A One Pronged Attack

Alex Baldwin, no relation, woke up one morning as usual, yawned as usual, got out of bed as usual, and saw a unicorn at the end of his bed not as usual.

The unicorn, if that was what it was, and it was, didn’t look like normal pictures of unicorns.  It was brown, for a start, and quite dirty, like it had been rolling around in the bins, which it had.

It was small - about four feet high, though it didn’t look young. The horn was about a foot long, and appeared to have bloodstains on it.  They weren’t bloodstains by the way. It was ketchup from the bin rolling I referred to earlier. It’s legs were short and fat, it’s eyes were large and grey, and its tail seemed matted and filthy.

It was also smoking. Indoors, if you can imagine such a thing. 

Nevertheless, it was a unicorn.  It was at the foot of Alex Baldwin’s bed, and that was definitely a thing.

Alex stepped back into his bed and crawled towards the foot of it, towards the unicorn.  The unicorn didn’t move, or flinch, but simply stared at him disconsolately.  It struck me while writing that that sounds like the unicorn no longer had a consulate.  Meaning that it didn’t have ‘a building where a consul’s duties are carried out’ on it.  Which it didn’t, so I suppose it’s accurate. And would be a problem if you decided to go for a holiday on that unicorn, then got into trouble, and need to contact the consul about getting home etc.  I suppose the moral is - if someone looks at you disconsolately, don’t immediately go on holiday on them, just in case. I say immediately because as time passes they might have had a consulate built on them, in which case they will start to look at you consulately. I hope all this has helped. It’s just a shame that the holiday programme isn’t on any more, or I could get a job as a correspondent.

Anyway.  The unicorn stared at him, and didn’t move.  He reached out and patted it, and it didn’t move. It didn’t look like it liked it, and it didn’t look like it hated it. It just chewed a little and gazed with glassy eyes like the guests on Saturday kitchen.

Alex stared at the unicorn, and both of them did nothing.  After a minute or two, the unicorn let the cigarette drop out of it’s mouth, and it crushed it out with its hoof. On the carpet, if you can imagine.  

Then, all of a sudden, the unicorn started braying. Incredibly loudly. A rasping honking sound, that left the emotional footprint of an argument about directions in a car.

Alex panicked. His initial reaction was that no one must know that he has a unicorn in his house. Something special had happened to him.  Something magical, and it must be kept a secret.  If people found out about it then... then... who knows what might happen. The government probably.  But more than that.  

A unicorn had arrived in his bedroom.  That had happened for a reason.  Something special was happening to him.  All that time you spend growing up and learning that magic isn’t real had suddenly turned out to be a lesson not worth learning.  And the reason that everyone still thinks that magic isn’t real is because people who know about it keep it secret.  It’s like that argument you hear about time travel.  Of course time travel will never be invented, because if it ever were, we would have been visited by time travellers.  Well duh. Maybe we have and they have been keeping it secret?  Eh?  Ever thought of that?  Ever seen Back To The Future Part 2 where Hill Valley goes all nasty because Biff finds out about the time machine built into a Delorean and buys the sports almanac and gives it to his younger self, and Hill Valley goes all nasty and even loses its consulate as a result.  Well - time travellers have seen it and they know not to tell anyone about it.  They make them watch Back To The Future part two at the time travel depot.  It may not be a depot. Time travellers can only be spotted because they can’t operate simple things like the oyster card barriers because in the future they control barriers with their minds and also the oyster reader is on the other side and pockets are different.

Anyway.  The point of all that is that Alex knew he had to keep the unicorn a secret, or it would be taken away from him before whatever magic it was going to impart was imparted. And if he was going to keep it secret, he needed to to keep it quiet, and he didn’t know quite how to keep it quiet, but he thought maybe it was hungry, so he ran downstairs, and grabbed some boxes of breakfast cereal.  For those of you who enjoy details, the cereals he brought up were Special K, Grape Nuts, and Weetos.  The unicorn ate the Grape Nuts first, then it ate the Special K and finally the Weetos.  From this we can ascertain that Unicorns like Grape Nuts best and Weetos least unless it was saving the best for last in which case reverse the order and that’s your fact.  Of course it could have eaten the number two cereal first, and then finished with worst and then next or vice versa.  I assume this has helped.

The Unicorn ate the cereal and stopped braying as a result.  Alex then didn’t know what to do. Unicorns, like babies and pencils don’t come with instruction manuals.  Actually - I was discussing this with my wife the other day. She made the observation that babies come with so many instruction manuals.  Amazon lists 111 882 titles.  But not one Unicorn manual.

Actually, that's a lie, the first result for Unicorns under 'books' is called 'Raising Unicorns - Your Step by Step guide to starting and running a successful - and Magical - Unicorn Farm'.

But on further inspection it is ‘satire’ or ‘fun’, and can be discounted, as this story is about a real unicorn, as you can tell because all my descriptions are so gritty.

I’ve forgotten where I am.  So, Alex Baldwin worked as an engineer for British Telecom, but this isn’t what he wanted to do.  He wanted to be a movie star, and appear in such films as  ‘Glengarry Glen Ross’ or ‘The Hunt for Red October’ or to a lesser extent ‘Thomas and the Magic Railroad’.  And then when his movie career dried up, Alex had always dreamed about starring in a sitcom about making a TV show where everyone would suddenly discover that it is comedy and not action that was his strength.  But none of that had so far happened.  But perhaps this unicorn was there to change all that.

Perhaps this unicorn was his ticket out of here.  He just had to figure out how to make it work.

First of all - keep it secret.  Tick.  He was already having a good go at that.  

Now what?

Over the next few weeks, Alex Baldwin changed completely. He kept everyone out of his house, which meant that his relationship suffered and eventually twinkled out of existence.  He stopped going to work, because he decided that he needed to be at home and near his magical gift from heaven in case he missed whatever it was he was supposed to do to make the magic happen.

Because he stopped going to work, he soon lost his job, but of course that didn’t matter, because everything would soon be changing.

If Alex Baldwin could see things from the outside he would surely have noticed that he was spending an awful lot of time shovelling unicorn shit out of his bedroom, which it turned out wasn’t as rare as funny phrases try to make out, but doing very little else.  He was showing very few signs of having wishes granted.

What he was doing  was becoming a weird unwashed loner. And throughout this whole time, the unicorn did nothing but stare, smoke and eat.

But soon, he told himself.  Soon it would all change.

Without anyone to talk to, Alex Baldwin started creating his own rules, that he somehow pretended were rules made up by the unicorn. Don’t eat meat - the unicorn is an animal and might not like it, and the magic might not happen. Don’t use electricity, the unicorn is an ancient creature who doesn’t understand such things, he might not like it, and the magic might not happen. Don’t dance on a Wednesday the unicorn might not like it, and the magic might not happen.

The list of superstitions he created became so immense and complicated that Alex had trouble remembering it, and would have written it down, but he decided that the Unicorn didn’t like seeing things written down due to it’s lack of opposable thumbs.  And fingers.  And penmanship.

And one day the unicorn made a different sound.  A sudden, beautiful cooing and calling, like the voices of a thousand ages joining in celebration.

Alex decided it was because he had drawn squares all over his face in biro.  He had finally stumbled on the trigger to make the magic happen.

The unicorn looked at him with it’s watery grey eyes, and stopped making the noise.  It blinked twice, and seemed to smile.  Then it died, doing one last shit as it did so.

And then it was all over.

Alex’s disappointment was extraordinary.

And the next day he started to put his life back together, beginning by burying the unicorn under the flourishing rose beds.

He started applying for jobs, and trying to patch things up with his ex, and, being a resourceful fellow, outside of the madness, he started to get back on his feet again in a matter of weeks.

That was when he received a phone call.  Would he like to fly out to Hollywood to star in a remake of ‘Beetlejuice’?  Would he ever?!  This was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He was about to make it big. 

Touch wood.

Pressing On

This is story number four in the 'Tall Tales' series. For those of you who are checking back every single day for an update, I apologise that it's there's only an update every two months. For those of you who happen to check in once every two months, you must think I update with massive efficiency.

So - here's the story - enjoy, leave feedback, retweet etc.

Pressing On

One morning, when Gregory Samuels woke up from particularly normal dreams - his normal dreams consisted of him picturing himself in the throes of a bare knuckle gypsy fight with Des Lynam, being egged on by a noisy gang of anthropomorphic ZX 81’s, while a brass band played entirely by his sister refused to play any music that wasn’t an exam. But when he awoke that morning, from his particularly normal dreams, he discovered that he was no longer there.

He was no longer there.

He wasn’t dead. He sat up in his bed, which felt like he was sitting up in nearly set jelly, and moved gently through the duvet. He stood up, feet squishing into the hard bare floorboards of the spare room, and he couldn’t help noticing that there was nothing of him. He was entirely transparent. He couldn’t see himself. And the world was behaving oddly around him. He couldn’t touch anything. Trying to pick up his glasses was like trying to pick up a draught.

Gregory tried to remember everything that had happened the night before. Had he done anything the previous evening that would make him go invisible. He came to the conclusion that he hadn’t. Though he did remember the fight he had with Sarah right before bed. Which explained why he had woken up in the spare room. OK. So now he could start to piece things together. He had got back from the little office he rented in town. He was so near the the end of his book, but not quite there yet. When he arrived, he and Sarah had a late supper, and watched a little television. He’d gone upstairs to give Henry a goodnight kiss, being careful not to wake him. He and Sarah had drunk most of a bottle of red wine, and then they had argued about...now that he couldn’t remember. But they had clearly felt strongly enough about it to sleep in separate bedrooms. So - he’d gone to sleep, and then..somehow....during the night... had gone invisible. It wasn’t very satisfying.

His thoughts were interrupted by the door opening, and Sarah entering. She looked like she was still cross. Gregory spoke to her, he tried to say he was sorry, for whatever it was they had argued about. HE tried to hold out his arms and stop her, and say ‘Let’s forget everything. I love you, and I love Henry, and I love our life’, and then kiss her, and then make everything the same as it was yesterday.

But he couldn’t touch her. And she couldn't hear him. She walked through him with only the slightest resistance, and threw the duvet from the spare bed.

‘GREG!’

Yes, said Gregory. Yes.

‘GREG!’ she called again, and picked up his glasses from the bedside table with an ease that Gregory had always taken for granted. She looked at them, and went through to the bathroom where Gregory also wasn’t, but in a different way. Later on, she cried.

Gregory noticed that he was sinking slowly into the floor and went downstairs to make that stop happening.

He thought, of course, that this was the dream. Not all the other stuff. That he would wake up. Wake up and be normal and there and visible and in his family. But it wasn’t.

Gregory Samuels wasn’t there anymore, and that, it seemed, was that.

He stayed in the house for the next few weeks, and watched his beloved wife Sarah try to piece together what had happened. He listened as the police came and took down statements, and saw in their eyes that they thought this was just another case of a husband running away.

He watched Sarah cry and cry and cry and cry, as the endlessly cheerful Henry gurgled from his cot, unaware that the first eighteen months of his life were going to be different to the rest of it.

He learnt the rules of his new life. He didn’t need to eat, to sleep, to drink, to breathe. He was made of nothing, and needed nothing. But his shape was still the same. No one could see it, so what was the point, but his shape was the same. He could feel all the way down his legs, and round the back of his head, and feel that everything was just where it was before.

He watched Sarah’s parents come, and watched her regress to a little girl who needed her mummy, because her world had fallen apart. Where had he gone? Had he left her? Had he been kidnapped? Run down in the road? Was he alive? How could he do this, how could he do this? How could he do this?

He watched his own parents visit, and hated the fact that there was shame in their faces as they tried to placate their daughter in law. They didn’t say it, but he could see it. How could their son do this? Was she still even their daughter in law? His mother held Henry like she’d never see him again. That was what had happened when her sister’s husband had left her. When he’d just upped sticks and gone never to return. Stupid Uncle Frank, she used to call him. Stupid Uncle Frank who couldn’t face up to his responsibilities. They hadn’t wanted Frank’s parents to call. She hadn’t seen their side at all.

Weeks turned to months, and nothing changed. Gregory lived silently in the house, watching his son grow older, and his wife change. Change from a woman who’s life felt like it was all finally there. It had all finally dropped into place, into a woman who no longer had any faith in the world, that it could shake her up so badly.

Gregory decided that he must die. His lack of being showed no sign of abatement, and he must do the right thing. Not literally you understand, He wasn’t thinking about killing himself. He wasn’t entirely sure how that would work. No. He knew he must find a way to convince Sarah that he was dead. That he hadn’t left her. That he hadn’t left her for someone better. There was no one better. But that he had died, tragic, but true, and she should move on. And then so would he. Because he wasn’t sure how much more he could take.

So he set about trying to find the way to convince her that he was dead, and found it to be impossible. He couldn’t touch anything, he couldn’t write anything, he couldn’t hold anything, he couldn’t carry anything. What could he do? He was existing in this world, but not existing.

After seven months, he left the house for the first time. The front door was locked but he found that he could push through it, if he tried hard enough. He walked through the door, and into the the world that no longer had him in it.

He went to where his office was. The little office he rented. Where he used to write on his little old typewriter. He typed onto paper, before sending it in to his literary agent, where his assistant would type it into the computer. He’d long ago decided that that would be his thing. His quirk. He was the typewriter guy. You know that guy? He still uses a typewriter? Wow! He must be interesting! Is how he imagined all the conversations went behind his back.

He pushed through the office door, and looked at the room. It was still Gregory’s. The standing order was still paying the rent. Maybe if he hadn’t stayed here so late the night before it happened, it never would have? He looked at the typewriter, and the manuscript that sat next to it. He looked at the blank sheet of paper in the roll of the typewriter.

Then he put his non existent finger about the letter ‘D’ on the typewriter, and concentrated. And concentrated.

And nothing happened. But he had a little faith. If doors and walls had a tiny bit of give in them, perhaps this would too.

So he concentrated, and concentrated.

And he did nothing else for thirteen hours. And at the end of the thirteen hours, the letter ‘D’ depressed, and a faint little ‘D’ appeared on the page. Fourteen hours later, and the letter ‘e’ appeared next to it. The first two letters of his suicide note.

He supposed that sooner or later someone would come into the room, and if they found his note, maybe that would be that. He had simply taken his own life. Sarah could move on.

The electrician. That’s what the argument had been about. It suddenly came to him. The wiring in the office was condemned, and he had promised Sarah he would call an electrician to have it sorted. But he hadn’t. Maybe if he had, and they hadn’t argued, non of this would have happened. But it had.

Some letters took thirteen or fourteen hours to press and some took nearer forty eight. But time was something he had. By the end of what used to be a fortnight he had complete the first line of his note.

He predicted he could do it within the year if he tried. And if he didn’t procrastinate. Which , if he was honest with himself was mainly what he used the office for.

But now he had focus. This was the most important thing he would ever do, and he had to get it done.

Eleven months of concentration later, the note was nearly completed. He was glad he hadn’t rushed it. It was the best thing he’d ever written. Moving, convincing. Final.

And later that night the office burned down. Due to faulty wiring. Taking with it Gregory’s hundred word masterpiece.

Gregory didn’t die in the fire however. He’d given up hope of that ever happening.He decided simply to walk.

So he did. He walked as far as Britain would let him, and then he walked out into the sea. And he didn’t get wet, and he didn’t get cold, and he didn’t drown, because he and the sea lived in different worlds.

But he kept on walking. Across the sea bed. In the darkness. And he didn’t get tired. And he didn’t get scared.

He didn’t know where he was going. He thought he might just keep on going. Round and round. In and out of the oceans.

For years, he walked, now and then changing direction.

Finally, he saw the light. dim and distant, but definitely there. They all saw the light eventually. In the darkness.

He walked towards the light. For days and days.

And then. Nearly fifteen years after he had woken up from his normal dreams, Gregory Samuel saw something he didn’t expect to see.

Uncle Frank.

He was standing with several other people in the glow on the ocean bed. I say several other people. Several hundred thousand other people. A little blonde girl. A crew of sailors.

‘Greg. Greg is that you?’ Said Frank.

‘You can see me?’

‘Yes.’

‘You can hear me?’

‘Yes. Oh Greg. You’re one of us.’

It seems that some people just disappear. No one knows how, or why. Like a virus. Some people just disappear. The crew of the Marie Celeste, Glen Miller, Amelia Earhart. Other people you can read about on Wikipedia.

And this is where they gathered. Under the sea, in a place they called Atlantis.

I’m only telling you this so you know. If you wake up and you have disappeared. You know where to go.