hiding amidst the shrubs and bushes, I gazed through the wire fence, into the said field. “It’s as dark as a coal mine out there,” I grizzled, “apart from when that light goes off. And when it does go off, it’s too bright to see anything.” I waited some more, hoping to make some sort of a breakthrough in the impasses.
Many minutes later, having witnessed several more flashes emanating from somewhere in the field, I could see that the interval between them was getting longer and longer. “If I am quick,” I whispered to myself, “I can climb over the fence and run several yards into the field, and then hide in the tall grass therein before the next flash sets off.” Just then, another bright flash set off. I counted the seconds. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, none, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. “I have twenty seconds in which do it. That should be more than enough time.” With that thought in mind, I set myself ready to run after the next flash. Counting the seconds, I said, “One, two, three...seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. “ The instant I said twenty, another flash emanated from somewhere in the field. Then I set off, running like the clappers.
Clambering over the fence, I caught one of my legs on the barbed wire atop it. Pulling my leg free, I tried to rub the pain away. Jumping down from it, I ran as fast as my legs would carry me into the field. All the while, mind you, I had been counting, counting, counting. “Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen,” I said, desperately trying to gain purchase further into the field. “Twenty,” I said as I dived for cover amidst the tall grasses. The instant I hit the ground, another bright flash set off. When the flash had died down, I began counting again. “One, two three...”
“Twenty,” I said as the next flash of light exploded in front of me. Setting off again I ran once again as fast as my legs would carry me. The cool night air rushed headlong into my overworked lungs, burning them. “I will find out who you are, so I will, or my name is not Gerrard Wilson!” I said defiantly. There was a problem, though. You see, I had forgotten to start counting again...
A few moments later, another bright flash illuminated the night around me. I dived for cover in the long grasses, wondering if anyone had seen me. Talking; I the sound of people talking, but the words meant nothing to me. “Perhaps they are from out foreign,” I whispered. “By the sound of their voices, I don’t think they saw me,” I said thankfully. I listened some more. “It’s not French, nor is it German,” I surmised. “Is it Polish? Nah, Polish has more of a twang to it. What about Russian?” Then I realised just what I had said, the absurdity of such a suggestion, that Russians were in the field at the end of my garden, setting off huge flashes of light. “Get a grip on myself, Gerrard,” I whispered, “lest the men in white coats come to take you away to the funny farm.” Despite thinking about it some more, I had no idea who the perpetrators might be. When the next flash had subsided, I set off again; determined, utterly determined to find out who they were and more importantly what they were doing there.
I had run only a few yards further into the field when I saw it, the outline of a dark, shadowy form directly in front of me. Pressing the switch on my torch, I pointed the light at it. Reeling away from it, I gasped, “No! It cannot be that – it cannot. No!” But it was. “It’s a Flying Saucer!” I exclaimed. I was so shocked, on seeing it, I dropped my torch. Bending down, to retrieve it, I said, “C’mon on, where are you? I need you!” Finding the torch, I pointed it at the flying saucer again. Reeling away, more shocked than before, I gasped, “Where on earth did those...those little green men come from?”
The instant I mouthed the words, “Where did those little green men come from?” they pointed their guns menacingly at me. Then, pulling hard on the triggers, they zapped me with rays; blue, yellow, green, orange and grey. I dived for cover, but hiding amidst the tall grasses was less than useless against such formidable items.
It hurt; it hurt so much when the multicoloured rays struck my bamboozled old body. “Ow! That hurts!” I howled. “It really hurts! Ow! Ow! Ow!” I complained.
However, as quickly as the vile attack upon me had started, it finished. Approaching me, one of the little green men helped me up. “Sorry about that,” he apologised. “Are you of the alright?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so,” I answered. “It hurts, though,” I told him.
“Don’t be worrying yourself about it hurting you so; it will soon pass,” he assured me.
“Why did you zap me with you ray guns?” I asked him.
“We thought you were a cow, wanting to eat us.” he explained.
“A cow?”
“Yes, of course,” he replied. “They are quite formidable creatures – and big, to boot. To boot, to boot,” he said, laughing mischievously at his play on the word boot.
“You think cows are formidable creatures?”
“Yes – and dangerous too!” he insisted. “When you are as small myself and compatriots get too,” he explained, “anything as large as a cow animal is a potentially dangerous creature!” Extending his little green hand, he said, “Allow me to introduce of my selfness. My name is Zog.”
Accepting his hand, I shook it gratefully, then I said, “And my name is Gerrard.”
Giggling impishly, he said, “Gerrard? Your name is of the Gerrard?”
“Yes,” I answered. (I had no idea why he was laughing at me, so).
“Why did your parents give you such a terrible name?” he enquired.
“It’s not a terrible name,” I told him. “In fact it’s a wonderful name. It means Spear Holder. It’s a sign of strength and power,” I proudly informed him.
Giggling impishly again, he said, “That’s not what it means where I come from in the space, being it outer or even of the inner variety.”
“And where do you come from?” I asked him suspiciously.
“Fart.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Fart; I come from the planet Fart,” he told me.
Trying my best not to laugh at him, I said, “Do you really mean it, that you come from Fart?”
“Of course I do,” he answered. “Are you having any of the problems with that?”
Suddenly realising how bad mannered I was, laughing at where he hailed from, I said, “No, none at all.”
“Good,” he replied. Holstering his ray gun, Zog said, “Would you like to meet my compatriots?”
“I would much rather you tell me why they are cutting the grass in this field and taking into your flying saucer,” I answered.
“Flying saucer? What is a flying saucer?” he asked me.
“It’s a space craft,” I told him. “That’s what we call them, here on earth.”
“Oh...” he answered. Thinking about it, he scratched his little green head, and then he said, “What is a saucer?”
“They are of no importance, at least for the moment,” I told him. “Why are they taking armfuls of grass inside your space craft?” I asked him again. Just then, another bright flash exploded directly in front of me. Shielding my eyes from it, I said, “What on earth was that?”
“That?” he replied. “Sure, it’s some of my fellow compatriots; they are fixing our space craft.”
“How did it get broken?” I enquired of him.
Beckoning for me to come a shave closer, as if he was afraid that someone other than I would hear what he was about to say, he said, “Planes.”
“Planes?”
“Yes, war planes,” he explained. “They must be war planes when they fired at us, so! The writing on them read RAF. I have no idea what it might mean of.”
“You are telling me that RAF planes shot you down?”
“No, they could never do that,” he asserted. They are far too primitive an item to get that kind of a result.”
“Then what did they do to your craft?”
“They damaged our aerial.”
“Your aerial?”
“Yes, they fired at us and damaged our aerial. With
it damaged, so, we cannot receive our favourite radio station. That is why we landed here, in this field, so we can fix it!”
“You are having me on,” I said, amazed at what he was telling me.
“No, it’s the truth,” he insisted. “Since we were shot at, the only stations we can receive on our radio are those from this here planet of yours. And we don’t like of them, let me tell you, not one bit. Moreover, if we don’t get it repaired real of the soon, we are going to miss Intergalactic Hits.”
“Intergalactic Hits?”
“Yes, it’s our favourite programme on Interplanetary Radio,” he told me.
Returning to my earlier question, I said, “But what are they doing with all of that grass?”
“They are taking it inside our space craft,” Zog answered. “You are knowing that of the already!”
“What I am asking you is why they are doing it? I said to him.
“Why didn’t you ask so of the earlier,” he answered. “You hu-mans can be so much of the funny, at times,” he said to me.
“And you are doing it because?” I asked, pressing him for an answer.
“To power our space craft, of course” he replied. “We get one light year per armful, you know,” he proudly informed me.
“Your space craft is powered by grass?”
“Yes, but not any old grass,” he explained. “Although the radio stations here on this earth are less than good mannered, the grass that grows here – and in fine abundance, I might add – is most surely one of the finest in the entire galaxy.”
I