Bert felt jealous, cheated on, and blue. Then he discovered he could morph into a giant nightmarish slug...
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On Wednesdays and Sundays I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ novellas. You can check in regularly and read them bit for bit, or leave a message in my 'contact' page, and I'll send the entire digital story to you for free when published.
Life in the Clouds #6: Take a Slug ® James Field.
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.
Life in the Clouds #4: Evil Portent ® James Field.
Previously from posts 38 - 41…
Bigfoot nuzzled Bert’s neck. “Ain’t you let anyone close enough to take you back to the stable?” said Bert. He reached into his pocket for his phone and then recalled how the Alien Mother had smashed it for parts to repair the Doodad.
Now he’d have to borrow Olive’s phone to find out why his best mate Alf hadn’t looked after his pets. That's if she could find it, or the battery wasn't flat like normal, or she hadn't dropped it in the bath again. He wondered what Olive had been up to while he’d been away. Most likely taken the opportunity to go off flirting. But then he noticed her back door slightly open, a sure sign she was up and about.
Bert hugged Bigfoot’s neck and whispered in his ear. “Sorry I’ve been gone for so long. It won’t happen again. I love you, mate.”
To his astonishment, his horse said, “I love you too, mate.” Bert shook his head. The journey between planets must have jangled his brain.
The Alien Father reached out and stroked Bigfoot’s knee.
“Don’t he scare you?” said Bert, eyebrows raised. Hardly anyone was brave enough to touch his horse, and his horse seldom allowed anybody to approach him.
“He’s like me, a grazer, a hunted animal, but so proud, so strong.”
“Yeah, he’s a good friend,” said Bert. "So are you, and I don't eat my friends. We'll soon have you just as strong as Bigfoot." He waggled a finger in his ear. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen a horse. We’ve got loads of animals here on Earth. Come inside and meet me Chums.”
“Yeah, me Alsatians. Two little fluff balls. They’re dogs. Can’t understand why, but nobody likes them either.”
Bert's Alsatians sniffed him suspiciously. “Where’ve you been, Boss? Where’ve you been?” he heard them say. “You smell funny. Take us with you next time, we’ll protect you. Who’s that with you? Shall we kill him?”
Bert shook his head again and wondered how long it would take before his brain settled. “This is my friend.” He reached behind his back and yanked the Alien Father into view. “Say hello to him-nicely!” His Chums moved closer to the Alien Father, sniffed at the strange little creature, and growled deep in their throats.
“They’re meat-eaters,” said the Alien Father. He scrunched his eyes shut and was so rigid he trembled.
“Tasty!” said Bert’s Chums.
“Out of bounds,” said Bert. “Go to your corner and don’t even look at him.”
They slinked off, ears plastered flat against their heads.
Bert pulled the Alien Father with him into the lounge. Two bulky-stuffed armchairs squatted on each side of the open fire, and a well-cushioned settee stretched along the furthest wall. A light beige carpet covered the floor. Sitting on the mantelpiece, a clock ticked lazily, and above that on the chimney breast hung a large picture of an angel with tears in her eyes. Dogs’ hairs coated everything.
An even bigger surprise greeted Bert. Someone had lit his fire and the logs blazed cheerfully, just like when he’d hurried away to visit the newcomer dwarf at number three all those days ago.
“Sit in that armchair next to the fire and warm yourself,” said Bert. “Olive’s been here, bless her. Put the Doodad by your feet where it’s safe. We don’t want Olive tinkering with it.” He gave a little wink. "Women!"
Bert nudged his chair closer to the warmth and threw in two logs. The Alien Father tugged and pushed his armchair, but he was too weak to budge it. So Bert reached across, dragged it for him, and scooted him into the cushions head first. “And now,” said Bert, rubbing his hands, “I’m going to make you my ‘Piss De Resistant.’ “
While the alien father toasted his hands, Bert set about making his special porridge. He found a large basin and dumped in one giant mug of oat-based instant-breakfast cereal and three mugs of energy protein powder. It needed one full bottle of vodka to mix it into a thin gruel. Then he added an eggcup of salt, a teacup of sugar, and a tin of Popeye spinach. Three minutes in the microwave made it pleasantly warm and thick.
He carried the porridge, two cereal bowls, two spoons, and a jar of honey back into the lounge and set them on the floor between the armchairs. After making himself comfortable, he spooned porridge into one bowl, smothered it in honey, raisins and sliced banana, and handed it to the Alien Father. Then he filled his own dish.
The Alien Father dipped the tip of his spoon into the porridge and tasted it carefully. Bert watched with keen attention; his own spoonful halted in front of his mouth. The Alien Father’s eyebrows shot up and a smile exploded across his face. “This is good,” he said and spooned porridge as if he hadn’t eaten for a week.
Happy that his experiment worked out so well, Bert gobbled his bowlful. To his surprise, the Alien Father ate his just as fast. Bert refilled both bowls. Compared to the bamboo tips porridge he’d choked on lately, his own creation was heaven. When he reached to fill the bowls for a third time, he saw the Alien Father had fallen asleep, his dish and spoon nestled on his swollen belly. Reckoning his alien friend wouldn’t want more, Bert finished the rest, eating straight from the basin.
Two minutes later, stomach full, head spinning, comfy and warm in front of the fire, the threat of the Guardians forgotten, Bert fell asleep too.
In the adjoining house next to Bert, Olive finished her fifth cup of tea and yawned. Today, she’d set her alarm to ring at nine in the morning: the middle of the night! She wasn’t an early riser like her fiancé, Bert, and she wasn’t a nosy person either, but she fidgeted to learn what Bert had found out about the dwarfs at number three.
After she’d showered and applied her make-up, she’d opened the back door of her house. Bert would then realise she was up, and come in to tell her his news. She’d noticed his horse parked outside his house, so she knew he was there.
Olive wasn’t keen on animals, and she’d never had a pet. Bert’s Alsatians and his horse frightened the life out of her, especially the stallion: big docile man and his bigger wild horse. Sometimes, she thought Bert loved his animals more than he loved her. God knows he spent more time with his pets than with her.
By now, it was noon, her normal waking time. In another hour and she’d have to leave for work, sorting The Stable’s financial books. She pounded her fist against the kitchen table, making her teacup and saucer jump. Why hadn’t Bert come with his gossip?
Frustration kicked in, and she dumped her cup and saucer in the stone sink so carelessly the cup’s handle snapped off. A wave of fury crashed through her. Since Bert was so selfish and uncaring that he didn’t see fit to pop in, then she’d visit him. And she’d make sure the big lout regretted the day he was born.
In this post: Green manicured fingernails…
Not daring to go near the horse, and knowing Bert kept his ferocious dogs in the living room, Olive burst into Bert’s house by the front door. Without knocking, she stormed straight into the lounge. The air stunk of alcohol and Bert’s deep snoring made her wish she wore earplugs. He slouched in his favourite armchair, arms dangling over the rests, feet almost in the fire that still glowed warmly.
In the opposite chair slept a dwarf. He was tiny, but had muscles like a bodybuilder, straining against his clothes so tightly she marvelled at how he’d ever put them on. Between them on the floor was a gadget that pulsed with a dull glow.
Olive’s lips thinned. Momentarily fascinated, she plucked the gadget up for a closer look. It was about the size of a sandwich box, made up of two metal plates sandwiching an inch thick layer of jelly. Inside the jelly floated odd-shaped bits and pieces, some of them glowing faintly in various colours, swimming around like miniature fish.
She thought it would look perfect in her bathroom, alongside the candles and glass of wine, glimmering in all those gorgeous colours while she meditated in the bath. So she tossed it on the sideboard close to the door. On her way out, she’d take it with her.
“Wake up, you fat pig,” she screamed at Bert. He smiled and grunted, but didn’t wake. The dwarf, however, did. My God, he seemed drunk, because his two eyes rotated in all directions and he spoke some gibberish that sounded like backwards Arabian.
Ignoring him, she bent over Bert and prised his eyelids open with her green-manicured fingernails. “Wake up. What’s going on here? Why haven’t you come to my house? Who’s this?”
To be continued…
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The Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman
My rating: 2 of 5 stars
There’s a lot to like and a lot to dislike in this story. I like that it’s cosy, funny, and heart-warming. The plot, however, is a tragedy. There are two murders, and every character in the book, of which there are many, has a motif. With so many twists, turns, and red herrings throughout the narrative, it lost me in a virtual maze.
But the author commits the gravest crime: he introduces a new, guilty character right at the end of the story. Tut, tut, naughty.
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