The Pendle Alien Trials
Half the galaxy away, characters swam in and out of existence. Events unhappened, causing consequences to twist through each other like catacombs.
Headlights pierced the darkness like a laser cannon and a horn blared, snapping me back to reality in the way only a sudden awareness of mortality can.
Jumping back to the damp pavement, I started to raise a hand of apology as the car drew alongside me, its tyres splashing water from the gutter onto my absorbent trainers. Two big white eyes and rows of gritted teeth followed a finger jabbing towards me, as the driver leaned over to shout through the opening passenger window.
“Why don’t you fuck off and look where you’re going, you fucking prick?” he roared, betraying the fact that he hadn’t yet mastered the use of his adult vocal chords.
Angrily pulling down my hood, I was immediately grateful for the cool drizzle on my scalp, which dampened my reply to a level and calm: “because I’m a fucking prick, I’d guess.”
The driver’s eyebrows closed in on each other, and he suddenly sounded less sure of himself as he spluttered, “No... I said you’re a prick!”
I quickly surveyed the scene. The main road at the bottom of our street is usually busy during the day and quiet at night. True to form, there wasn’t another soul to be seen at this time. Taking a deep breath, I answered in the politely patronising tone I reserve for such occasions. “I know. I heard it. I agreed with you,” I said, smiling and nodding. Then feeling the faux friendliness fall from my face, I leaned in to his eye level, invading his space with my generously-proportioned nose. My words now wafted stale coffee and tobacco over him: “Now was there anything else?”
His gaze landed on my hands, which I’d placed over the slot of his passenger window to assist my lean. His face twisted back into its rage, and he demanded I let go of his car, and that he’d be charging me for any damage.
Chuckling, I ran my index finger along the rubber seal, and flicked the moss I’d collected at his chest. “How much does replacement foliage for a ten-year-old Fiesta cost nowadays?”
Fumbling for his seatbelt, the car sounded as if it were about to shear in two as he slammed into first gear. “You’re a weirdo, fuck off!” he cried, while himself in the very act of fucking off. I called after him: “And a prick, don’t forget!”
His rear window boasted a cardboard sign saying “baby on board”. After laughing at its unintended accuracy, my heart saddened to think of the poor little bugger who’d end up having to call this absolute plank “Daddy” every other weekend.
With Jess working away three days a week, the house always feels at its emptiest on Wednesday nights, even more so since the dog died. Pushing my trainers under the radiator, I peeled off my sodden socks and sank into the sofa.
​
​
​