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                 Let Me Tell You a Story

If you missed the Bards latest story published in the Lancashire Post recently then here is your chance to realize just what you might have missed!                                                    
                          Guardians of the Galaxy!

The Massive spacecraft hung motionless in space just a few hundred kilometres above planet Earth, it’s shields making it invisible to the naked eye. It had travelled from the opposite end of the galaxy; its mission was in an attempt to save this third rock from its sun from the self-destruction that had seen the demise of all other inhabited planets in the Milky Way galaxy that had once harboured intelligent life….
Wir Asta Bin sighed audibly, shook both of his heads in utter despair and turning to his first officer with tears brimming in all four eyes, exclaimed,
‘Oh! Sin Iso Thee. I fear we may be to late. Fingers are poised over red buttons in many nations on planet Earth as we speak and if just one is pressed, we will once again bear witness to the nuclear domino effect we have seen so often in our galaxy.’
‘Tis a sad day indeed oh mighty one,’ replied Officer Thee, wringing all four arms in reciprocating sympathy with the commander’s obvious distress. ‘Of all the billions of stars in our galaxy that the Earthlings call the ‘Milky Way’, only forty-seven, including Earth and our own planet were inhabited by advanced life forms. And now, thanks to the insanity of the so-called intelligentsia that inhabited these planets, the only two remaining are Earth and our own planet Ebigum. Are we destined to be the only planet in the galaxy that contains intelligent life?’
‘I’m afraid we must now consider this a distinct possibility’, replied the commander. ‘The only option available to us in a last desperate effort to prevent the destruction of planet Earth is to carry out the mission as planned and ordained by our elders,’ he responded resignedly.
‘Oh, great one, it is well believed by many of our people that the option proposed by the elders could see the end of all life forms on this beautiful planet. The eminent scientists Hon Hink Leigh and Mor Bah Tat is of the firm belief that adding a new element to the Earth’s atmosphere would be more likely to poison all life forms, so is this a risk worth taking?’
‘All life will cease anyway if those red buttons are pressed,’ the commander reminded his officer. ‘It’s a gamble we must take and sooner rather than later. You must bear in mind the research made by Thar Gona Ketch and Thi Dethof Kold, who discovered that the element that we are planning to introduce to the Earth’s atmosphere is unique to our planet and they are of the firm belief that this is the reason why our people are so placid and harbour no tendency to violence of any kind. If they are correct in their assumptions then it is more than likely that this will have a similar effect on earthlings, whose DNA is almost identical to ours, despite them only having one head and two arms.’
The commander continued. ‘As you may recall officer Thee, the element that is to be added to the Earth’s atmosphere is an inert gas, which in earthly terms translated into the word ‘tranquillity’. The earlier research also revealed that there would be unavoidable side effects with the introduction of this new element and some modifications to its composition had to be made. If these modifications had not been introduced, then all life forms on Earth would have been incapable of ending the life of any other living being. This would have the effect of turning every living creature into a vegetarian. Probably a good move health wise for the human race. However, all other carnivores would have great difficulty in accepting this situation and so the principal modification was to ensure that the effect of breathing in Tranquillity, only affected the human race. It was hard to imagine lions existing on legumes; crocodiles on cabbages and pythons on peas.’
To Thee, this logical and wise explanation was really all that was left for the Ebigummers to pursue, despite the very real dangers that such an enterprise carried.
‘Remind me once more Officer Thee, just where is the device situated on Earth that will manufacture and transmit tranquillity to all corners of the planet?’
Oh, exalted one, it has been sited high on moorland in a place called Yorkshire. This is a county in a little island country called England. Although massive in size, it has been rendered invisible to every eye. However, after 1000 Earth years it will be made visible and a loud alarm will sound to alert any earthling that may exist at that time to its existence. Around the device, written in every Earth language, will be an explanation as to why the device exists and the purpose it is still serving.’
The commander expressed his thanks to his officer and smiled.
‘Ah, yes Yorkshire. Many times, have I heard of this place from my dear grandmother. It was during her gap year after graduation that she visited Earth and although she spoke of the many wonderful and interesting places that she visited throughout the viable planets in the galaxy, it was England in general and Yorkshire in particular that inspired her most. She brought back much of the culture and language that she had experienced there and even tried to introduce some of it into our own culture. However, despite her best attempts as minister for Births, Marriages and Passings, it never really caught on with the populace, but rather surprisingly, for such a strong-minded woman, she appeared to accept the situation most graciously…

The huge spacecraft pulled away from Earth, its task completed and within minutes had reached warp speed on its journey back to Ebigum, a planet that was located light years away on the far side of the galaxy.
Had their mission been successful? – Only time would tell…

The line of young earthlings on an educational field trip, accompanied by their robot tutors, made their way slowly across the desolate moor. Without warning, the eerie silence was shattered by the melodic notes of an ancient brass band. On the grassy mound above them a green mist began to form. As the seconds ticked by, the mist solidified to reveal a structure that was huge in size and totally alien in appearance. The music was tuneful but none of the earthlings or their robot tutors could recognise the melody. However, if they had been around a thousand years ago, they would have instantly recognized the ancient Yorkshire ditty of ‘On Ilkla Moor baht hat’.

                                                                      The End

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                      The Dying of the Light

Day 1   
The idea came to me during the night. I had been experiencing the terrible torment that visits even the greatest storytellers from time to time. It is commonly known as ‘writers’ block’, but in my case it was more of a personal literary cul-de-sac. My last story had been completed almost a year earlier and I had never gone so long before another masterpiece would pop into my head. Indeed there had been periods in the past when ideas and story plots were tumbling from my brain faster than I could commit them to paper (or the PC).
However, last night had been different from my usual dreamless slumbers. It was as if all the Muses from ancient Greece had visited my bedside and imparted their combined wisdom, giving me the idea for a unique story that would have universal appeal, gaining me legendary fame and perhaps fortune as well and might even be published in the Lancashire Post.
I could not wait to rise from my bed as the first feeble fingers of dawn crept through the window. I dressed quickly, washed and shaved with alacrity, devoured my breakfast with unnatural haste and in record time I found myself seated in front of my trusty computer.
I realized that speed was of the essence. The once vivid words and images were already beginning to blur and fade despite the continuing presence of the Muses who anxiously urged me to type in my password and commence committing to the machine that fantastic plethora of words, sentences, paragraphs and chapters that would surely herald my overnight literary success; an accomplishment that had taken me many decades of blood, sweat and tears to attain. Flirting with fame had been a dream that appeared to be just out of reach; achieving it now in my twilight years was a distinct possibility.
I logged into my computer and opened my STORY FILE. All my previous stories were set out before me in alphabetical order. I created a new document and was about to commit all those wonderful block-busting words to the opening page when I realized that before commencing, my magnum opus would require an eye-catching title - Mmm.
It was proving difficult to place the story in a suitable category. It contained aspects of virtually all human emotions including romance, humour, pathos, drama, but most of all it was undoubtedly the nerve-wracking suspense that each carefully crafted word would promote, holding my readers in that literary spell beloved by all writers of not being able to set aside the tale until the last word had been read.
The task of creating a suitable title for my story was proving daunting and though I grappled with a number of possibilities, none of the ideas that raced through my brain gave me any great satisfaction. The tension was eased somewhat when my wife Daphne brought me a cup of tea and a fig roll.
Feeling refreshed, I resumed my task. Somewhere in the far reaches of my mind was a belief that a line from a poem by Dylan Thomas would make a suitable title. I vowed to do a little research on his works in the sure and certain believe that this would reveal the line that I was searching for; in the meantime I knew I must commit at least the opening words of my story to the machine before they deserted me. I had already been aware that the once clear vision of the nine Muses was beginning to blur around the edges and without their assistance then I knew my literary task was doomed to fail.
It had been a struggle, but at least I had committed the opening paragraphs of my story to the safety of the computer. As I signed off for the day, I comforted myself in the firm believe that during my coming slumbers, those nice Grecian ladies, the daughters of Zeus, would work their magic for me once again.

Later
I awoke a little later than usual and spent the first five minutes trying to work out what day it actually was. After a hurried breakfast I switched on the PC and wasted another five minutes trying to remember my password, fortunately Daphne had remembered it. I read and reread those opening lines a thousand times; knowing even then that their composition was as good if not better than anything that the Bard of Avon himself had ever written. It was unfortunate that the words that followed, although satisfactory, were nowhere near as ground-breaking. There had been little help from the Muses over the past few nights. Oh they had appeared as expected but seemed more intent in spouting poetry or playing their music rather than helping me.
Despite the setbacks, I somehow managed to compose a couple of sentences but if anything they were of a lower standard than my earlier efforts. Even the appearance of my wife with a cuppa and a biscuit failed to revive my listless spirits. I decided to call it a day and retired to my bed early.

Much later
I was roused from a deep and dreamless sleep by whatsername shaking me vigorously. I missed breakfast, mainly because I forgot where the cornflakes were kept. Again I struggled to open the thingy and for the life of me couldn’t locate the STORY WOTSIT until that kind lady did it for me. As I once again read what I had written, I realized that the opening lines made little sense to me although the rest of my tale was promising. I had just finished deleting them when the lady came again with a drink and a snack. She was not best pleased when the cup fell from my shaking fingers onto what she told me was a new carpet. The incident made me angry so there was no more writing that day and again I retired early.

Later still
The woman was shaking me again and asking if I intended to stay in bed all day. I gave it some thought but after seeing the look on her face decided I had better get up. I didn’t shave that day as someone had hidden my new safety razor. When I told the woman (who is she anyway) she just laughed and said I was going doolally and that my electric shaver was where it had always been.
I knew there was something urgent that I should have been doing but couldn’t for the life of me remember what it was. I decided I’d ask mum what it was I should be doing – she always knows.
It was then I noticed the new ‘telly’. I didn’t like it. There were no buttons to press or knobs to twiddle with, just a board in front of it full of numbers and letters. The woman (I don’t like her) came over and did something with the numbers and suddenly there was a picture, but it was just a lot of writing. Then I remembered; I was writing a story – but why was it on the telly? I got mad ‘cos I couldn’t understand.
I asked the woman for some paper and a pencil so that I could write my story, but she just laughed and said something about it being on the ‘comb peter’ (I really don’t like her; she’s to bossy. I’m gonna tell dad when he gets home from work at Dick Kerrs).
I threw the tea on the floor when that bossy woman brough it in. She knows I always have orange squash in the afternoon. Then she started to cry but it was all her fault anyway. And where’s mum? She’s always home from Vernon’s Mill before now. I’m frightened as everything is so strange and unfamiliar and I can’t find my school satchel anywhere. Mr Hunt will be cross if I don’t do my homework and I’ll probably get the cane. It’s not fair; it’s not my fault either.

Much, much later
Why am I in this strange house in this big bed. This is not South Meadow Lane; we’re out in the country somewhere; are we on holiday? I like holidays but not in the country. I like Blackpool best, down at Uncle Tom’s Cabin, fishing for crabs in the big pool. Mum doesn’t like it much as she says that the pub gets more attention from dad than she does. I always laugh when she says this, only I haven’t seen her or dad for ages. That silly woman is always fussing about though. Saw her yesterday talking to a man about a home; perhaps were going back to South Meadow Lane again and mum and dad are sure to be there. Yes, that will be it.
The stupid woman has given me some sheets of paper and says that it’s my story. I don’t remember writing it. She says it hasn’t got a title yet, but I can’t see it very well – It must be the dying of the light!

If you like stories with a twist then our resident bard has written a number of books with tales more twisted than a corkscrew. To find out more then go to Page 4d for a list of all his very readable books.