It's a writing exercise, a culmination of various little writing topics I gave my Chinese students, all rolled into one Spring pancake of a story.

THE VISITORS



I was out in Dawsholm park walking Rex. He's part Alsation, and a keen hunter but, try as he might, squirrels elude him.

It was a fine Autumn evening; a painter would be reaching for his ochres.

Agnetha Petersson walked by, a teacher at the local secondary school, Swedish, and straight out of a Bo Widerberg film.

I said, Hej! She smiled.

I knew her from her Camphill days in Sweden, when she suddenly changed tack and decided to try her luck in the British Isles.

She patted Rex. He calmed down and stopped scanning the bushes for squirrels. He was wagging his tail.

Agnetha spoke at length; the length it takes to put on a cup of tea and have a digestive biscuit.

I listened to her school stories and wondered if she really meant what she said about me looking great.
Did I really look great after so much soul-searching and boredom?

Our conversation was going on a bit,
but her smile was saying, you're ok!

I was thinking maybe there was more to Agnetha Petersson than schoolbooks.

As the shadows thickened, and Rex grew restless to be a-chasing the squirrels,
we were rudely interrupted by an alien spacecraft that suddenly hovered above us in the familiar sky;
silver and metallic, a real flying saucer.

I couldn't see us taking a cup of tea with the visitors -
little green men with slit eyes, spindly legs, and large dome-like heads
(like the Roswell alien), but these guys were for real.

Maybe they were from across the universe, or the Atlantic!


We couldn't move. Rex was barking like crazy. In a flash, we were on board, strapped to operating tables,
being examined by the head honcho.

I knew he was the head honcho because he had two mouths instead of one. He spoke gobbledygook from both of them.

But here's the weird thing, I understood.

He was saying, Don't worry, we're just having a look at your physiology to see if we can cross-breed you with our beautiful Galatian women.

That's all right, then! I laughed feebly.

Agnetha was on the next table. Fast asleep by the looks of it. Rex was nowhere in sight. Dog meat, perhaps.
A bark from the next room told otherwise.

The head honcho said his name was Sprog! Dumb name, but he looked smart
in an unidentifiable way. Sprog laid his skinny hands on me; he was feeling for something...my wallet and I.D., possibly.

Suddenly, he backed off and motioned to two of his kinsmen that the examination was over.
A soft glow entered the room.

Agnetha moaned.

My manhood stirred, like a message from the deep saying you're going in the right direction.

Before you could say Jack Robinson, or Robinson Crusoe, Agnetha and I were in a big warm bed in a cabin -
a sommarhus, she'd call it.
Rousing ourselves from our spell, we saw that we were in a wood and there was a lake in the distance.
Rex was running through the wood, bright-eyed, and with a spring in his tail.
Lying there, we had such a peaceful easy feeling... the Eagles song would best describe it.

Still, we knew that were not in our usual comfort zones, neither Highfield Drive or Lancaster Avenue.

I saw them. Did you see them? Agnetha nodded.
She didn't seem surprised to be sharing a bed with me. It just seemed natural.

The aliens had a reason, after all, for beaming us up.

I am with the woman of my dreams now in an island very much like Gotland.
I'm painting every day, mostly Agnetha, and the surrounding landscape.
It's summerland. Neighbours say, Hej!



Some guys dream of being a great warleader and setting their people free.

Some guys dream of being Rod Stewart.

I dream of Agnetha with the long blonde hair.