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They arrived (CWC)

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posted on Mar, 7 2012 @ 01:19 PM
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“ and she threw all the pies at his head, telling him to stick his job where the s……. ……HOOLLLY……Whaaaa….!!!” Dad’s voice tailed off before the line went dead. Rising panic tore away at my insides like a cornered wild animal looking for escape, as I tried to call him back before realising it was my phone that was dead, along with the land line and electricity too.

No-one knew that when the power went off, it wouldn’t be coming back on again. It happened so suddenly that most people initially took it to be a local event and that things would quickly get back to normal. As the hours past without hearing from the outside world the nervousness in our village grew and spread like a contagious disease.

When Sally McPherson and Tony Bennet failed to return from Skipton Town, some six miles down the valley on horse-back, that panic turned to dread. Some people began to turn a blind eye to what was occurring and tried to carry on with their daily lives as if nothing was happening, apart from having no power.

I’d been telling them for the past few days about the phone call with my Dad but no-one would listen, or wanted to listen. Something was very wrong. I could tell by the look in their eyes, they knew it too.

Those last two words spoken by my Dad echoed like a really bad song that gets stuck in your head that won’t go away.

Only old Joe Simpson could stop me from riding a push bike up to Skipton the night when everything stopped working. Like most villages, news spreads fast and the village hall soon became packed with worried people demanding to know what was happening. Not that I was there though. I heard Mrs Withington had a manic panic attack and punched the vicar whilst he was trying to calm her down. It was all talk of WW3, EMP's and Iran according to Joe anyway.

He caught me earlier trying to ride the push bike out of the village which I pinched from little Toby Mitchell’s back yard. Little snot that he was, always up to no good, now look at me stealing from him, I thought to myself whilst lifting it from over the waist high wall.

Joe lived at the edge of the village and his wheezy coughy laugh so familiar to me almost took me on another wobbly tumble into the privet hedge.
He asked me where I was going to which I replied Skipton and told him of the phone call with my father. His expression said it all. My Dad lived in Kent some three hundred miles away. What could I do in Skipton? If Skipton had power we would have had the regular traffic coming through. Besides, he said he needed some help getting a box down from his attic. Which I did of course. I’d no idea what was in the box, heavy that it was but it pleased Joe to see it like he’d met an old friend. He then gave me a tot of whisky and laughed at my attempts to ride the bike. He then went off to the village hall leaving me with that disgusting bottle of whisky which almost seemed palatable. Maybe having electricity in your home makes whisky taste bad I randomly thought before dwelling on my Dad’s voice again. That night seemed to slip away from me in a haze of welcomed dizziness and numbness.

Only the next day did reality hit hard made worse by the nauseating hangover oozing from every pore.

After Joe filled me in on the event at the village hall, it was decided that Sally and Tony would take off at first light, some hours ago by then to get some answers from Skipton. They were never seen again.

Andy and Smithy close friend and brother of Sally decided to walk there on the Wednesday if they hadn’t come back by then. That day they’d only been gone a few hours and talk within the village was rife with more speculation.

Home to me felt empty, the place for me and many others was the village hall. The company of others sometimes helped.

I’d gone outside for a cigarette and actually felt like going back inside and lighting up. Under the circumstances, who would complain? The sight of Freddie Thomas striding towards the hall soon put a kybosh to that. “Oh! Second hand smoke!” he’d protest whilst clutching his chest. We could be lined up against a firing squad and he’d still say the same thing.

My thoughts soon turned back to my Dad again as a cool breeze of an early summers day blew wisps of cigarette smoke high into the air. At least the birds are still singing, all’s well in bird land, I thought.

The deafening screech cut the air like a serrated knife making people jump with fear. Then there was silence, even the birds stopped their song. Children’s cries wailed out as a booming thud shook the earth and resonated up through my body. At that point I soiled my pants. Now, I’m a morning person, I like to go when I’ve had a coffee and a cigarette, I guess when aliens invade it tends to mess up your routine. If I have one bit of advice, one bit of help if you are in the middle of an alien invasion, make sure you’ve emptied your bowls because they will empty.

Trust me, running for your life with a log swinging around in your pants doesn’t sound that bad but if you are hiding under a table in the pub where I ended up, with Mrs Deacon and her daughter, it does and did matter. I’m sure that look they gave me was of disbelief upon realising my mishap. Even though short lived, that micro second look from them said it all.

Screams were drowned out by thuds and noise from building being broken, thuds, scrapes and glass smashing grew louder.
It felt like what- ever it was, was now on top of the pub where we hid. Yes we hid, like scared little babies, all thoughts of grabbing weapons and fighting back didn’t cross my mind or anyone else’s from what I could see. There must have been thirty of us, couching under the furniture in a futile attempt at not being found.
The there was an almighty crunching sound from above us, debris reigned down, screams deafened my right ear as debris rattled down onto the table-top we were cowering under. An impossible light illuminated the corner we were in. The roof and the top floor of the pub had been sliced off letting day light beam in.

I didn’t know what happened next all I can remember was being grabbed and pulled across the floor before being pulled up into the air. I remember seeing the road outside then darkness.

I woke up, all woozy and drugged. When I first saw them, I knew they were alien. I smiled. The little one pointed to me and I passed out.

I’m now back in my house, it’s not like my home in the village. I’m not sure where I am now. Everything feels wrong. Today I think the little one will take me out of my house again; I hope I don’t bite it. The last time I did it threw me back in my house and left me with no food again. My shoulder is broken for sure. One of the bigger ones sometimes checks up on me and gave me what was supposed to be a hamburger. It looked like a hamburger and even had an M on its packaging but it didn’t taste the same.

My house is a cage. Today if there is a god, I will meet Pops.

I know you can read this. You know all about us, yet you know or care so little.

I hate you.

edit on 7-3-2012 by Tykonos because: (no reason given)

edit on 7-3-2012 by Tykonos because: (no reason given)




posted on Mar, 7 2012 @ 01:25 PM
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reply to post by Tykonos
 
Please alow me to be the first to flag this awesome story.
Vivid.





posted on Mar, 7 2012 @ 01:31 PM
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Hey thanks.


Just don't let the grammar police get me.



posted on Mar, 7 2012 @ 01:33 PM
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Originally posted by Tykonos
Hey thanks.


Just don't let the grammar police get me.



The value of a story is in the painting that emerges from within the mind.
You painted well.

Who cares about the brush strokes.



posted on Mar, 10 2012 @ 04:52 PM
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Originally posted by beezzer

You painted well.

Who cares about the brush strokes.


Nice words beezer, I'm surprised this is your first time in the writers forum....

Loved the story too Tykonos



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