Calling Old Blue Eyes (part one)

© 2011 David Jasmin-Green.

Shit, an empty page. It doesn't matter if it's a virginal white sheet of parchment, a piece of so thin it's almost transparent inkjet paper from the Pound shop, a page in one of your kid's exercise books that you've sort of borrowed to scribble away in with a runny Bic or a blank document in Microsoft Word - the blank page is the most threatening prospect imaginable for any writer.

I guess that empty whiteness is daunting whether you're a seasoned word addict who taps away furiously at the keyboard day in and day out or a sometime hack, an amateur who only writes when life permits. People write for a confusing flurry reasons. Some folk only get cracking when there's nothing more pressing to get on with or when they feel really inspired, some only get off their arses (or on them, funnily enough) when they feel a need to record something important, and their feelings don't always come into the equation. The blank page is especially unfamiliar and alien to me, because it's been an awfully long time since I dabbled with the written word. I'm a sometime writer, you see, a sometime writer with the added burden of an aching need to communicate something deeply important to me, and I think the appalling nakedness before me is much more frightening for me than it is for a season ticket holder. But now I've said that it's not blank any more.....

This fine ergonomic keyboard is appallingly dusty. As I've already told you, I'm a sometime writer and my computer hasn't been turned on for a while. I couldn't say how long, but I guess it's getting on for a couple of years now.

Though the hard drive of this cheap, outdated but perfectly serviceable piece of tat is crammed with partially completed manuscripts there's nothing lurking within its murky depths that's even nearly finished, never mind good enough to show anyone, because I'm one of those also rans who works in leaps and bounds around other responsibilities whenever the fancy takes me, which it hasn't recently. But that's almost entirely because I've been ill for a long time and slowly recovering for considerably longer, and there's a big, gaping hole in my life. Even if I am a sometime writer, in better times I dabbled pretty frequently with the written word because I thoroughly enjoy writing, though I write for pleasure rather than gain and I doubt if I'll ever produce anything marketable and/or of literary merit.

“You never know, my love,” my missus said a few evenings ago when, after pondering getting started on this project for several weeks I finally teased my computer out of its long hibernation and started wondering about how to start this piece. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” she continued. “If Dickens had never bothered putting pen to paper we'd never have heard of him, would we?”

“Hmmm,” I replied, deep in thought. “Talking of dick-ins, do you fancy coming to one?” And that was the end of that.

Why have I opened this daunting new document, you might be wondering – if my talent is a trifle rusty, why haven't I opened up the creaking door of my digital vault, blew off the virtual cobwebs and tried to salvage some crippled, time-worn piece of crap that I once kidded myself into believing had some value if only I could find the time and the gumption to complete it and polish it to a sufficiently high standard? Because I have something new to say, that's why, but I find that something difficult to categorise.

I'm not sure if I should disguise this piece as fiction, pop it in the appropriate mental compartment and try to forget all about it. Or perhaps I should be truthful and file it in the section marked 'Unexplained Phenomena' or shove it in the 'Seriously Weird' draw. Maybe I need to invent a new category - maybe I should stick a label on this baby that says something like this -

'Oddities that I can't get my fool head round but nevertheless I desperately need to communicate to someone or at least record, otherwise I'll go stark, raving mad.'

After a pretty glum period of reflection I guess it's better to tell the truth, or at least the truth as I know it. The events that happened during my illness inspire me to record them as honestly as possible for the benefit of future generations. Naah, it's entirely for my own benefit, a little voice inside me just said.

We need to get something straight before we go any further, and if you automatically conclude that I'm seriously deranged and stop reading because you're convinced that I'm about to spoon feed you with a sexed-up pack of up lies then so be it, it's no skin off my nose.

All I can say in my defence is that although I was suffering from what you might describe as mental difficulties at the time of my experience it really happened, or at least I believe I did. I was bogged down in a pretty serious depressive illness, and I had been incapable of working for the past few months. Being dismissed from my job set that ball of gloom rolling, but I prefer to steer well clear of the memory, I prefer to let the midden pile fester uninterrupted well out of my field of vision. If I let sleeping dogs lie as my mother taught me, they can't rear up and bite me on the arse. Right? Anyway, my illness is over and done with now, it's a closed chapter, and I honestly believe that it had nothing to do with my hallucination.

My doctor assured me that people suffering from depression don't generally experience hallucinations unless they're psychotic or borderline psychotic, and despite extensive tests, seemingly endless discussions and a series of amateurish mind-reading sessions with a number of psychiatric professionals it was concluded that I was neither of those things. OK? And I don't think so either. Believe me, I've turned this sorry mess over in my mind a billion and one times, I've more or less picked those old bones clean, and I don't think I was actually insane – I was just seriously pissed off.

Of course I kept the most of the details of my complex vision to myself, and I didn't mention the major obsession that sprung forth and bloomed in the ordure of its aftermath at all. I gave the doctors, shrinks, sub-shrinks and shrinks' skivvies that were dissecting me a seriously expurgated version of the truth, and I told my friends and family even less. Especially my missus, because she wouldn't have understood. No way.....
Telling the truth would have been pretty stupid, don't you think? If I did that I might have been committed, and I'd probably never have returned to normal life then. I could have lost my house, my lovely, supportive wife and my sometimes lovely but not always supportive children, and I couldn't live with that so I avoided it at all costs. I'm sorry, but I couldn't see myself rolling sround in a straitjacket or sitting bare naked in a padded cell drugged up to the eyeballs, pissing myself and making thick, expressive impastos on the walls with my own dung – it simply isn't me. They're coming to take me away, ha-haar! They're coming to take me away! I'm daft, I'm puddled, I'm merry and gay (no, I didn't mean it in that sense), they're coming to take me away, ha-haar! They're coming to take me away!

**************************************************

Where do I start, then? I guess it makes sense to start at the beginning, so I'd better tell you about the Chinamen. No, I shouldn't have said that, because some politically correct dick will interpret it as a deliberate offence to Chinese people, and the beings I'm about to discuss weren't Chinese, not by a long shot. 'Chinamen' was just a convenient, spur of the moment label that I came up with at the time, but I realise it's unacceptable so I suppose I'd better scour my mind for something more appropriate. But what? The little men with oriental features doesn't sound even nearly right, so let's just call them little men, or maybe oriental dwarves (which is probably just as bloody offensive). Fuck it, my first impression was to call them Chinamen, so I might as well stick with it, but I think I'm too embarrassed to do that now.

I was suspended from my job for a couple of weeks before I was actually dismissed. Yup, I know I wasn't going to talk about that crock of shit, but on reflection it's essential background information, so I have no choice. “It's protocol,” I was told by my scheming, knob jockey of a manager. 'It's the official, universally accepted way of dealing with unpleasant situations like this.” For me, though, it just prolonged the agony. I guess I'd have preferred to be dismissed straight after the allegations were made against me - the false jumped-up, mentally crippling, character assassinating allegations, I should add.

After that fateful point I found myself with an awful amount of time on my hands, time that I couldn't fill effectively no matter how hard I tried. I found it difficult to punctuate my days, and with the sudden extra burden of worry on my shoulders when I was finally sacked I found it hard to concentrate on anything even remotely worthwhile.

I had to get my arse out of the house, especially when I was home alone, because I couldn't bear looking at the same four walls all day and every day fretting about money (or the lack of it). I had the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head, and though depression was gorging on my wounded soul I did my best to drag myself out of it. I was walking on very unstable ground, though. I had been out of work for almost twelve months just a few years previously when I was made redundant, and I hated it - I couldn't bear to return to that humiliating rigmarole. I particularly hate being interviewed at the Job Centre by a bunch of holier-than-thou pricks with a handful of braincells between them and nothing better to do than treat all unemployed people as shirkers and look at you as if you're something unpleasant that they've just trodden in. No, that's unfair, they're not all like that. Most of them are, but not all.

Most mornings, after my missus went to work and our three girls toddled off to school, I set off on a long walk to keep my mind off an assortment of shit, and I mean a long one; I was usually out for four or five hours, rain, shine or snow. A few weeks after I was dismissed, I guess it was, while I was still reeling from that final, merciless blow, I was accosted by the Chi – sorry, by the little men. I was on my way back from a formidable trek when it happened, and though it had been a fine if unseasonably cool morning (it was supposed to be summer) the heavens opened and the deluge soaked me to the skin while I was still three or four miles away from home. I'd walked for miles along the canal and I was in the process of crossing a large, wooded stretch of land on the other side of town that the locals refer to as the old tip. The place was deserted, and I remember thinking how strange it was that I failed to spot a single dog walker or the customary gang of truants riding dirt bikes and mini motos.

All of a sudden a loud buzzing sound like a million angry wasps filled the air as a large circular object appeared from nowhere, glided over the trees and hovered over the clearing in front of me. “It's a flying fucking saucer,” I heard myself whisper as the buzz turned to a banshee screech that hurt my ears for a second or two before changing in pitch to a low, vibrant moan. A purplish glow lit up the base of the craft as three stubby legs unfolded from its pot belly. Leisurely it glided to earth and landed in the low undergrowth, at which point the noise and all other sounds abruptly stopped. I could no longer hear the hum of traffic on the main road a few hundred yards away, and there wasn't even a bird singing in the trees. I'm ashamed to say that I wet myself a little in an involuntary spasm of fear. I wasn't going to mention that, but I did say I was going to be honest.

The thing was damned near a hundred feet across, maybe considerably more, a thick aluminium coloured disc with a dull purple dome on the top. It didn't meet my expectations of advanced alien hardware, though, because even at a glance the main body looked disturbingly amateurish – it looked like it was made of tinfoil sealed with a few coats of clear resin. The damned thing wasn't even perfectly round, it was nowhere near round in fact, and if I'd stumbled across it on the ground instead of actually witnessing it land I would probably have concluded that it was a prop for a school play thrown together on a Saturday afternoon by a bunch of Primary school kids under the supervision of a couldn't care less teacher.

A few moments after the crapulous craft alighted a door-cum-ramp opened with a hiss in its underbelly. A cloud of steam that smelled a bit like boiled cabbage emerged, followed by four little men who clambered out in single file. They were wearing just what you might expect from 1960's UFO abduction accounts, silver one piece suits, thick gloves and helmets that looked like tinted goldfish bowls. And they had yellow oxygen bottles (or bottles of whatever gas they breathed) strapped to their backs that looked suspiciously like converted fire extinguishers. As the last one made his way down the ramp the bottom section splintered and partly fell away. Little fellow number four went arse over tit, but he quickly rose to his feet and dusted himself off, jabbering loudly at the others, who were practically falling over each other to help him. I, I have to admit, due to my fraught nerves, perhaps, or possibly because it's just human nature to find the misfortunes of others funny, burst out laughing.

“How dare you us at laugh, Earthling,” little fellow number four cried in a ridiculous squeaky voice as he marched to within a few feet of me, somewhat overconfidently, I thought.

'That's odd,' I mused, feeling strangely calm. 'You'd think the little tarts would at least bother to master our language if they've travelled hundreds of light years with the aim of communicating with our species on a meaningful level.'

“Me kind superior to you kind every way,” the little tinpot general continued as he stepped forward and brashly poked me in the belly. “And you not to forget it. KO? We will not be made of fun, especially me. I.....”

'Superior in every conceivable way excepting height, mastery of the English language and, curiously, the finish of manufactured products,' I thought. I wasn't riled at that point in time despite the fact that I'd been poked rather brutally, and as long as I'm not riled I usually manage to keep my big mouth shut.

At a touch over four feet tall I concluded that the little shit was the leader. He also had the biggest mouth, I noted, which is usually a good pointer. The other three were several inches shorter and they stood way behind the main man, almost as if they were frightened of him. Or of me, maybe.

I scrutinised the faces of the Chi – dwarves as thoroughly as possible through the dark, tinted glass of their helmets. Though they wore tightly fitting balaclavas that covered most of their heads, as far as I could ascertain they were human. They were just so tiny – or maybe it would be more politically correct to say vertically challenged. Shit, the rate I'm going I'll probably have a bunch of midgets saying I'm verbally abusing them next.....

“I, um, I'm sorry, honestly, I really couldn't help laughing,” I said. “It was comical. Your tumble, I mean. I'm sorry.”

“What comical is?” the leader snapped. “What mean by you comical? Explain!”

“Comical is, erm, when something strikes you as funny,” I replied as the little man stood there with his hands on his hips and his chest thrust out. He looked for all the world like a little bantam cock strutting before his hens, the thought of which made me sman again. “You know, when something happens that's either purposely funny, like when someone tells a joke, or when something makes you laugh completely by chance. Sometimes you automatically laugh before you properly assess a situation, which is what happened just now - sometimes you really can't help cracking up. Look, who the hell are you people? Where are you from? Why can't you speak the Queen's English like what I do, and where did you get that ridiculous Heath Robinson contraption? That thing can't possibly fly, so this has to be a carefully staged prank. Am I on a new series of 'You've Been Framed,' or what?”

“You have overdevelop humour sense, Earthling,” the leader said, pulling a flickering something from his overcrowded utility belt. “But you about find out, some things not funny in no any circumstance at all.....”

He was fiddling with a transparent plastic ray gun. It was a toy, I could have sworn it, which is why I didn't run away, I suppose. A cluster of tiny red and green lights glowed in the tangled circuitry amidst its depths as the leader clumsily turned a chunky dial on its side. Though a tiny part of me was already panicking and trying to tell my disobedient legs to get me the hell out of there before it was too late, on the whole I was still convinced that I was the victim of an impossibly elaborate practical joke. As far as I recall I was enjoying the ruse - I was grinning at my assailants like a bloody idiot, but perhaps that was just nerves.

“See you find this funny, boy baby man,” the man said as he aimed the gun directly at my heart with what was probably an expression of unconditional malice written all over his face. I detected a hint of indecision, and at the last moment he changed his mind and fired the weapon at my legs instead. A jagged, greenish flash of what might or might not have been electricity emerged from the gun's flimsy barrel and instantly disabled me. I tumbled hard to the ground and landed flat on my face, a tremendous wave of pain coursing through my entire body. My legs and in particular my knees had taken the brunt of the blast, and they felt like they were on fire.

“Y-you - you bastard!” I eventually managed to stutter. “What did you do that for, you vicious sh-shit? That was completely unnecessary! I'll bloody strangle you, you little fuck.”

“Me thinks no, Earthling,” the leader said. “Take him ship to quick, tie then him man secure very hard. Me have long list of questions answers require of.....”

**************************************************

I don't think I actually blacked out as the diminutive quartet struggled to carry me up the flimsy ramp, but I was in agony and I guess I was suffering from shock so I wasn't exactly a hundred percent with it either. I remember the bottom section of the ramp snapping off altogether under my weight, at which point they dropped me. Then one of the crazy dwarves fastened a cable around my chest that must have been attached to a winch, because I was unceremoniously and rather painfully dragged into the saucer's gloomy interior.

“Make sure debris retrieve well and hatch seal nice good adequate before fly-fly way,” the leader yelled in his crappy pidgin English. The others hauled me into a tiny room off the main corridor and fastened me to a table with four cold metal manacles and a series of thick straps that felt like woven nylon.

“What are you doing to me,” I mumbled as I began to regain my senses. “let me out! I don't like it in here, it smells like an Italian fucking crapper.” The leader stood beside me as he took off his gloves and helmet. He waved his hand over a small flickering panel and the room lightened a smidgen, revealing walls with the colour and appearance of smeared shit. He pulled off his balaclava and for the first time I witnessed his entire countenance. My abductors weren't human after all.

The alien's features were only vaguely oriental, and it was his dark, slanted eyes that had given me that impression. Those eyes were cruel and feral, they were dry looking and vaguely insectile with huge black corneas and little white around the edges. They seemed to wrap halfway around his head like sunglasses.....

His nose was tiny, just a slightly raised bump, really, and he only had one nostril. His mouth was a long, lipless, jagged slit almost at the bottom of his pointed chin, it was lined with tiny sharks teeth and it looked like it was full of snot. The creature's skin was a sickly grey-green, and his hairless skull ended a short distance above his eyes. Behind the flattened crown of his head was a huge, lopsided, deeply pockmarked and decidedly soft looking protuberance that reminded me of a poorly stuffed pillow or a maggot ridden pear. “Shit, fuck, their brains look like they're growing outside their skulls!” I said. “If that really is your brain you'd be pretty useless at unarmed combat, you little twat.” He didn't have any ears to speak of, I realised, just two holes surrounded by tatty fringes of skin resembling mildewed, caterpillar chewed cauliflower.

“Like what see you, Earthling?” the diminutive monster said. “You do find me handsome, no? Yes? You fancy me kissy-fucky time? Ha! better get use pretty face like this, matey-boy. Oh yes. We destiny be your master..... Give dose of preparation,” he said to his accomplices as they removed their helmets. “Not lot – much enough to calm down until after fly-fly time. Check bonds! No escape! Him human crap out of mouth speak piss me off big time. Him man later having plenty stick. Bastard!”
“You're one ugly motherfucker, short-arse,” I said out of the blue in honour of Arnie when he first clapped eyes on the Predator, but my comment apparently fell on deaf ears. One of the crew pulled over a thin, silvery appliance attached to the low ceiling by a tangle of wires and springs and briefly touched it to my forehead. There was no zap, no flashing light, just abrupt oblivion, endless peace, a soft ocean of tranquillity and utter, complete Nirvana.

**************************************************
I had no way of measuring the passage of time while I was floating moronically in heaven. Or Teletubby land, maybe. It could have been minutes or hours or days later when I started to float back into my body and I became capable of thinking reasonably straight again.

I had been moved from the little antechamber by the entrance, and the table that I was still tightly secured to was shoved against the interior edge of an opaque, purplish half sphere – I guessed I was in the dome at the top of the craft. I was naked, I soon discovered, I had a mask of some sort covering my nose and mouth, and if I lifted my head and strained my neck I could see that I was wearing what could only be an incontinence pad. “Charming,” I mumbled.

Somewhere nearby a couple of the saucer's crew were jabbering away in their own staccato tongue, but I was too enraptured by the wall of the dome to take much notice. It appeared to be made of a thick, viscous liquid that was forever moving and rearranging itself, and it looked for all the world like living purple phlegm. “You're out of it, pal,” I said. “You've had an accident of some sort. Maybe you were run down by a car – serves you bloody right, you should look where you're going instead of walking around in a permanent daze. You're in the hospital and you're pumped full of morphine. Don't enjoy it too much, you fucking space cadet..... None of this shit is real, so stop fretting about it or you'll have a heart attack. Chill out, man.”

I still couldn't get over the awful stench of the place. “My gaolers fucking reek!” I yelled at one point once I was fully conscious. Most of the time it was a pungent, loamy smell like rich, freshly turned soil with a hint of the cabbage odour I registered when door first opened, but on occasion it smelled of eggy farts and stale urine, of past its sell-by-date meat, long dead fish and rotting turds, of rankness and death and decomposition. It smelled like I suppose hell smells when the devil's got the runs.

At regular intervals were large, oval computer screens partly embedded in the liquid wall of the dome, but I couldn't make any sense of the swiftly moving columns of unfamiliar green and yellow figures or the frequently changing pictures of what might have been street plans of Ulan Bator or the drains beneath Cairo or close-ups of obsolete circuit boards. “This is no bloody fugue,” I quietly told myself. “Unfortunately, matey boy, this is for real.”

When I turned my head the other way I realised that I was perched on a narrow walkway halfway up the side of the dome. I craned my neck so that I could look down to the lower level of the craft, and there were at least three dozen aliens down there chattering quietly in pairs or scurrying around like ants, carrying pieces of complex equipment to and from a tall, cylindrical crystal like object in the centre of the floor. There were even more of them sitting at workstations around the edges, tapping away at computer consoles.