cooling on a windowsill, and it swatted its leg as if a hornet had stung it.
 
That was all the time Bert needed. His horse and dogs reached the stunned Guardian and bowled it over. The Alsatians tore at its throat, and a well-placed front hoof caved its skull in.
 
There was no joy for Bert over the victory. He was a 'has been' burglar, not a murderer. “It’s over, Rambi, you can come out.”
 
The Alien Father peeked around the door frame. Seeing the Guardian lying there, he tiptoed into view. “Rambi?”
 
“Yep. From now on I’ll call you Rambi.”
 
The Alien Father sunk to his knees and clasped his hands over his face. “You did it,” he muttered through his fingers. “You closed the Guardian’s tunnel. They can never come here again.”
 
“Without you, Rambi, it would have cost my life. You’re my hero.” Bert dragged his knife from the fallen Guardian and handed it hilt first to the Alien Father. “Keep it. It’s yours.”
 
A bloom of red spread across the Alien Father’s cheeks. Then an assured smile crossed his face, and he wagged his head up and down.
 
Above them, the terrifying projected image and trumpet sound continued. “I’ll soon stop that,” said Bert, scanning for the source.
 
“No, leave it!”
 
Bert didn’t understand but was glad to let Alien Father take charge. “Why?”
 
“Guardians are still on my planet, rounding up our children. If you interrupt the projection, they’ll realise something is wrong. Best to take them unawares.”
 
As if to prove his point, a flying scooter appeared over the top of the citadel and slowly descended. The Alien Father snatched up the dropped ray gun, waited until the Guardian landed, and pulled the trigger. A dazzling zap pummelled the Guardian, and it burst into fizzing flames.
 
They released the children, dragged the remains of the scooter and its carriage into the forest, told the petrified kids to dash down to the village, and watched hidden for the next Guardian to arrive.
 
“You’ll be here a while, doing this,” said Bert, impressed at the Alien Father’s newfound confidence. “You don’t need my help for a while. I’ll be back shortly.”
 
Part 52:
In this post: Sad goodbye…
 
Five hours later and Bert returned to the rock camp, his horse and dogs panting. On the way, he’d passed several groups of children, tear-stained, yelping, and plunging down the hill as swift as their stubby little legs would carry them. He found the Alien Father squatting on hands and knees, where he’d been sick.

“Hey, Rambi.” Bert helped the dwarf to his feet and moved him farther behind the rock, where the trees provided shade and the air was cool. “Stomach puking up that strange food I gave you?”

The Alien Father shook his head. “No, not the food. It’s this slaying.”

“Yeah.” Words stuck in Bert’s throat and he wished he could relieve his friend’s misery. He sat beside him and tugged him into a hug. “Want me to take over?”

“No. You’ve done enough. I have to prevail alone.” The Alien Father sniffed, freed himself from Bert’s massive arms, and thrust out his chest. He pointed to a stack of ray guns. “See. I’ve been collecting them. I’ll not run out of firepower.”

“You won’t be alone for long.” Bert told him he’d spoken to the Elder and disclosed all that happened. In a wave of jubilation, the Elder promised to send a small group of young men to help and plenty of supplies for a lengthy campaign. “I’ve brought the Doodad with me. You’re useless at hiding it. I’m going home. For ever.”

A groan accompanied the roll of the Alien Father’s eyes, making Bert want to hurry, to avoid the sadness of departure.

“When I get home, I’ll smash the Doodad at my end, but don’t turn your end off until the tunnel closes. I’ve got a present for you.” With that, Bert, Bigfoot, and the Chums torpedoed themselves into the tunnel.
 
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.
-

Sci fi series: Evil Portent

Hello! If you like mystery/thrillers with a dash of the supernatural, a pinch of romance, and a solid dollop of humour, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Wednesdays and Sundays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘ Life in the Clouds ’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them for free, or wait to buy the entire story when published. Current book: Evil Portent.Image by Christian Dorn from Pixabay --
​
Life in the Clouds #4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Previously from posts 47 - 50
 
In the event of guns pointing in their direction, Bert had trained his Alsatians to rush in from the side and attack the assailant's arm. They didn’t let him down. Only feet away from the beast, both dogs clamped their teeth onto the Guardian’s forearm and wrist. It roared, threw Olive aside, and used its free arm to swipe at the dogs. Despite the animal's enormous size, compared to the Guardian, they looked no larger than miniature poodles. But they’d locked their jaws, and although the Guardian lifted both from the ground and wrenched at their necks, they held tight.
 
Head first, Bert crashed full speed into the Guardian’s stomach. Its belly felt as solid as a punch bag and Bert heard his neck creak. But the beast gave a blast of air and toppled over, ray gun skidding across the lawn. “Throat,” said Bert, and his dogs dropped the arm and went for its neck. In the same instant, Bert darted to his horse and tried to vault onto its back like he'd seen in the movies. His gut bounced into Bigfoot's rump, but he grabbed the saddle, pulled himself up, and slid his feet into the stirups.
 
The Guardian was on its feet again. Blood poured from its torn arm, but it still had enough strength to wrench at the dogs and protect its hairy throat. Fearing for the safety of his pets, Bert roared a command at them. “Stand away, Chums.”
 
High in the horse’s saddle, Bert towered above the guardian. Beneath him, Bigfoot vibrated with energy and rage. Bert swung the stallion and gave a signal to kick with its hind legs. With enough force to punch a hole through a barn wall, Bigfoot’s hooves crashed into the Guardian’s chest at the speed of two-hundred miles per hour.
 
Bert heard bones crack, then saw the guardian fly backwards and disappear into the tunnel he’d come from.
 
Olive lay sprawled on the lawn, unconscious, but still breathing.
 
The Alien Father came from hiding and plunged head first into the throbbing tunnel. With a soft nudge from Bert’s heels, Bigfoot reared on its hind legs and then charged into the tunnel’s mouth, his Chums running beside him.
 
The shift between planets happened so fast it seemed no worse than jumping through a loop, a trick he’d often practised with Bigfoot. The abrupt switch of scenery spooked the horse, and it took all Bert’s coaxing to halt his gallop. “It’s alright,” soothed Bert, stroking the animal’s neck. “It’s a new trick. Sorry, I should’ve warned you.”
 
“New trick,” snorted Bigfoot. “Okay, let’s do it again.”
 
“Later,” said Bert. “Work first.”
 
Back outside the Alien Father’s house, the Guardian slumped against a wall, its chest caved in, dead. Bert dropped from his horse and called his Chums to his side. A quick search revealed bumps and bruises all over them, but no bones broken or severe cuts.
 
The Alien Father had already turned the Doodad into the ‘off’ position, closing the tunnel and stopping Earth time. A wave of relief passed through Bert. Back home, Olive lay prone on the lawn, and when he returned, if ever he did, he wanted her still lying there, where he could care for her.
 
“The Guardian was alone,” said the Alien Father. “But others will come. What shall we do?”
 
Bert wasn’t good at taking charge and giving orders. He usually let his best mate, Alf, do that. He tilted his head from side to side, weighing choices. “I think you should hide the Doodad and join the villagers at the Temple where it's safe.”
 
“What about you?”
 
Before answering, Bert tugged on his bottom lip. “Well, I’m going to the Guardian’s citadel.” He wasn’t sure what he’d do when he arrived, but it seemed the obvious move.
 
“Take me with you. Mount your magnificent beast, make room for me, and pull me up.”
 
Bert’s mouth fell open. “You want to come too?”
 
“Yes. Just give me a second to hide the Doodad.”
 
Bert blew into the nostrils of his horse and stroked its long neck. “Be brave, my friend,” he breathed. “Remember the tricks we’ve practised, we’ll need them now.”
 
The horse nodded. “I remember. You want me to fight. I understand. You and me. Fight.”
 
“Good,” said Bert. “You, me, our Chums, and the Alien Father. The magnificent five versus the curse of the universe: the Guardians.”
 
The horse trotted, reserving its energy, but they covered distance fast. As they neared the forest edge that hemmed the citadel, Bert stopped, lowered the Alien Father to the ground, and dropped to his side. “Back on my planet," said Bert, "we have animals called sheep. They’re a lot like you, docile, but not half as brainy. We call the male sheep rams and they can be aggressive. Some have caused serious injuries, even death, to people.” He placed his hand on the Alien Father’s shoulder and fixed him with a stare. “I’m asking you to be a ram. Can you do it?”
 
“I won’t run away this time,” said the Alien Father, tightening his impressive muscles.
 
“Good."
 
"We have to take the Guardians by surprise."
 
"Good idea. You stay here and count to a hundred while I get closer. Then kick one of their lawnmowers again and go hide yourself before they see you. When they come out of the citadel, I go in. Got it?”
 
The Alien Father gave a curt nod and answered with a steady low-pitched voice. “Got it. Count to one hundred.”
 
It wasn’t much of a plan, thought Bert, but he didn’t want the Alien Father hurt. If the little fellow is brave enough to do his part, and then run off, good. He’d take care of the rest. “Here, take my knife. It’ll give you courage.”
 
The Bowie Knife looked like a sabre in the Alien Father’s grip. The tip rested on the ground. “Don’t you need it?”
 
“I’ve got another one,” said Bert. It was a lie, and he almost changed his mind. "Why didn't you take the ray gun back on my planet? It was on the lawn. You almost tripped over it."
 
"Why didn't you?"
 
Not wanting to start an argument, Bert spurred Bigfoot and rode off. He stopped when he faced the citadel’s doors, keeping out of sight in the trees. Right on cue, the Alien Father darted out and booted a lawnmower onto its back.
 
Instead of retreating into the trees, as Bert expected, the Alien Father sprinted across the neatly cut grass and kicked another lawnmower onto its side.
 
The citadel’s double doors cracked open, and a huge Guardian emerged, wielding a ray gun. The Alien Father whirled about, bent over to touch his toes, and let his guts unleash a riot of gas. Produced from his unusual meal and extreme nervousness, it sounded like a long sharp military blast from a bugle.
 
“You measly little turd,” screeched the Guardian as it charged, “You’ll pay for that.”
 
“Now,” said Bert, and sent Bigfoot bolting across the lawn. The guardian skidded and stopped, undecided which way to run. Seeing Bert on horseback and two savage dogs rushing for the citadel door, it wheeled around and raced back.
 
Bert reached the citadel first and bolted inside. The space was as large as a tennis court, and the Guardian's Doodad rested on a low plinth in the centre of the uninhabited space. A tunnel swirled and wheezed, open to the planet of evil.
 
“Stamp on it,” shouted Bert into the horse’s ear, and one second later a front hoof found its mark, smashing the gadget into a trillion pieces. In a flash, the tunnel collapsed, closed for ever.
 
Behind him, the Guardian scowled in the doorway, ray gun raised, rage foaming from the corners of its fat lips.
 
Bert cursed. He’d been careless. He should have set his dogs on the ugly creature. It had them trapped, too far to reach before it pulled the trigger. A fearful gnarl creased the Guardian’s brow as its finger squeezed.
 
In that same moment, a glint of steel flashed. The Alien Father inched up behind the Guardian, both hands clasping the razor-sharp Bowie knife above his head. His face was red and blotchy as if he’d been holding his breath, which then exploded from his mouth as he drove the knife into the back of the Guardian’s thigh.
 
The Guardian gasped, eyes suddenly as wide as jam tarts cooling on a windowsill, and it swatted its leg as if a hornet had stung it.
 
That was all the time Bert needed. His horse and dogs reached the stunned Guardian and bowled it over. The Alsatians tore at its throat, and a well-placed front hoof caved its skull in.
 
Part 51:
In this post: ZAP!…
 
“It’s over, Rambi, you can come out.”
 
The Alien Father peeked around the door frame. Seeing the Guardian lying there, he tiptoed into view. “Rambi?”
 
“Yep. From now on I’ll call you Rambi.”
 
The Alien Father sunk to his knees and clasped his hands over his face. “You did it,” he muttered through his fingers. “You closed the Guardian’s tunnel. They can never come here again.”
 
“Without you, Rambi, it would have cost my life. You’re my hero.” Bert dragged his knife from the fallen Guardian and handed it hilt first to the Alien Father. “Keep it. It’s yours.”
 
A bloom of red spread across the Alien Father’s cheeks. Then an assured smile crossed his face, and he wagged his head up and down.
 
Above them, the terrifying projected image and trumpet sound continued. “I’ll soon stop that,” said Bert, scanning for the source.
 
“No, leave it!”
 
Bert didn’t understand but was glad to let Alien Father take charge. “Why?”
“Guardians are still on my planet, rounding up our children. If you interrupt the projection, they’ll realise something is wrong.”
 
As if to prove his point, a flying scooter appeared over the top of the citadel and slowly descended. The Alien Father snatched up the dropped ray gun, waited until the Guardian landed, and pulled the trigger. A dazzling zap pummelled the Guardian, and it burst into fizzing flames.
 
They released the children, dragged the remains of the scooter and its carriage into the forest, told the petrified kids to dash down to the village, and watched hidden for the next Guardian to arrive.
 
“You’ll be here a while, doing this,” said Bert, impressed at the Alien Father’s newfound confidence. “You don’t need my help anymore. I’ll be back shortly.”
 
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.
-