If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, 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.
 
#4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Previously from posts 07 - 10…
 
 
It occurred to Bert the woman might be a loony, escaped from an asylum somewhere. Time to phone Florence for help; she possessed almost as much gumption as his best friend, Alf. "When did you last eat?" he asked as he plucked his smartphone from his back pocket.
 
The woman flinched and drew her children to her breast. "Don't shoot," she whimpered. "We're so small, there’s hardly any meat on us."
 
Bert scratched his head. No doubt. Loony. "This is a phone," he explained, drawing the words out and holding it to his ear to demonstrate. "I'm going to call for help."
 
A wave of relief washed over the woman’s face, but only enough to give her the courage to speak calmer. "A phone. Can I see it?"
 
"Yeah. Take a look. It's harmless." He held it at arm's length and the woman snatched it from his hand. "Hey," he said, "Don't do that." But it was too late. She tore the back cover from the phone, ripped out the battery, prodded at its workings with what resembled a crochet hook until her palm contained a jumble of fragments.
 
"It weren't a gun," said Bert, dejectedly. "You didn't have to ruin it, and if you didn't want me to call for help, all you had to do was to say."
 
The woman didn't answer. Instead, she sifted through the bits as if hunting for lice. Then she pinched up one black piece, dumped the rest of his ruined phone on the carpet, and picked up the doodad. With the doodad in one hand and the part from his phone in the other, she slipped the part into the doodad. Immediately, the gadget's harsh light stopped throbbing.
 
All held their breath and stared at the doodad. Pricks of various coloured pinpoint lights danced and ticked. Then it peeped and the purple goo settled into a soft, faint, glow.
 
With a jubilant cheer, the woman bounced to her feet and clapped her hands. "It works," she said.
 
"What works?"
 
"Can't you see? The doodad. We can go home to our own world."
 
The children danced and pranced with as much boisterousness as a pack of excited Billy Goats.
 
"Wait and watch," said the woman. Bouncing from foot to foot, eyes gleaming, she placed the gadget back on the floor.
 
Without warning, the air above it warped, like a heat haze, even though the room was freezing. Looking into the haze was like peering into a fire while daydreaming. Only there were no flames, just the vague impression of a black hole.
 
Bert stared at the patch of distorted air. It grew larger and more distinct, and he spotted odd translucent shapes eddying within it. A dull pressure made his ears ache, and a drop of sweat slid down the hollow of his throat, leaving a cold track.
 
The hazy hole had no outer boundary; it simply hung in midair, the entrance to a tunnel leading to an unearthly distance. Every muscle in Bert's body seized, pressure built in his ears, and the hiss of piercing static made his teeth cringe. The tunnel's depth pulsed like a black gulping throat, and the static hiss grew louder, wavering in pitch.
 
"Come," said the woman, suddenly by his side and tugging on his hand. "Come with us."
 
"Where?"
 
"To our world."
 
Bert, still hypnotised by the tunnel and fascinated by the notion of other worlds, staggered along beside her. They stepped inside, its depths shrinking and widening like the gullet of a black snake.
 
Ahead of him, he saw the woman and her twelve children melt into clouds of powder and the tunnel inhale them. It was the weirdest sensation Bert had ever experienced. The front edge of his bulk crumbled into dust and vanished into the tunnel as if dragged along by a tornado. Instinctively, he held his head back, watching, but in the same instant his vision blurred and a wall of soft foam in his back drove him forward. There was a sharp sting of pain as if blunt needles stabbed every nerve in his body. Before he had time to cry out, his flesh and bones gained substance again, as if he'd just woken from a nightmare and realised all was right with the world.
 
Except he wasn't lying in bed, but wobbling on his feet on the top of a green hill.
 
Below the hilltop, a village of flimsy huts and cabins nestled beside a rushing river. In every direction, Bert noted forests and fields of bamboo. A warm breeze, laden with the scent of tobacco, chafed their feathery leaves, wavering between rest and motion.
 
"What's that?" asked Bert, pointing to a distant hill higher than the others. A black tower dominated its summit. It looked alien and out of place.
 
"Can you see the Citadel from here?"
 
"Can't you?"
 
Both the woman's eyes focused in that direction. "No, it is too far away."
 
"And what's that?" Bert pointed to another construction of grey stone on a ridge on the village's other side."
 
"That is the abbey where the terror-stricken monks live."
 
“Where are we?” asked Bert.
 
The woman’s two eyes swivelled in all directions, as if uneasy. “I think we’re safe for the moment.”
 
“Yeah, that’s good, but where are we?”
 
“I must take you to the Elder’s house. He’ll explain everything.” Without further word, the woman bent to pick up a doodad similar to the one they'd left behind and set off down the hill, heading for the village on her dumpy little legs.
 
Bert tagged along beside her, taking advantage of the sluggish pace to absorb his new surroundings. Temple bells chimed through the mystic, potent sunlight; frogs croaked in muddy ditches; dwarf-sized women came from the fields, with a song on their thin red lips and wicker baskets laden with bamboo tips on their heads.
 
They glared at Bert as if he were a monster, taking a wide berth or darting into their hovels.
 
The villagers had built most of their huts from thick bamboo canes. There were no vehicles and only hard-packed dirt paths. It reminded him of pictures he’d seen of undiscovered tribes in South America’s rain forests, except here it looked as though they’d cleared most of the forest to cultivate fields of bamboo.
 
A handful of stone-built constructions, twice as large as the huts, were sprinkled haphazardly throughout the village. They headed for one of these.
 
Bert ducked inside and wiped his feet on a mat made of fibres. Doors and windows were simple open gaps with cloth hanging across the doors. Bamboo shutters in the windows did little to keep the sun out. After the sweltering heat outdoors, the cool cave-like room made Bert shove his hands in his pockets.
 
A little prune of a man sat cross-legged on the dirt floor. When he caught sight of Bert, squeezing through the door and standing with his head and shoulders bent beneath the low ceiling, he leapt effortlessly to his feet and backed into a corner.
 
Apart from his widespread eyes, the Elder had squished his facial features into tight knot, making him look like an amazed chipmunk. “What are you?” he asked.
 
“Me name’s Bert. Pleased to meet you.” He held his hand out and the little man cringed even further into the corner. “I ain’t going to hurt you.” Tired of bending his head, Bert flopped to the floor and leant back on his arms.
 
The alien woman stepped from behind Bert’s back. When the Elder saw her, his expression flitted between relief, joy, confusion, and anger. “Troublemaker. What have you done?”
 
“I bring you a Bert. He witnessed the tunnel, so I kidnapped him.”
 
“Is a Bert safe?”
 
“The Berts are violent meat-eaters, but I believe this one is peaceful.”
 
“Why do you keep saying we’re meat eaters,” said Bert. “Some of us are vegans. They only eat leaves and seeds and stuff.”
 
“I say you are meat eaters,” said the woman, “because your eyes are close together and focused to judge distance. All hunters of meat share that trait. Our eyes move independently of each other. A common trait of all hunted animals, forever on the watch for the hunters.”
 
“Vegans must be the superior species on your planet,” said the Elder. “Do Vegans have the wide-spread eyes of the hunted?”
 
Bert shook his head. “No, but they fart a lot.”
 
“Go then!” said the Elder, his finger jabbing at the woman. “Leave the doodad here. I will talk with this Bert and reprimand you later.”
 
The woman bowed and hurried away.
 
 
Part 11:
In this post: Bert eats disgusting porridge…
 
“Sit!” said the Elder.
 
“I am sitting,” said Bert.
 
The Elder’s eyes swivelled this way and that as if wondering how he could squeeze around Bert if needed to escape. Bert felt sorry for the timid little wise man and placed his friendliest smile.
 
“You are confused?”
 
Bert wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question. “I don’t know where I am if that’s what you mean.”
 
“You are on a planet called Ewepiter, in a village called Lambdon.”
 
Careful to keep the smirk on his face, Bert shook his head. “Never heard of them.”
 
A slow grin softened the Elder’s panic, and his posture slumped. “Are you hungry, thirsty?”
 
“I’m starving and me throat’s parched.”
 
The Elder lifted the lid of a large saucepan that balanced on a flat metal box. “I’ll make some porridge for you.” He scooped a handful of dry bamboo tips from a sack and tossed them into the pan. Then he added another handful, turned to glance at Bert, and added two more. After filling water and a handful of white powder Bert assumed was salt, he put the lid back on and tapped the side of the metal box with a finger. “Two minutes,” he said.
 
All the while, the Elder kept one eye on Bert, the other on the pan. “There’s water in the barrel by your right elbow,” he said.
 
A ladle hung on the barrel with cups of various sizes stacked neatly on a low table by its side. Bert chose the largest and gulped four cupfuls before his tongue came unstuck from the roof of his mouth. The metal box peeped, and when the Elder lifted the saucepan lid, steam belched out.
 
“Blimey, mate, how did you cook that?” Bert scratched his bald head. He didn’t see any flames beneath the pan or electric wires anywhere.
 
“It is part of the remnants of our technology, like the translator you wear on your T-shirt, and this cooker, and those doodads. Only a few of us retain the wisdom of how these contrivances work. I am not one, so I cannot explain.”
 
“Got any cream and sugar?” asked Bert as the Elder nudged a bowl of porridge in his direction and edged away again.
 
“No.”
 
Bert blew on his spoon and, careful not to burn his tongue, took a nibble. He shuddered and gagged. The porridge was the most disgusting he’d tasted in his life: earthy, woody, like mild water chestnuts but with a bitter tang. “Blimey, mate, you’ve got to be joking. Ain’t you got nothing else?”
 
“No.”
 
“What do you mean, no? Is this all you eat?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“No wonder you’re all so small. Sorry, but I can’t eat this.”
 
Terror filled the Elder’s face. “You’re just like the Guardians. You crave meat. You prefer to eat us.”
 
“No,” said Bert, and hurriedly spooned porridge into his gob. “Look, I’m eating this yummy stuff.” He found it almost impossible to swallow and spat globs of the creamy sludge as he spoke, but he kept spooning it in. “Mmm! lovely.”
 
 
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.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, 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.
 
#4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Previously from posts 06 - 09…
 
 The sound of whimpering greeted Bert, and when the new neighbours still didn’t answer, he stepped inside. From the kitchen, he crept across the living room and into the front room. In a corner, huddled beneath the window, he found the group.
 
The minuscule woman stared at him as if the devil confronted her. Her eyes were placed far apart on each side of her head with a broad nose-bridge between them. The eyes moved in different directions, and the pupils weren’t round, but oval, like a goat’s. A curly mop of grey hair partially covered two bony nubs on her prominent forehead. Her mouth and jaws were more or less normal.
 
Bert counted twelve children. The woman clutched her arms around two of them, their faces buried in her chest. The others hid behind her back, crying, not daring to look at him.
 
The only furniture in the room was a tatty three-piece suite and a budget sideboard. The object that emitted the curious light lay in the middle of the timeworn-carpeted floor. About the size of a shoebox, it reminded Bert of the inside workings of an old-fashioned wind-up clock. Instead of springs, cogs and spindles trapped between two metal plates, microchips floated, as if suspended in a purple gooey liquid that throbbed with a million points of light.
 
Bert raised his palms to show he meant no harm, but the woman screeched at him in a language he’d never heard before, Arabic maybe, spoken backwards.
 
Worried the poor woman might blow a fuse, Bert found the badge Florence had given him and slapped it on his breast. The badge had no pin, but its backside was rough like Velcro, and it stuck tight to his T-shirt.
 
A jumble of noises rattled through his brain, like listening to a party political debate played too fast and cymbals crashing every so often. Then, behind the noise, he realised the woman spoke English to him. He shook his head to clear it and listened.
 
“Don’t kill us. We mean no harm. I broke my doodad, or we’d leave.”
 
“I’m here to help,” said Bert. “I ain’t going to hurt you.” He pointed to the flashing contraption on the carpet. “Is that the doodad you mean?”
 
“Yes. We’re marooned in this hellhole world forever.”
 
Bert stopped breathing. “This world?”
 
“Haven’t you savages heard of other worlds?”
 
“You mean like a home for dwarfs with Down’s syndrome?”
 
“No, I mean like other inhabited planets out in the universe.”
 
“Some people believe, but most don’t.” Bert shuffled his feet and scratched his backside. “I’m one of those who believe.”
 
The woman cried again. “Worse and worse. Oh, if only we hadn’t come.”
 
“Well, why did you?”
 
“To escape the Guardian. But this world is no safer. You creatures are a race of fierce, egoistic beasts who kill animals for their meat.”
 
It occurred to Bert the woman might be a loony, escaped from an asylum somewhere. Time to phone Florence for help; she possessed almost as much gumption as his best friend, Alf. "When did you last eat?" he asked as he plucked his smartphone from his back pocket.
 
The woman flinched and drew her children to her breast. "Don't shoot," she whimpered. "We're so small, there’s hardly any meat on us."
 
Bert scratched his head. No doubt. Loony. "This is a phone," he explained, drawing the words out and holding it to his ear to demonstrate. "I'm going to call for help."
 
A wave of relief washed over the woman’s face, but only enough to give her the courage to speak calmer. "A phone. Can I see it?"
 
"Yeah. Take a look. It's harmless." He held it at arm's length and the woman snatched it from his hand. "Hey," he said, "Don't do that." But it was too late. She tore the back cover from the phone, ripped out the battery, prodded at its workings with what resembled a crochet hook until her palm contained a jumble of fragments.
 
"It weren't a gun," said Bert, dejectedly. "You didn't have to ruin it, and if you didn't want me to call for help, all you had to do was to say."
 
The woman didn't answer. Instead, she sifted through the bits as if hunting for lice. Then she pinched up one black piece, dumped the rest of his ruined phone on the carpet, and picked up the doodad. With the doodad in one hand and the part from his phone in the other, she slipped the part into the doodad. Immediately, the gadget's harsh light stopped throbbing.
 
All held their breath and stared at the doodad. Pricks of various coloured pinpoint lights danced and ticked. Then it peeped and the purple goo settled into a soft, faint, glow.
 
With a jubilant cheer, the woman bounced to her feet and clapped her hands. "It works," she said.
 
"What works?"
 
"Can't you see? The doodad. We can go home to our own world."
 
The children danced and pranced with as much boisterousness as a pack of excited Billy Goats.
 
"Wait and watch," said the woman. Bouncing from foot to foot, eyes gleaming, she placed the gadget back on the floor.
 
Without warning, the air above it warped, like a heat haze, even though the room was freezing. Looking into the haze was like peering into a fire while daydreaming. Only there were no flames, just the vague impression of a black hole.
 
Bert stared at the patch of distorted air. It grew larger and more distinct, and he spotted odd translucent shapes eddying within it. A dull pressure made his ears ache, and a drop of sweat slid down the hollow of his throat, leaving a cold track.
 
The hazy hole had no outer boundary; it simply hung in midair, the entrance to a tunnel leading to an unearthly distance. Every muscle in Bert's body seized, pressure built in his ears, and the hiss of piercing static made his teeth cringe. The tunnel's depth pulsed like a black gulping throat, and the static hiss grew louder, wavering in pitch.
 
"Come," said the woman, suddenly by his side and tugging on his hand. "Come with us."
 
"Where?"
 
"To our world."
 
Bert, still hypnotised by the tunnel and fascinated by the notion of other worlds, staggered along beside her. They stepped inside, its depths shrinking and widening like the gullet of a black snake.
 
Ahead of him, he saw the woman and her twelve children melt into clouds of powder and the tunnel inhale them. It was the weirdest sensation Bert had ever experienced. The front edge of his bulk crumbled into dust and vanished into the tunnel as if dragged along by a tornado. Instinctively, he held his head back, watching, but in the same instant his vision blurred and a wall of soft foam in his back drove him forward. There was a sharp sting of pain as if blunt needles stabbed every nerve in his body. Before he had time to cry out, his flesh and bones gained substance again, as if he'd just woken from a nightmare and realised all was right with the world.
 
Except he wasn't lying in bed, but wobbling on his feet on the top of a green hill.
 
Below the hilltop, a village of flimsy huts and cabins nestled beside a rushing river. In every direction, Bert noted forests and fields of bamboo. A warm breeze, laden with the scent of tobacco, chafed their feathery leaves, wavering between rest and motion.
 
"What's that?" asked Bert, pointing to a distant hill higher than the others. A black tower dominated its summit. It looked alien and out of place.
 
"Can you see the Citadel from here?"
 
"Can't you?"
 
Both the woman's eyes focused in that direction. "No, it is too far away."
 
"And what's that?" Bert pointed to another construction of grey stone on a ridge on the village's other side."
 
"That is the abbey where the terror-stricken monks live."
 
“Where are we?” asked Bert.
 
The woman’s two eyes swivelled in all directions, as if uneasy. “I think we’re safe for the moment.”
 
“Yeah, that’s good, but where are we?”
 
“I must take you to the Elder’s house. He’ll explain everything.” Without further word, the woman bent to pick up a doodad similar to the one they'd left behind and set off down the hill, heading for the village on her dumpy little legs.
 
Bert tagged along beside her, taking advantage of the sluggish pace to absorb his new surroundings. Temple bells chimed through the mystic, potent sunlight; frogs croaked in muddy ditches; dwarf-sized women came from the fields, with a song on their thin red lips and wicker baskets laden with bamboo tips on their heads.
 
They glared at Bert as if he were a monster, taking a wide berth or darting into their hovels.
 
The villagers had built most of their huts from thick bamboo canes. There were no vehicles and only hard-packed dirt paths. It reminded him of pictures he’d seen of undiscovered tribes in South America’s rain forests, except here it looked as though they’d cleared most of the forest to cultivate fields of bamboo.
 
A handful of stone-built constructions, twice as large as the huts, were sprinkled haphazardly throughout the village. They headed for one of these.
 
Bert ducked inside and wiped his feet on a mat made of fibres. Doors and windows were simple open gaps with cloth hanging across the doors. Bamboo shutters in the windows did little to keep the sun out. After the sweltering heat outdoors, the cool cave-like room made Bert shove his hands in his pockets.
 
A little prune of a man sat cross-legged on the dirt floor. When he caught sight of Bert, squeezing through the door and standing with his head and shoulders bent beneath the low ceiling, he leapt effortlessly to his feet and backed into a corner.
 
​
Part 10:
In this post: Bert meets the Elder, and stuns him like an amazed chipmunk…
 
Apart from his widespread eyes, the Elder squished his facial features, making him look like an amazed chipmunk. “What are you?” he asked.
 
“Me name’s Bert. Pleased to meet you.” He held his hand out and the little man cringed even further into the corner. “I ain’t going to hurt you.” Tired of bending his head, Bert flopped to the floor and leant back on his arms.
 
The alien woman stepped from behind Bert’s back. When the Elder saw her, his expression flitted between relief, joy, confusion, and anger. “Troublemaker. What have you done?”
 
“I bring you a Bert. He witnessed the tunnel, so I kidnapped him.”
 
“Is a Bert safe?”
 
“The Berts are violent meat-eaters, but I believe this one is peaceful.”
 
“Why do you keep saying we’re meat eaters,” said Bert. “Some of us are vegans. They only eat leaves and seeds and stuff.”
 
“I say you are meat eaters,” said the woman, “because your eyes are close together and focused to judge distance. All hunters of meat share that trait. Our eyes move independently of each other. A common trait of all hunted animals, forever on the watch for the hunters.”
 
“Vegans must be the superior species on your planet,” said the Elder. “Do Vegans have the wide-apart eyes of the hunted?”
 
Bert shook his head. “No, but they fart a lot.”
 
“Go then!” said the Elder, his finger jabbing at the woman. “Leave the doodad here. I will talk with this Bert and reprimand you later.”
 
The woman bowed and hurried away.
 
 
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.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, 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.
 
#4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Previously from posts 05 - 08…
 
On a grey and drizzly day that kept most people snuggled between their sheets, Bert trundled to the stable with his two Alsatians, his Chums as he liked to call them, to tend his horse, Big Foot. The stable owner sold the horse to Bert at a favourable price because it was so cantankerous it wouldn’t let anybody near it, let alone ride it.
 
Big Foot was one of the stable owner’s experiments. He'd crossed a cold-blooded carthorse with a hot-blooded Arabian. He hoped the result would be a warm-blooded workhorse, but ended with a hot-blooded stallion that weighed just over a ton and towered two metres tall.
 
Despite Bert’s fierce appearance, children and animals adored him, and Bert was so big and heavy that Big Foot was the only horse strong enough to carry him. To everyone’s astonishment, the two unredeemable souls bonded at first meeting.
 
After tethering Big Foot outside number three Flintstone Terrace, and commanding his Chums to stay put and wait for him, Bert tapped on his new neighbour’s front door. He reckoned they must be in, because he could see the curious light everyone talked about, throbbing behind the curtains. The stark light, like the full moon on a frosty night, faded and grew in the same rhythm as a person in deep sleep.
 
Florence hadn’t mentioned anything about the new neighbours having luggage or bags with them. Did they have food? If not, Bert had plenty he could share. After one more unresponsive knock, he trundled around to the rear of Flintstone Terrace and entered the back lane. The lane ran parallel to the houses, their gardens on the lane's other side. Lawn covered all of number three’s garden, making it easy for the tenant to keep tidy.
 
The three houses' backyards were also similar: a row of bunkers for coal and coke along one side, an outside toilet and an entrance to the kitchen on the other. Like his own house at number one, this kitchen door only had a latch and a bolt on the inside to hold it locked. Tentatively, Bert tried the latch. It lifted, and the bolt was clear, so he pushed the door open and called. “Cooey, it’s only me, Bert, your friendly neighbour. Can I come in?”
 
The sound of whimpering greeted Bert, and when they still didn’t answer, he stepped inside. From the kitchen, he crept across the living room and into the front room. In a corner, huddled beneath the window, he found the group.
 
The minuscule woman stared at him as if the devil confronted her. Her eyes were placed far apart on each side of her head with a broad nose-bridge between them. The eyes moved in different directions, and the pupils weren’t round, but oval, like a goat’s. A curly mop of grey hair partially covered two bony nubs on her prominent forehead. Her mouth and jaws were more or less normal.
 
Bert counted twelve children. The woman clutched her arms around two of them, their faces buried in her chest. The others hid behind her back, crying, not daring to look at him.
 
The only furniture in the room was a tatty three-piece suite and a budget sideboard. The object that emitted the curious light lay in the middle of the timeworn carpeted floor. About the size of a shoebox, it reminded Bert of the inside workings of an old-fashioned wind-up clock. Instead of springs, cogs and spindles trapped between two metal plates, microchips floated, as if suspended in a purple gooey liquid that throbbed with a million points of light.
 
Bert raised his palms to show he meant no harm, but the woman screeched at him in a language he’d never heard before, Arabic maybe, spoken backwards.
 
Worried the poor woman might blow a fuse, Bert found the badge Florence had given him and slapped it on his breast. The badge had no pin, but its backside was rough like Velcro, and it stuck tight to his T-shirt.
 
A jumble of noises rattled through his brain, like listening to a party political debate played too fast and cymbals crashing every so often. Then, behind the noise, he realised the woman spoke English to him. He shook his head to clear it and listened.
 
“Don’t kill us. We mean no harm. I broke my doodad, or we’d leave.”
 
“I’m here to help,” said Bert. “I ain’t going to hurt you.” He pointed to the flashing contraption on the carpet. “Is that the doodad you mean?”
 
“Yes. We’re marooned in this hellhole world forever.”
 
Bert stopped breathing. “This world?”
 
“Haven’t you savages heard of other worlds?”
 
“You mean like a home for dwarfs with Down’s syndrome?”
 
“No, I mean like other inhabited planets out in the universe.”
 
“Some people believe, but most don’t.” Bert shuffled his feet and scratched his backside. “I’m one of those who believe.”
 
The woman cried again. “Worse and worse. Oh, if only we hadn’t come.”
 
“Well, why did you?”
 
“To escape the Guardian. But this world is no safer. You are a race of fierce, egoistic beasts who kill animals for their meat.”
 
It occurred to Bert the woman might be a loony, escaped from an asylum somewhere. Time to phone Florence for help; she possessed almost as much gumption as his best friend, Alf. "When did you last eat?" he asked as he plucked his smartphone from his back pocket.
 
The woman flinched and drew her children to her breast. "Don't shoot," she whimpered. "We're so small, there’s hardly any meat on us."
 
Bert scratched his head. No doubt. Loony. "This is a phone," he explained, drawing the words out and holding it to his ear to demonstrate. "I'm going to call for help."
 
A wave of relief washed over the woman’s face, but only enough to give her the courage to speak calmer. "A phone. Can I see it?"
 
"Yeah. Take a look. It's harmless." He held it at arm's length and the woman snatched it from his hand. "Hey," he said, "Don't do that." But it was too late. She tore the back cover from the phone, ripped out the battery, prodded at its workings with what resembled a crochet hook until her palm contained a jumble of fragments.
 
"It weren't a gun," said Bert, dejectedly. "You didn't have to ruin it, and if you didn't want me to call for help, all you had to do was to say."
 
The woman didn't answer. Instead, she sifted through the bits as if hunting for lice. Then she pinched up one black piece, dumped the rest of his ruined phone on the carpet, and picked up the doodad. With the doodad in one hand and the part from his phone in the other, she slipped the part into the doodad. Immediately, the gadget's harsh light stopped throbbing.
 
All held their breath and stared at the doodad. Pricks of various coloured pinpoint lights danced and ticked. Then it peeped and the purple goo settled into a soft, faint, glow.
 
With a jubilant cheer, the woman bounced to her feet and clapped her hands. "It works," she said.
 
"What works?"
 
"Can't you see? The doodad. We can go home to our own world."
 
The children danced and pranced with as much boisterousness as a pack of excited Billy Goats.
 
"Wait and watch," said the woman. Bouncing from foot to foot, eyes gleaming, she placed the gadget back on the floor.
 
Without warning, the air above it warped, like a heat haze, even though the room was freezing. Looking into the haze was like peering into a fire while daydreaming. Only there were no flames, just the vague impression of a black hole.
 
Bert stared at the patch of distorted air. It grew larger and more distinct, and he spotted odd translucent shapes eddying within it. A dull pressure made his ears ache, and a drop of sweat slid down the hollow of his throat, leaving a cold track.
 
The hazy hole had no outer boundary; it simply hung in midair, the entrance to a tunnel leading to an unearthly distance. Every muscle in Bert's body seized, pressure built in his ears, and the hiss of piercing static made his teeth cringe. The tunnel's depth pulsed like a black gulping throat, and the static hiss grew louder, wavering in pitch.
 
"Come," said the woman, suddenly by his side and tugging on his hand. "Come with us."
 
"Where?"
 
"To our world."
 
Bert, still hypnotised by the tunnel and fascinated by the notion of other worlds, staggered along beside her. They stepped inside, its depths shrinking and widening like the gullet of a black snake.
 
Ahead of him, he saw the woman and her twelve children melt into clouds of powder and the tunnel inhale them. It was the weirdest sensation Bert had ever experienced. The front edge of his bulk crumbled into dust and vanished into the tunnel as if dragged along by a tornado. Instinctively, he held his head back, watching, but in the same instant his vision blurred and a wall of soft foam in his back drove him forward. There was a sharp sting of pain as if blunt needles stabbed every nerve in his body. Before he had time to cry out, his flesh and bones gained substance again, as if he'd just woken from a nightmare and realised all was right with the world.
 
Except he wasn't lying in bed, but wobbling on his feet on the top of a green hill.
 
Below the hilltop, a village of flimsy huts and cabins nestled beside a rushing river. In every direction, Bert noted forests and fields of bamboo. A warm breeze, laden with the scent of tobacco, chafed their feathery leaves, wavering between rest and motion.
 
"What's that?" asked Bert, pointing to a distant hill higher than the others. A black tower dominated its summit. It looked alien and out of place.
 
"Can you see the Citadel from here?"
 
"Can't you?"
 
Both the woman's eyes focused in that direction. "No, it is too far away."
 
"And what's that?" Bert pointed to another construction of grey stone on a ridge on the village's other side."
 
"That is the abbey where the terror-stricken monks live."
 
 
Part 09:
In this post: Bert enters a world of bamboo…
 
“Where are we?” asked Bert.
 
The woman’s two eyes swivelled in all directions, as if uneasy. “I think we’re safe for the moment.”
 
“Yeah, that’s good, but where are we?”
 
“I must take you to the Elder’s house. He’ll explain everything.” Without further word, the woman set off down the hill, heading for the village on her dumpy little legs.
 
Bert tagged along beside her, taking advantage of the sluggish pace to absorb his new surroundings. Temple bells chimed through the mystic, potent sunlight; frogs croaked in muddy ditches; dwarf-sized women came from the fields, with a song on their full red lips and wicker baskets laden with bamboo tips on their heads.
 
They glared at Bert as if he were a monster, taking a wide berth or darting into their hovels.
 
The villagers had built most of their huts from thick bamboo canes. There were no vehicles and only hard-packed dirt paths. It reminded him of pictures he’d seen of undiscovered tribes in South America’s rain forests, except here it looked as though they’d cleared most of the forest to cultivate fields of bamboo.
 
A handful of stone-built constructions, twice as large as the huts, were sprinkled haphazardly throughout the village. They headed for one of these.
 
Bert ducked inside and wiped his feet on a mat made of fibres. Doors and windows were simple open gaps with bamboo shutters in the windows that did little to keep the sun out and cloth hanging across the doors. After the sweltering heat outdoors, the cool cave-like room made Bert shove his hands in his pockets.
 
A little prune of a man sat cross-legged on the dirt floor. When he caught sight of Bert, squeezing through the door and standing with his head and shoulders bent beneath the low ceiling, he leapt effortlessly to his feet and backed into a corner.
 
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.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, 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.
 
#4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Previously from posts 04 - 07…
 
Chief Inspector Dobbs coughed behind a clenched fist and plucked the eclair Bert had his eye on. “You and Olive,” he said to Bert, “are the closest neighbour to the newcomers. You can do us all a favour, Bert, by keeping a watch on them. Go and visit, check them out, and report to me.”

“You want me to spy on her?” said Bert. He didn’t like the sound of that. If people wanted their privacy, that’s how it should be. What business was it of any other?

“Yes, as much for her own safety as anything else. Everybody in the hamlet has taken a disliking to her and her kids. Some of the older youths have thrown stones at her house, and adults are talking about setting fire to it.”

That changed matters for Bert. One goings-on he couldn’t stand was mobbing and bullying. If he caught anyone throwing stones at her house, he’d break their wrist. If anyone so much as lit a cigarette in front of her house, he’d ram the whole packet down their throat. “Why can’t you go?”

“The vicar and I went to her house before coming here, but she didn’t answer the door. I know she’s in there because she peeked at us from behind the curtain.”

“What about Florence? Seeing as she’s already spoken to them, why can’t she go?”

“Because,” said Florence, passing the cups of tea around and helping herself to the next biggest eclair, “the silly man thinks it’s too dangerous.” She blew her husband a kiss.

A flush crept across Chief Inspector Dobbs cheeks, and he made a rush job of blowing the kiss back. “I’ll not have her exposed to unnecessary risks.”

“Okay,” said Bert. He couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. How could a midget woman and a bunch of kids put such a fright into people? “I’ll go first thing in the morning. You lot must have scared the poor woman half to death. But what makes you think she’ll open her door to me? I scare the crap out of people.”

“I know,” said Florence. She tore the glittering badge from her cardigan and passed it to Bert. “Take this and say I vouch for you. Once people get to know you, they find you're the sweetest creature on Earth.”

*

Next morning, on a grey and drizzly day that kept most people snuggled between their sheets, Bert trundled to the stable with his two Alsatians to tend his horse, Big Foot. The stable owner sold it to Bert at a favourable price because it was so cantankerous it wouldn’t let anybody near it, let alone ride it.

Big Foot was one of the stable owner’s experiments. He crossed a cold-blooded carthorse with a hot-blooded Arabian. He hoped the result would be a warm-blooded workhorse, but ended with a hot-blooded stallion that weighed just over a ton and towered two metres tall.

Despite Bert’s fierce appearance, children and animals adored him, and Bert was so big and heavy that Big Foot was the only horse strong enough to carry him. To everyone’s astonishment, the two unredeemable souls bonded at first meeting.

After tethering Big Foot outside number three Flintstone Terrace, and commanding his Chums to stay put and wait for him, Bert tapped on his new neighbour’s front door. He reckoned they must be in, because he could see the curious light everyone talked about, throbbing behind the curtains. The stark light, like the full moon on a frosty night, faded and grew in the same rhythm as a person in deep sleep.

Florence hadn’t mentioned they had luggage or bags with them. Did they have food? If not, Bert had plenty he could share. After one more unresponsive knock, he trundled around to the rear of Flintstone Terrace and entered the back lane. The lane ran parallel to the houses, their gardens on the lane's other side. Lawn covered all of number three’s garden, making it easy for the tenant to keep tidy.

The three houses' backyards were also similar: a row of bunkers for coal and coke along one side, an outside toilet and an entrance to the kitchen on the other. Like his own house at number one, this kitchen door only had a latch and a bolt on the inside to hold it locked. Tentatively, Bert tried the latch. It lifted, and the bolt was clear, so he pushed the door open and called. “Cooey, it’s only me, Bert, your friendly neighbour. Can I come in?”

The sound of whimpering greeted Bert, and when they still didn’t answer, he stepped inside. From the kitchen, he crept across the living room and into the front room. In a corner, huddled beneath the window, he found the group.

The minuscule woman stared at him as if the devil confronted her. Her eyes were placed far apart on each side of her head and had a broad nose-bridge between them. The eyes moved in different directions, and the pupils weren’t round, but oval, like a goat’s. A curly mop of grey hair partially covered two bony nubs on her prominent forehead. Her mouth and jaws were more or less normal.

Bert counted twelve children. The woman clutched her arms around two of them, their faces buried in her chest. The others hid behind her back, crying, not daring to look at him.

The only furniture in the room was a three-piece suite and a sideboard. The object that emitted the curious light lay in the middle of the carpeted floor. About the size of a shoebox, it reminded Bert of the inside workings of an old-fashioned wind-up clock. Instead of springs, cogs and spindles trapped between two metal plates, microchips floated, as if suspended in a purple gooey liquid that throbbed with a million points of light.

Bert raised his palms to show he meant no harm, but the woman screeched at him in a language he’d never heard before, Arabic maybe, spoken backwards.

Worried the poor woman might blow a fuse, Bert found the badge Florence had given him and slapped it on his breast. The badge had no pin, but its backside was rough like Velcro, and it stuck tight to his T-shirt.

A jumble of noises rattled through his brain, like listening to a party political debate played too fast and cymbals crashing every so often. Then, behind the noise, he realised the woman spoke English to him. He shook his head to clear it and listened.

“Don’t kill us. We mean no harm. I broke my doodad, or we’d leave.”

“I’m here to help,” said Bert. “I ain’t going to hurt you.” He pointed to the flashing contraption on the carpet. “Is that the doodad you mean?”

“Yes. We’re marooned in this hellhole world forever.”

Bert stopped breathing. “This world?”

“Haven’t you savages heard of other worlds?”

“You mean like a home for dwarfs with Down’s syndrome?”

“No, I mean like other inhabited planets out in the universe.”

“Some people believe, but most don’t.” Bert shuffled his feet and scratched his backside. “I’m one of those who believe.”

The woman cried again. “Worse and worse. Oh, if only we hadn’t come.”

“Well, why did you?”

“To escape the Guardian. But this world is no safer. You are a race of fierce, egoistic beasts who kill animals for their meat.”

It occurred to Bert the woman might be a loony, escaped from an asylum somewhere. Time to phone Florence for help; she possessed almost as much gumption as his best friend, Alf. "When did you last eat?" he asked as he plucked his smartphone from his back pocket.

The woman flinched and drew her children to her breast. "Don't shoot," she whimpered. "We're so small, there’s hardly any meat on us."

Bert scratched his head. No doubt. Loony. "This is a phone," he explained, drawing the words out and holding it to his ear to demonstrate. "I'm going to call for help."

A wave of relief washed over the woman’s face, but only enough to give her the courage to speak calmer. "A phone. Can I see it?"

"Yeah. Take a look. It's harmless." He held it at arm's length and the woman snatched it from his hand. "Hey," he said, "Don't do that." But it was too late. She tore the back cover from the phone, ripped out the battery, prodded at its workings with what resembled a crochet hook until her palm contained a jumble of fragments.

"It weren't a gun," said Bert, dejectedly. "You didn't have to ruin it, and if you didn't want me to call for help, all you had to do was to say."

The woman didn't answer. Instead, she sifted through the bits as if hunting for lice. Then she pinched up one black piece, dumped the rest of his ruined phone on the carpet, and picked up the doodad. With the doodad in one hand and the part from his phone in the other, she slipped the part into the doodad. Immediately, the gadget's lights stopped throbbing. With a jubilant cheer, the woman bounced to her feet and clapped her hands. "It works," she said.

"What works?"

"Can't you see? The doodad. We can go home to our own world."

The children danced and pranced with as much boisterousness as a pack of excited Billy Goats.

"Wait and watch," said the woman. Bouncing from foot to foot, eyes gleaming, she placed the gadget back on the floor.

Without warning, the air above it warped, like a heat haze, even though the room was freezing. Looking into the haze was like peering into a fire while daydreaming. Only there were no flames, just the vague impression of a black hole.

Bert stared at the patch of distorted air. It grew larger and more distinct, and he spotted odd translucent shapes eddying within it. A dull pressure made his ears ache, and a drop of sweat slid down the hollow of his throat, leaving a cold track.

The hazy hole had no outer boundary; it simply hung in midair, the entrance to a tunnel leading to an unearthly distance. Every muscle in Bert's body seized, pressure built in his ears, and the hiss of piercing static made his teeth cringe. The tunnel's depth pulsed like a black gulping throat, and the static hiss grew louder, wavering in pitch.

"Come," said the woman, suddenly by his side and tugging on his hand. "Come with us."

"Where?"

"To our world."

Bert, still hypnotised by the tunnel and fascinated by the notion of other worlds, staggered along beside her. They stepped inside, its depths shrinking and widening like the gullet of a black snake.
 
Part 08:
In this post: From dust to dust and a wormhole…
 
Ahead of him, he saw the woman and her twelve children melt into clouds of powder and the tunnel inhale them. It was the weirdest sensation Bert had ever experienced. The front edge of his bulk crumbled into dust and vanished into the tunnel as if dragged along by a tornado. Instinctively, he held his head back, watching, but in the same instant his vision blurred and a wall of soft foam in his back drove him forward. There was a sharp sting of pain as if blunt needles stabbed every nerve in his body. Even before he cried out, his flesh and bones gained substance again, as if he'd just woken from a nightmare and realised all was right with the world.

Except he wasn't lying in bed, but wobbling on his feet on the top of a green hill.

Below the hilltop, a village of flimsy huts and cabins nestled beside a rushing river. In every direction, Bert noted forests and fields of bamboo. A warm breeze, laden with the scent of tobacco, chafed their feathery leaves, wavering between rest and motion.

"What's that?" asked Bert, pointing to a distant hill higher than the others. A black tower dominated its summit. It looked alien and out of place.

"Can you see the Citadel from here?"

"Can't you?"

Both the woman's eyes focused in that direction. "No, it is too far away."

"And what's that?" Bert pointed to another construction of grey stone on a ridge on the village's other side."

"That is the abbey where the terror-stricken monks live."
 
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.
-

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, 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.
 
#4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Previously from posts 03 - 06…
 
With a pot of tea on the table and a plate piled with Bert’s favourite cream eclairs in the centre, Olive dropped into the only remaining seat. “I’m ready. Bert, you can pour the tea.”

The cups and saucers looked like doll’s toys in his oversized mitts, but before he got as far as pouring the tea, Florence smacked the back of his hand and took over.

Chief Inspector Dobbs drummed his fingers and then spoke up. “Your new neighbours are causing concern in the local community. I believe they are criminals. Dealers in drugs or child smuggling. Perhaps both.”

“My concerns are far worse than yours,” said Vicar Bitter, his layers of chins wobbling as he spoke. “They have horns, and I fear they worship Satan. Strange lights come from their windows all night long, and a teenager listened through their letterbox and claimed they were talking backwards.”

Olive gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. Bert kept his eyes on the eclairs; he’d already selected the biggest.

“You’re both being silly,” said Florence. She lifted the teapot’s lid and gave the brew a stir. “I’m the only one who’s spoken to them and they’re charming people. See here, the lady gave me a badge.” She pointed to a disc on her hand-knitted cardigan, about the size of a coin. It glistened like a cat’s eye, glittering with all the colours of the rainbow as she wiggled it. “I met them on the street late at night and the lady told me she was homeless. She had twelve children with her, none over four or five years old. I went straight to Mr Styles and got the keys for number three.”

“Did you go in with her?” asked Olive.

“No, I didn’t. But she was grateful.”

“What did she look like?”

“It was dark. Difficult to see. She was small, a dwarf I would say.”

Chief Inspector Dobbs coughed behind a clenched fist and plucked the eclair Bert had his eye on. “You and Olive,” he said to Bert, “are their closest neighbour. You can do us all a favour, Bert, by keeping a watch on them. Go and visit, check them out, and report to me.”

“You want me to spy on her?” said Bert. He didn’t like the sound of that. If people wanted their privacy, that’s how it should be. What business was it of any other?

“Yes, as much for her own safety as anything else. Everybody in the hamlet has taken a disliking to her and her kids. Some of the older youths have thrown stones at her house, and adults are talking about setting fire to it.”

That changed matters for Bert. One goings-on he couldn’t stand was mobbing and bullying. If he caught anyone throwing stones at her house, he’d break their wrist. If anyone so much as lit a cigarette in front of her house, he’d ram the whole packet down their throat. “Why can’t you go?”

“The vicar and me went to her house before coming here, but she didn’t answer the door. I know she’s in there because she peeked at us from behind the curtain.”

“What about Florence? Seeing as she’s already spoken to them, why can’t she go?”

“Because,” said Florence, passing the cups of tea around and helping herself to the next biggest eclair, “the silly man thinks it’s too dangerous.” She blew her husband a kiss.

A flush crept across Chief Inspector Dobbs cheeks, and he made a rush job of blowing the kiss back. “I’ll not have her exposed to unnecessary risks.”

“Okay,” said Bert. He couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. How could a midget woman and a bunch of kids put such a fright into people? “I’ll go first thing in the morning. You lot must have scared the poor woman half to death. But what makes you think she’ll open her door to me? I scare the crap out of people.”

“I know,” said Florence. She tore the glittering badge from her cardigan and passed it to Bert. “Take this and say I vouch for you. Once people get to know you, they find you're the sweetest creature on Earth.”
*
Next morning, on a grey and drizzly day that kept most people snuggled between their sheets, Bert trundled to the stable with his two Alsatians to tend his horse, Big Foot. The stable owner sold it to Bert at a favourable price because it was so cantankerous it wouldn’t let anybody near it, let alone ride it.

Big Foot was one of the stable owner’s experiments. He crossed a cold-blooded carthorse with a hot-blooded Arabian. He hoped the result would be a warm-blooded workhorse, but ended with a hot-blooded stallion that weighed just over a ton and towered two metres tall.

Despite Bert’s fierce appearance, children and animals adored him, and Bert was so big and heavy that Big Foot was the only horse strong enough to carry him. To everyone’s astonishment, the two unredeemable souls bonded at first meeting.

After tethering Big Foot outside number three Flintstone Terrace, and commanding his Chums to stay put and wait for him, Bert tapped on his new neighbour’s front door. He reckoned they must be in, because he could see the curious light everyone talked about, throbbing behind the curtains. The stark light, like the full moon on a frosty night, faded and grew in the same rhythm as a person in deep sleep.

Florence hadn’t mentioned they had luggage or bags with them. Did they have food? If not, Bert had plenty he could share. After one more unresponsive knock, he trundled around to the rear of Flintstone Terrace and entered the back lane. The lane ran parallel to the houses, their gardens on the lane's other side. Lawn covered all of number three’s garden, making it easy for the tenant to keep tidy.

The three houses' backyards were also similar: a row of bunkers for coal and coke along one side, an outside toilet and an entrance to the kitchen on the other. Like his own house at number one, this kitchen door only had a latch and a bolt on the inside to hold it locked. Tentatively, Bert tried the latch. It lifted, and the bolt was clear, so he pushed the door open and called. “Cooey, it’s only me, Bert, your friendly neighbour. Can I come in?”

The sound of whimpering greeted Bert, and when they still didn’t answer, he stepped inside. From the kitchen, he crept across the living room and into the front room. In a corner, huddled beneath the window, he found the group.

The minuscule woman stared at him as if the devil confronted her. Her eyes were placed far apart on each side of her head and had a broad nose-bridge between them. They moved in different directions, and the pupils weren’t round, but oval, like a goat’s. A curly mop of grey hair partially covered two bony nubs on her prominent forehead. Her mouth and jaws were more or less normal.

Bert counted twelve children. The woman clutched her arms around two of them, their faces buried in her chest. The others hid behind her back, crying, not daring to look at him.

The only furniture in the room was a three-piece suite and a sideboard. The object that emitted the curious light lay in the middle of the carpeted floor. About the size of a shoebox, it reminded Bert of the inside workings of an old-fashioned wind-up clock. Instead of springs, cogs and spindles trapped between two metal plates, microchips floated, as if suspended in a purple gooey liquid that throbbed with a million points of light.

Bert raised his palms to show he meant no harm, but the woman screeched at him in a language he’d never heard before, Arabic maybe, spoken backwards.

Worried the poor woman might blow a fuse, Bert found the badge Florence had given him and slapped it on his breast. The badge had no pin, but its backside was rough like Velcro, and it stuck tight to his T-shirt.

A jumble of noises rattled through his brain, like listening to a party political debate played too fast and cymbals crashing every so often. Then, behind the noise, he realised the woman spoke English to him. He shook his head to clear it and listened.

“Don’t kill us. We mean no Harm. I broke my doodad, or we’d leave.”

“I’m here to help,” said Bert. “I ain’t going to hurt you.” He pointed to the flashing contraption on the carpet. “Is that the doodad you mean?”

“Yes. We’re marooned in this hellhole world forever.”

Bert stopped breathing. “This world?”

“Haven’t you savages heard of other worlds?”

“You mean like a home for dwarfs with Down’s syndrome?”

“No, I mean like other inhabited planets out in the universe.”

“Some people believe, but most don’t.” Bert shuffled his feet and scratched his backside. “I’m one of those who believe.”

The woman cried again. “Worse and worse. Oh, if only we hadn’t come.”

“Well, why did you?”

“To escape the Guardian. But this world is no safer. You are a race of fierce, egoistic beasts who kill animals for their meat.”
 
Part 07:
In this post: The gullet of a black snake confronts Bert.…
 
It occurred to Bert the woman might be a loony, escaped from an asylum somewhere. Time to phone Florence for help; she possessed almost as much gumption as his best friend, Alf. "When did you last eat?" he asked as he plucked his smartphone from his back pocket.

The woman flinched and drew her children to her breast. "Don't shoot," she whimpered. "We're so small, there’s hardly any meat on us."

Bert scratched his head. No doubt. Loony. "This is a phone," he explained, drawing the words out and holding it to his ear to demonstrate. "I'm going to call for help."

A wave of relief washed over the woman’s face, but only enough to give her the courage to speak calmer. "A phone. Can I see it?"

"Yeah. Take a look. It's harmless." He held it at arm's length and the woman snatched it from his hand. "Hey," he said, "Don't do that." But it was too late. She tore the back cover from the phone, ripped out the battery, prodded at its workings with what resembled a crochet hook until her palm contained a jumble of fragments.

"It weren't a gun," said Bert, dejectedly. "You didn't have to ruin it, and if you didn't want me to call for help, all you had to do was to say."

The woman didn't answer. Instead, she sifted through the bits as if hunting for lice. Then she pinched up one black piece, dumped the rest of his ruined phone on the carpet, and picked up the doodad. With the doodad in one hand and the part from his phone in the other, she slipped the part into the doodad. Immediately, the gadget's lights stopped throbbing. With a jubilant cheer, the woman bounced to her feet and clapped her hands. "It works," she said.

"What works?"

"Can't you see? The doodad. We can go home to our own world."

The children danced and pranced with as much boisterousness as a pack of excited Billy Goats.

"Wait and watch," said the woman. Bouncing from foot to foot, eyes gleaming, she placed the gadget back on the floor.

Without warning, the air above it warped, like a heat haze, even though the room was freezing. Looking into the haze was like peering into a fire while daydreaming. Only there were no flames, just the vague impression of a black hole.

Bert stared at the patch of distorted air. It grew larger and more distinct, and he spotted odd translucent shapes eddying within it. A dull pressure made his ears ache, and a drop of sweat slid down the hollow of his throat, leaving a cold track.

The hazy hole had no outer boundary; it simply hung in midair, the entrance to a tunnel leading to an unearthly distance. Every muscle in Bert's body seized, pressure built in his ears, and the hiss of piercing static made his teeth cringe. The tunnel's depth pulsed like a black gulping throat, and the static hiss grew louder, wavering in pitch.

"Come," said the woman, suddenly by his side and tugging on his hand. "Come with us."

"Where?"

"To our world."

Bert, still hypnotised by the tunnel and fascinated by the notion of other worlds, staggered along beside her. They stepped inside, its depths shrinking and widening like the gullet of a black snake.
 
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 ​thedigitalartist 

If you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, 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.
 
#4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Previously from posts 02 - 05…
 
A knock at the front door made them both turn. “Come in,” called Bert, even though it was Olive’s house. “It ain’t locked.”

"Are your dogs in there?"

Bert recognised Chief Inspector Dobbs voice calling through the letterbox. Everyone was frightened of his two Alsatians, even though they'd never tear anybody's throat out unless he commanded them to. "No, me Chums are out back."

The door opened straight into the snug lounge. Three people stepped inside, each stopping to wipe their shoes on the Welcome mat: Vicar Bitter in his two-piece black suit and dog collar; Chief Inspector Dobbs in his yellow pullover and baggy trousers with turn-ups; and his wife, Florence, plump and younger-looking than her fifty-something years.

Their faces looked grave, and Bert wondered what he’d done wrong now. The last time they ganged up on him was to accuse him of being a pickpocket. In his youth, he had been, but not these days. These days he worked at the Cloud Estate as a security guard, and despite his brutal appearance, was mostly a model law-abiding citizen.

Olive lifted a pile of blankets and overstuffed cushions from the settee and dumped them on the floor. “Take a seat.”

Florence nodded a greeting, bustled past her into the adjoining dining room, and sat at the table next to Bert. He shifted his bulk to give her room. The others followed and settled on the table's opposite side.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” said Olive, and headed for the kitchen. “I can’t guess why you’ve come, but from the look of you, it must be something juicy. Don’t start until I get back.”

With a pot of tea on the table and a plate piled with Bert’s favourite cream eclairs in the centre, Olive dropped into the only remaining seat. “I’m ready. Bert, you can pour the tea.”

The cups and saucers looked like doll’s toys in his oversized mitts, but before he got as far as pouring the tea, Florence smacked the back of his hand and took over.

Chief Inspector Dobbs drummed his fingers and then spoke up. “Your new neighbours are causing concern in the local community. I think they are criminals. Dealers in drugs or child smuggling. Perhaps both.”

“My concerns are far worse than yours,” said Vicar Bitter, his layers of chins wobbling as he spoke. “They have horns, and I fear they worship Satan. Strange lights come from their windows all night long, and a teenager listened through their letterbox and claimed they were talking backwards.”

Olive gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. Bert kept his eyes on the eclairs; he’d already selected the biggest.

“You’re both being silly,” said Florence. She lifted the teapot’s lid and gave the brew a stir. “I’m the only one who’s spoken to them and they’re charming people. See here, the lady gave me a badge.” She pointed to a disc on her hand-knitted cardigan, about the size of a coin. It glistened like a cat’s eye, glittering with all the colours of the rainbow as she wiggled it. “I met them on the street late at night and the lady told me she was homeless. She had twelve children with her, none over four or five years old. I went straight to Mr Styles and got the keys for number three.”

“Did you go in with her?” asked Olive.

“No, I didn’t. But she was grateful.”

“What did she look like?”

“It was dark. Difficult to see. She was small, a dwarf I would say.”

Chief Inspector Dobbs coughed behind a clenched fist and plucked the eclair Bert had his eye on. “You and Olive,” he said to Bert, “are their closest neighbour. You can do us all a favour, Bert, by keeping a watch on them. Go and visit, check them out, and report to me.”

“You want me to spy on her?” said Bert. He didn’t like the sound of that. If people wanted their privacy, that’s how it should be. What business was it of any other?

“Yes, as much for her own safety as anything else. Everybody in the hamlet has taken a disliking to her and her kids. Some of the older youths have thrown stones at her house, and adults are talking about setting fire to it.”

That changed matters for Bert. One goings-on he couldn’t stand was mobbing and bullying. If he caught anyone throwing stones at her house, he’d break their wrist. If anyone so much as lit a cigarette in front of her house, he’d ram the whole packet down their throat. “Why can’t you go?”

“The vicar and me went to her house before coming here, but she didn’t answer the door. I know she’s in there because she peeked at us from behind the curtain.”

“What about Florence? Seeing as she’s already spoken to them, why can’t she go?”

“Because,” said Florence, passing the cups of tea around and helping herself to the next biggest eclair, “the silly man thinks it’s too dangerous.” She blew her husband a kiss.

A flush crept across Chief Inspector Dobbs cheeks, and he made a rush job of blowing the kiss back. “I’ll not have her exposed to unnecessary risks.”

“Okay,” said Bert. He couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. How could a midget woman and a bunch of kids put such a fright into people? “I’ll go first thing in the morning. You lot must have scared the poor woman half to death. But what makes you think she’ll open her door to me? I scare the crap out of people.”

“I know,” said Florence. She tore the glittering badge from her cardigan and passed it to Bert. “Take this and say I vouch for you. Once people get to know you, you're the sweetest creature on Earth.”

*
Next morning, on a grey and drizzly day that kept most people snuggled between their sheets, Bert trundled to the stable with his two Alsatians to tend his horse, Big Foot. The stable owner gave it to Bert at a favourable price because it was so cantankerous it wouldn’t let anybody near it, let alone ride it.

Big Foot was one of the stable owner’s experiments. He crossed a cold-blooded carthorse with a hot-blooded Arabian. He hoped the result would be a warm-blooded workhorse, but ended with a hot-blooded stallion that weighed just over a ton and towered two metres tall.

Despite Bert’s fierce appearance, children and animals adored him, and Bert was so big and heavy that Big Foot was the only horse strong enough to carry him. To everyone’s astonishment, the two unredeemable souls bonded at first meeting.

After tethering Big Foot outside number three Flintstone Terrace, and commanding his Chums to stay put and wait for him, Bert tapped on his neighbour’s front door. They must be in, because he could see a curious light behind the curtains. The stark light, like the full moon on a frosty night, faded and grew in the same rhythm as a person in deep sleep.

Florence hadn’t mentioned they had luggage or bags with them. Did they have food? If not, Bert had plenty he could share. After one more unresponsive knock, he trundled around to the rear of Flintstone Terrace and entered the back lane. The lane ran parallel to the houses, their gardens on the lane's other side. Number three’s garden comprised of lawn, making it easy for the tenant to keep tidy.

The three houses' backyards were also similar: a row of bunkers for coal and coke along one side, an outside toilet and an entrance to the kitchen on the other. Like his own house at number one, this kitchen door only had a latch and a bolt on the inside to hold it locked. Tentatively, Bert tried the latch. It lifted, and the bolt was clear, so he pushed the door open and called. “Cooey, it’s only me, Bert, your friendly neighbour. Can I come in?”
 
Part 06:
In this post: Bert visits his neighbours. They resemble goats…
 
The sound of whimpering greeted Bert, and when they still didn’t answer, he stepped inside. From the kitchen, he crept into the living room. Nobody. From there into the front room. In a corner, huddled beneath the window, he found the group.

The minuscule woman stared at him with eyes placed far apart on each side of her head and a broad nose-bridge between them. Her eyes moved in different directions, and the pupils weren’t round, but oval, like a goat’s. A curly mop of grey hair partially covered two bony nubs on her prominent forehead. Her mouth and jaws were more or less normal.

Bert counted twelve children. The woman clutched her arms around two of them, their faces buried in her chest. The others hid behind her back, crying, not daring to look at Bert.

The only furniture in the room was a three-piece suite and a sideboard. The object that emitted the curious light lay in the middle of the carpeted floor. About the size of a shoebox, it reminded Bert of the inside workings of an old-fashioned wind-up clock. Instead of springs, cogs and spindles trapped between two metal plates, microchips floated, as if suspended in a purple gooey liquid that throbbed with a million points of light.

Bert raised his palms to show he meant no harm, but the woman screeched at him in a language he’d never heard before, Arabic maybe, spoken backwards.

Worried the poor woman might blow a fuse, Bert found the badge Florence had given him and slapped it on his breast. The badge had no pin, but its backside was rough like Velcro, and it stuck tight to his T-shirt.

A jumble of noises rattled through his brain, like listening to a party political debate played too fast and cymbals crashing every so often. Then, behind the noise, he realised the woman spoke English to him. He shook his head to clear it and listened.

“Don’t kill us. We mean no Harm. I broke my doodad, or we’d leave.”

“I’m here to help,” said Bert. “I ain’t going to hurt you.” He pointed to the flashing contraption on the carpet. “Is that the doodad you mean?”

“Yes. We’re marooned in this hellhole world forever.”

Bert stopped breathing. “This world?”

“Haven’t you savages heard of other worlds?”

“You mean like a home for dwarfs with Down’s syndrome?”

“No, I mean like other inhabited planets out in the universe.”

“Some people believe, but most don’t.” Bert shuffled his feet and scratched his backside. “I’m one of those who believe.”

The woman cried again. “Worse and worse. Oh, if only we hadn’t come.”

“Well, why did you?”

“To escape the Guardian. But this world is no safer. You are a fierce, egoistic race who kill animals for their meat.”
 
To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
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Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
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