Weird Stuff
Fantasy. Horror. Science Fiction. The surreal, the uncategorizable.
You’ll find them all here, in Weird Stuff.
Just so you know
- these pieces tend to be a little longer.
Not the End of the World
‘(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace,
Love and Understanding?’ was on the radio
When the flying saucer landed
In the field round the back of our house
A ramp unfurled under the craft like a rug
Crushed the wheat beneath it with a whisper
Impossibly tall, beautiful, bright blue people
Catwalked down like models at a fashion show
With lean-limbed ease, hairless as plastic toys
Manga cartoon eyes - and the confidence of
A centuries-old civilisation
Clearly, this was not their first
First contact
The DJ picked ‘Oh! You Pretty Things’ next
As Dad introduced himself and asked them if
They fancied a cup of tea or perhaps a pint
Down the Old Reunion Bar - maybe they could
Tell a story or two - he was sure they would
Have people queuing up to listen to them
But he did have a further question:
‘Not casting aspersions or owt
And it’s really flattering
That you chose us but
How come you’re not hob-nobbing
With the elites in the seat
Of government down south?
As ‘Walk on the Wild Side’ started
Over the airwaves, the impossibly tallest one
Bent a blue head towards my Dad
And without moving their lips
Told him ‘Our policy has evolved
Over many of your millennia
We never seek out the leaders first –
People like you know what’s happening.’
Dad couldn’t hide his glee – this was
What he’d been waiting for
As far back as he could remember.
‘This Town Ain’t Big Enough for Both of Us’
Was playing as Dad gave forth, in great detail
Paragraph, chapter and verse concerning
Everything he felt was wrong with our world.
The impossibly tall, beautiful, bright blue people
Folded themselves up at his feet and listened
And when he was finished, scarlet-faced
The impossibly tallest one stood up
Said something to Dad without making a soundm
And from nowhere appeared in their hand
A small, shiny black box
Topped by an equally shiny
Red button.
‘Imagine’ was the last track I remember hearing
As the impossibly tall, beautiful, bright blue people
Catwalked back up into their flying saucer
The ramp rolled back up like a butterfly’s tongue
And they zipped off silently at unfeasible speed
Leaving a perfect circle in the crops
In the field round the back of our house
Leaving Dad, looking up, and clutched in his hand
A small, shiny black box
Topped by an equally shiny
Red button.
Dad turned the radio off as they left
And made me promise I wouldn’t ever
Say anything to anyone about what
Had happened that night. He said:
‘They told me pressing this button
Will fix things forever – and who on earth
Would want that responsibility?’
Next day, Dad and me went into town
Rented a locker in one of those
Self-storage places, left the button in it
Chucked the key in what Mum called
‘the man drawer’
And never mentioned it again.
So, anyway, I was clearing out
My Dad’s stuff from our old house
And I hadn’t thought about what
Happened that night in so long
(Mainly because I thought I might
Have imagined it) – and in the man drawer
Together with all the odd screws
Accumulated Allen keys, rubber bands,
Picture hooks, paper clips, dead batteries
And all the things that might come in handy
There was a key to a locker
In one of those self-storage places.
Well, what would you do?
Falling Out With An Imaginary Friend
Jonathan had been alive
For three, maybe four years
When he fell out with Bixie
His imaginary friend
With a blue face and pointy ears
See, Bixie wouldn’t eat his broccoli
And tempers were lost
There were screams and tantrums
And Bixie stormed off at the end
Pointy ears flat against his head
Slamming every door as he went
Jonathan was incandescent, then distraught
Then inconsolable: it was all his fault
Suddenly he had a terrible thought
What if Bixie never came back?
And Mum smiled and said:
‘Would that be so awfully bad?
Maybe your room would be tidier
All the Lego might stay in its box
And you wouldn’t keep losing your socks…
Now, eat your broccoli
There’s a good lad.’
Jonathan got older, started school
Learned stuff, played games, made real friends
Practically forgot about Bixie
But this is not where the story ends
One time when the sky went dark and stormy
Jonathan ran in like the wind
Eager for wet playtime
To tease the dinner ladies
And laugh unbridled at cartoons in the hall
But he spied at the other end of the corridor
Blue face pressed up against the graph paper glass
Of Miss Washington’s classroom door
Fingers lizard splayed, eyes popping full of ire
Was it a trick of the light?
Somebody’s birthday balloon
Helium high and bobbing angrily in the breeze
Or was it Bixie the Broccoli Boy?
On the corner of the crescent
Skateboard leaning against a road sign
One foot on the low garden wall
Elbow on knee, chin on palm
Bixie is watching
In the thick of the miasmic mass of pupils
Milling and mewling and screaming and streaming
Into bland form rooms to scrap with tweedy teachers
Or duck under fast flying board rubbers
In the thick of all that comprehensive school chaos
With a dirty shirt and a tie skew-whiff
Tight as Isadora Duncan’s fatal scarf
Bixie is slowly closing in
In the concrete quadrangle at uni
Where pale and interesting goth teens
Listen disinterested to grey-jacketed bores
With unread copies of Sartre’s Nausea
Peeping out of their pockets
Where Jonathan sits reading Psychology Today
With his stinky egg mayonnaise sandwiches
In a tiffin tin his grey-haired mother bought
And sitting a person away
Unnoticed by his fellow students
Bixie is waiting for his old friend to look up
Which he does
And he recoils
Too late
As Bixie looms large
His grinning face a malevolent blue balloon
And they touch
And they both wink out of existence.
Grandma
The Door Opened
Suddenly, and the salesman’s shoed hoof
Squirmed into the space
Between the stile and the jamb
‘I know you thought the pitch was over,’
He said, shimmying through the gap
Shiny suit shimmering
‘But I couldn’t allow you to miss
This golden opportunity.’
She couldn’t recall having had
Any sort of exchange with this weirdo
Never mind a pitch - and she was
Just about to threaten him with
The cops, or the authorities, or just violence
When Grandma bustled in
And offered the salesman
A nice cup of tea.
He’s been camped out on the settee
For weeks now - and she still doesn’t
Have a clue what he’s selling
She should have slammed the door
On his foot. But that would have upset Grandma
And everyone in the house knows
Whatever you do
You don’t upset Grandma.
The Phone Rang
And Grandma answered
She handed the handset to
The shiny-suited salesman on the settee
Said ‘It’s for you-hoo!’ And stepped back
Big-eyed and sharp-toothed
As he visibly paled, physically shuddered
Shouldered his way out of the front door
Straight into the path of an oncoming juggernaut
Which stopped, eventually.
‘The speaking clock told him it was
Time to go.’ Grandma grinned
And wolfed down a Bath bun.
‘Now, who fancies a game of cribbage?’
Grandma’s Footsteps
In the daytime
You’re struck by her surprising speed
Puts you in mind of the tortoises
You saw on holiday one time
Ambling across a hot yard
Take your eyes off one for a moment
Look back and blimey! They’re in your face
Just like Grandma
It’s funny
In daylight
But at night
Moonless, cloudless, when the stars are hiding
And streetlights have given up
Trying to brighten the road
Her speed isn’t just surprising
It’s shocking, disturbing, unreal
The last thing you want is for
Grandma’s footsteps to stop
Outside your door
Not funny
Not at night
Flaming Torches and Pitchforks
At first it was the odd pet that went missing
The odd kid crying here and there
About the rabbit that somehow escaped
Or the family cat that suddenly took off
So, no big deal, and it was like no-one
Noticed how many A4 posters of beloved
Bingos and Rovers and Pussumses
Were sellotaped to lampposts and telegraph poles
Up and down our street
But then it was the kids that went missing
And it was the parents that were weeping
As they buttonholed everyone in the neighbourhood
With photographs of their beloved boys and girls
Who had vanished as if they had never been
But there were mutterings and whispers
And tales of disappeared lodgers and
That awful business with the salesman
Mown down running from Grandma
At the end of the old horror films
The villagers chase after the monster
With flaming torches and pitchforks
But with Grandma it was blues and twos
Sirens blaring at the front and in the back yard
They weren’t prepared for her mesmeric eyes
Her razor sharp teeth and scimitar claws
She went through a dozen bobbies before
The sniper took her down
I did not make this up
This tale was told to me
On a blue boat, becalmed
On an alkaline crater lake
Near the equator in Ecuador
With slate-coloured coots
Bobbing for breakfast
Between rustling reeds
Girdling a steeply-risen
Lava loaf of an island
Home to diffident deer
Rabbity rabbits
And according to local legend
The Great Golden Guinea Pig
The Legend of the Great Golden Guinea Pig
Here’s the thing: if you happen
To spy the Great Golden Guinea Pig
Glinting like dropped Eldorado change
Through the island’s tight undergrowth
It will hold its tiny human hands up
It will grant your hammering heart’s desire
Whatever that may be
But
If the Great Golden Guinea Pig
Should rear above the islet’s
Thickset boskage, and spy
You with its auspicious eyes
Then you have to stay
Become maybe a silver grebe
Diving for tasty weeds
Dodging the sulfurous bubbles
Bullying up through the blue
From the caldera’s active guts
Sink into the drink
Become one with the lakelife
Forever
Which is best, do you think?
Untold affluence
Or
Being the balance?
I mean, in this selfish world
Nobody in their right mind
Would disclose the location
Of the Great Golden Guinea Pig
And nobody could say a word
If the Pig saw them first
All I know is
That day
I never saw so much
As a twinkle
In that endless inland sea
And as true as I’m
Facing you right now
The Great Golden Guinea Pig
Never spotted me.
Little Brown Bag
You see this little brown bag?
Feel the soft nap of the outside
The silky smoothness on the inside
Perfectly constructed, just… right
Looks perfectly normal, doesn’t it’
But…
What if I told you
This bag had certain…
Properties?
You see, this bag can end things.
Arguments?
You’re having a row with your
Partner, significant other, lover, whatever
And you know you’re in the wrong,
You’re collecting no prizes.
You know there’s no way you’re going to win -
You know that feeling? Not brilliant is it?
No! Of course it isn’t!
But what if you could capture that argument
In this little brown bag
Pull the drawstring tight and…
End it.
And you and your other half never have
A cross word together again
(You might finish a crossword together though.
That’s a different puzzle).
Meetings.
We all hate meetings, don’t we?
If a meeting can start without you
You don’t need to be there -
Agreed?
We spend more time in meetings than we do
Working
So why not slip those meetings into this
Little brown bag,
Pull the drawstring and:
Bingo!
No more meetings!
What about that doctor’s appointment
You’re not looking forward to?
That confession you’d prefer not to make?
The hospital visit you could do without?
That awful one-to-one you’ve been dreading?
That confrontation you’ve been avoiding?
The funeral you’d rather not attend?
All these dire, dreadful, horrible, heinous, appalling
Abominable events can just pop into the
Little brown bag
Pull the drawstring
Yeah, yeah - you’ve got the idea…
But
Bear this in mind
And this is not a cute little Paddington~type,
Snuffly black-button nosed little Peruvian
Michael Bond bear.
Oh no.
This is a grisly, grizzly, twenty-two foot
Pinesmashing clawfest of a man-eating bear
In your mind
Just so you don’t forget
It’s clearly pretty damned important
If you put all these bad, mad, negative thing
In this
- yes! I’m going to say it -
Magical - little brown bag
You’re only going to have
Positive things happening in your life.
Here’s a question:
Is that a good thing?
I don’t know
But I’m pretty sure
That little brown bag’s going to get heavier
And heavier
With all that detritus
That accumulated
Darkness, badness
The stuff you’ve done your best
To avoid.
Wow
That bag is going to get much
Heavier.
This is probably not a good thing
Because
Into every life
A little rain must fall
Otherwise
How on earth
Are all the flowers
Going to grow?
So what you going to do
With that unfeasibly
Not so little brown bag?
You’re joking, aren’t you?
Good heavens, as if I’d want it back!
You touched it last.
It’s your bag, baby
And
Mind that drawstring
It’s not as strong as it was
At the beginning
Oh.
Oh dear.
That’s terribly messy.
What are you going to do
About that?
The View
The View from Her Room
That morning
As she drew back
The heavy living room curtains
In their post-war, two-up, two down
On the unfashionable outskirts
Of a nondescript northern town
She was confronted
Not by a drizzle-wet queue
Of overcoated pensioners grumbling
Over the average lateness
Of the number nine bus
But by a vision of
Ethereal reds, oranges and golds
Illuminating the front room with
The dying fire of
A stunning late evening vista
Filling each pane with splendour
So she closed the curtains
Quick sharp
Breathed
Then slowly
Pulled one drape
To the left
Then the other to the right
And bingo!
A ragged line of damp old biddies
Were arguing bus times
All was as it should be
She dreamt of the sunset
That night, though.
The View From The Miradouro
That night
Zé and his amigos
Drove up the unhelpful dirt road
To the ridged spine of the Serra
Highest hill in the area
In anticipation of watching
The sun disappear, molten, into the land
Framed by the glassless window
In the roofless room of the viewpoint,
The lookout, the miradouro
Like they did most summer Saturdays.
But that night
Zé felt cold rain on his face
From a cloudless August sky
Nobody but he saw panes
Weeping tears of drizzle
In the glassless window
And behind all this
A sad-eyed woman
Pulled first one curtain to the centre
Then the other
And uau!
She was gone
Replaced by a stunning sunset vista
All was as it should be
Zé woke next morning
With her sad eyes in his mind still.
The View From Elsewhere
He was experiencing -
What was he experiencing?
Maybe a crossover
A meeting of visions
He spent a few nights
Up on the spine of the Serra
Watching her as she closed the curtains
But each night it was both
The same and different
And there was a connection
He knew they had to meet.
And she was seeing -
What was she seeing?
One day it was the most
Spectacular sunset
Another day it was a herd
Of Houdini sheep
Always finding a way out
Always gambolling home
Full of a neighbour’s herbs
But never sad to return
And in the magical cinema
Of her living room window
She saw mountains and snow
And sea and fields like
Animated maps
And cloud cover from far above
Not real but she knew
It was real
And it was as it should be
He knew her face
She was seeing his journey.
The View From The Hedge
And so one morning
On the unfashionable outskirts
Of a nondescript northern town
Zé stood, shivering and slightly damp
In his too-thin for this climate
Portuguese summer clothes
Outside a two-up, two-down terrace
Staring over the privet
At the sad-eyed woman
(Now wide-eyed) that he’d watched
Summer sunset after summer sunset
Through the glassless window
Of the roofless room
On the spine of the Serra.
They stood for a while
On either side of the glass
And all was as it should be
Until she left the window empty
Opened the front door and shouted
Across the small square garden:
‘Who the hell are you?
And why the hell are you staring at me?
Do you want me to call the cops?’
The View, last part
Zé had one question of the sad-eyed woman
Uma boa pergunta:
‘What do you see/ O que se vê
Cada vez que se olha/ Every time you look
Out the window/ Pela janela?’
And without a second thought she answered:
‘I see a sunset like I have never seen here.’
Zé laughed like an old friend, and she laughed, too
‘You see my sunset and I see you, a estrangeira.’
‘You’d better come in,’ she said, ‘But no funny business.’
‘Obrigado - I hope your coffee is better than your weather.’
The sad-eyed woman had one question
It was: what do they do now?
Meanwhile they had coffee in the kitchen
It was better than the weather
But not much.
Anyway
In the living room the curtains were open
And through them they could both see
A different vista, but nowhere they knew
And the sad-eyed woman took Zé’s hand
‘My name’s Sue, so I’m a stranger no more.’
And together, they walked into the sunset.
The Alternative 3 Man
How It Started
My manager disappeared into the stock room
Like Mr Benn’s shopkeeper in reverse
As soon as he spotted
The man in the blue parka
Approaching the counter
Asking for a copy of ‘Alternative 3’
I said I’d seen the programme
‘Very clever’ I grinned. ‘Almost convinced me -
I think we’ve got one or two copies
In Science Fiction.’
The man’s eyes widened in disbelief
Half an hour later
I understood why my manager
Had escaped
And wished I could join him
Having a crafty ciggie
In the back alley
The man in the blue parka
Was convinced that
Far from being a hoax
It was fact disguised as fiction
Masquerading as fact
He bought all the copies we had
And I thought that was it
But he left a flyer on the counter:
ALTERNATIVE 1
DRASTIC DEPOPULATION
I MEAN
REALLY DRASTIC
ALTERNATIVE 2
BUILD BUNKERS
BIG UNDERGROUND BUNKERS
HUNKER DOWN AND WAIT
FOR CLIMATE CHANGE
TO CHANGE
ALTERNATIVE 3
FLY TO MARS
VIA THE MOON
LIVE ON MARS
ESCAPE A DYING EARTH
FOR MORE INFORMATION
PLEASE RING
…And there was a number
The Meeting
In a grimly-slatted prefab village hall
Redolent of unwashed scouts and scout leaders’ feet
Under the uglifying glare of fly-spotted fluorescent strips
Before a sparse but intense audience
The man in the blue parka was transformed
He was a preacher, a teacher, a guru, a sage
He illuminated with flawless conviction
Every scene, every character on every page
Of the novelisation and declared
He was this very night
Able to provide incontrovertible proof
That Alternative 3 was not fantasy, but truth
That there really was a plan for us to travel into the stars
And then he unveiled a vivid red rose
Which he said
Had been cultivated on Mars.
The Book
In a curious reversal
The man in the blue parka
Stood behind a trestle table
Offered me a copy of the book
(One I’d sold him, no doubt)
Insisted I took it
Insisted I read it
Back at the flat
I fell asleep reading my book
Dreamt I was leaving bootprints
In soft red dust
Clutching a rose
Was woken at 6:30 by my
Crimson-eyed radio alarm clock
Blaring out ‘Space Oddity’
On some local radio show
The morning sun was a dirty garnet
The bus was late
And the whole queue
Was looking at me
As I read my book
As if it was my fault
There was a storm approaching
In the caff at work
Nobody sat with me
As I munched on my toast
And strawberry jam
And read my book
As if reading was catching
Ironic in a bookshop
Back at the flat
I fell asleep reading my book
Dreamt I was leaving bootprints
In soft red dust
Clutching a rose
Was woken by a stranger
Smoking a Marlboro
At the foot of my bed
‘We need to talk.’
They said.
Tell Me Everything
Someone confident enough to
Break into your flat
And wait for you to wake up
Is hardly going to be perturbed
If you threaten to call the police
Besides, the phone was in the hall
They could’ve gutted me
Before I sprang from my bed
So I stayed where I was
Duvet clutched under my chin
Like a scared silent movie comedian
Tell me everything, they said
Everything you know
About the man in the blue parka
I suspected I knew less about him
Than my smartly-suited intruder did
But I was a captive performer
So I told them everything
Spared no details
And I passed them an ashtray
And made them a coffee
And we were sitting at
The chipped formica
Kitchenette table
They asked
‘Did you believe him?’
’No,’ I replied
‘But I wanted to.’
‘Of course you did
We’re all looking for something
To believe in
But my people
Would prefer it
If you didn’t.’
Then they reached into my head
And twisted something
And disappeared like smoke
Leaving me with two cold coffees
Something resembling a hangover
And a gap
But a pall of Marlboro
Hung over my room next morning
And the memory of that cigarette
Closed the gap after a while
I rang in sick
Determined to get some answers
From the man in the blue parka.
The Alternative 3 Man (Continued)
Looking For The Man
Surprisingly
The man in the blue parka
Was not difficult to find
In fact
He was hard to avoid
Seems my mystery intruder
Had stolen a few days
When he tried to nick my memories
And in that time
Some freelance journo had picked up the scent
Of what became known as ‘The Rose Incident’
Now he was all over the local media
Like chocolate round a Malteser
But even though his face was everywhere
From billboard to bus stop
Locating him in the flesh
Was a different matter entirely
No matter, as it turned out
In the centre of town
Rumbelows shop window was full of tellies
And the man in the blue parka’s smile
Was filling every one
In black and white and colour
He was publicising a rally
To be held that weekend
I knew
I had to be there.
After the Event
Did it really happen
Because they swear they have proof?
Is it true
Because you believe it to be true?
Did it really happen
Because it was in the papers?
Is it true
Because someone convinced you?
Did it really happen
Because there were pictures?
Is it true
And not some kind of spoof?
Did it really happen?
Because you saw it with you own eyes
And you know what you saw
Is it true?
No matter what anyone else says
You know what you saw
Before The Event
There were queues down the tiered steps
Patient around the pillared hall
All here to witness
The man in the blue parka
Lifting the lid
Telling his truth
Maybe revealing the rose
Or some other Red Planet flora
There were police, polite but firm
But there was nothing for them to see
The smartly-suited person
Standing in the shade
Of a Corinthian column
Was surprised to see me, I’m sure
Hid it well, feigned nonchalance
When I set them straight
The Marlboros had betrayed them
Negated the weird power they wielded
I left them dumbfounded
Blagged a seat right at the front
Ready for the event
For the curtain to rise
The Alternative 3 Man: The Event
The curtain rose
The one consistent thread
Tying the whole show together
Was this
Everyone in the audience
Experienced something different
Something unexpected
Something, frankly,
Miraculous
The show itself was short
It didn’t matter
It’s not as though we were paying
There was a lot of fake smoke
And no coughing
Which was a miracle in itself
There were lights
And mirrors and stairs
No expense spared
Music thumping like a jogger’s heartbeat
Like blood in the temples
And violin stabs and swirls and whirls and
A drop
And
The man in the blue parka
In silhouette
Arms across the compass
He stepped into his light
And even though the hall was packed
This show was for me
He welcomed me
Related stories from my childhood
From my life
That only I could know
Made me laugh
Made tears flow
And at the end
When I was totally wrung out
Said
It’s time now
Time for us to go
He held out his hand
And without thinking
I did the same
But at the last moment
The fear was too much
I pulled my hand away
And watched agog
As he ascended
Without me
And in the light from the stage
The smartly-dressed person
Was weeping tears of diamonds and gold
The Alternative 3 Man: Epilogue
Everyone experienced something different
One saw a flight of angels, ruby-winged, magnificent
Carry aloft into the stars
The beatific man in the blue parka
Another swore she saw the stage
Crack apart like a cartoon earthquake
And everyone, from the stalls to the gods
Fell screaming into the abyss
Everyone experienced something different
There were little green men, a scourge of vampires,
Saucer-eyed grays probing where they shouldn’t,
Werewolves and banshees, reptilians, zombie Nazis
Even Gef the Talking Mongoose and Mothman appeared
It was a cavalcade of high weirdness and Forteana
Theories abounded in the media:
Hallucinogens in the smoke machines, hypnotism
Weather balloons, leylines, electromagnetism
That old chestnut, mass hysteria
Or maybe something magical?
Everyone experienced something different
But whatever we understood to be the truth
Behind the climax of the event that night
The man in the blue parka was never seen again
And the city slowly returned
To what passed for normal
And it doesn’t really matter
If his rose did come from Mars
Or it belonged to one of his Grandmas
Anyway, that’s enough chat from me
Can I interest you in a copy of Alternative 3?