A fantastic and mouth-watering, 136,000 word, time-travel comedy that takes the Grandfather paradox and plays footsie with it before wringing its neck and throwing its carcass on a heap!
Alien Queens-Being the narration of Miss Molly Flaguline, is a farcical, profoundly irreverent, madcap comedy primarily intended for the older teenager and those in their twenties. Commencing in 2019, it is a gentle, tongue-in-cheek, fantasy comedy that never takes itself seriously. It concerns the activities of an ancient alien and his female sidekick as they attempt to procure the DNA of two of England’s most famous Queens; Anne Boleyn and her daughter, Elizabeth the First. Without this fresh supply of cells, which they intend to genetically modify for their own use, they risk infection from the modern world.
Assimilated into the unnecessarily elaborate and complicated events are two effeminate and bitchy gay men who are unwittingly drawn into the alien's scheme. Using a genetically altered life-form whose natural habitat is time travel, the aliens and the gay men chase each other back and forth along thirty-five different periods from 6000BC to an unknown time in the future until one of the queens is restored to her time and the alien receives an appropriate and very fitting punishment. However...this unique yarn then pushes further into the realms of absurdity by introducing luminaries such as John Fowles, Oscar Wilde, Douglas Adams, Agatha Christie (which is why she disappeared for eleven days in 1926 of course), Brooklyn Beckham who is Prime Minister in 2030, Shakespeare and myself, (not a luminary) a humble beggar with aspirations who once worked the streets of London in 1805. Joining this merry eclectic mix is The Spice Girls and HG Wells.
"Three hundred years ago, you betrayed me and I am not a forgiving man!"
Lord Glayva the Seventh
Please see below for Molly's uncensored opinion on this novel!
Here are three passages.
I
have been charged with accounting for this cuckoo story! A tale never morose or
dull. I trust it will be to your liking. Each event and gentlemanly character is
as true as those who hastened me to tell it. It is to my friend though, JF, to
whom I must offer my heart and my redeemed soul. For, without his grizzly
guidance, you would not be reading these words.
Little
remains of my former existence of poverty, now lost in the swirl of that which
has departed. I keep the dress I once wore, a silly notion, in a bottom drawer
in case fate deems me to return. Although torn and ragged, it is pressed and
protected with herbs and a soft talisman.
An
unknown quantity of full moons has arrived and vanished. And that is good. God
be praised, that is good. I am antiquated and unimpeded no more. No longer a
pauper. My destination is complete. Where I was once a prejudiced sulk,
scowling and grumbling, a shadow of a girl and of no cheer, now, I hold the
merriment of a shining clock face. Where once I was the dweller on the
threshold of time, cleaning boots and roasting the oldest and blackest of crows
and rooks for my nourishment, now I wear scarlet off Cornwall and pocket the
sovereigns I earn. Beggars I see no more.
How
fair I had been chosen! What angelic dust was sprinkled upon me that day in
lamentable plenty? Rosy and Guilt. Aye! Good names for my two new chancy
friends in my new London Town! And none ragged or perverse, but one whiskered
like a catfish and t'other Godless and a stranger to the barber, and both
foreigners to marriage! Unholy imps they are, but better friends I will not
find.
-------
My
name is Miss Molly Flaguline and I am here, with you, by what means I still
know not. I often think I am moonstruck, that I am cuckoo but it is the whole
cracked story that is cuckoo. My eyes and brain never imagined such events and
objects.
Looking
back, it did not take long, over two hundred years to April 1st 1800 (and my
friends and I were so pleased to have reached that date) and my old stamping
ground, Seven Dials and St Giles, a mightily corrupt and deprived area lying
stinking between the Old City of London, and the new populous suburbs, to see
that it had been a cold and unholy place to live. Summer or winter.
For
the cold of which I mention had little in common with temperature. And unholy?
This was an area our God had forgotten. The ambitious and eager developers
wishing to make their mark, spectacularly ignored our living conditions, our
houses and our slums.
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Devoid
of the normal amount of information with which she would be comfortable, she
had no recourse but to fall back on her wits. Under the circumstances, it was
not surprising that she was defensive and without charm. Therefore, with the
lads not entirely convinced of who she maintained she was, and Frankie, not at
all of course, many strong and even heated exchanges were had, and during their
evening together, Anne was invited three times to leave. Yet each time she
witnessed the stupidity of her words, trembling at the gravity of her situation,
and caved in using the oldest ploy known to womankind; the trembling lip. Why
not, she admitted to me later with some amusement. It had worked on a king and
it worked on queens! She was not stupid our Anne. Or was devoid of a wicked
sense of humour. You see, we just don’t get these qualities staring at an
historical painting.
Stewart
reached forward and turned off the television.
‘Well?
‘My
blood held true?’
Frankie,
his face deeply suspicious, and looking like Mucus the mute fish (the character I played in a long-lost comedy performed above the Black
Horse, one Christmas before my adventures began) held out a sheet of
official-looking paper, a report, to Stewart who took it with a mixture of
surprise and revulsion.
‘Raggy
was very interested in where we got the blood from. He said it was vulnerable
but unlike any sample he had ever measured. He said the person who owned this
must have an extraordinary immune system. And there's no trace of illegal or
legal drugs including alcohol. However, measurable traces of a-pinene, limonene
and 1,8-cineole were found along with a whole lot of other substances.’
‘Ah
ha!’ Stewart placed one finger to his mouth and pointed the other at Anne who
discretely ignored him although her eyes knew exactly what he was doing.
‘And
in higher doses in what could be expected over the average Raggy said.’
‘Ah
ha!... What does that mean?’
‘A-pinene,
limonene and 1,8-cineole are all components of lavender Stew.’
Anne
turned with a smile.
‘Oh!
The most gracious of herbs gentlemen. You have it here?’
‘You
use lavender?’
‘Who
does not? It keeps at bay all pestilence's, fever and plague. I use it
nevertheless for everything.’
Stewart
lowered his arm.
‘Which
would explain that Frankie.’
‘You
turncoat. All that ah-ha-ing!’
‘Turncoat!
Interesting word. What am I now? A highwayman?
‘Highway
woman more like.’
‘Why
don't you go and play in the toilet?’
‘Why
don't you...oh, I can't be bothered.’
‘Ladies,
enough!’ Which ended their disagreement straight away, for the use of a modern
piece of banter took them quite by surprise causing them both to regard her
with even more suspicion.
‘Nice
use of a modern phrase Anne. Dropped yourself in it. Your guard fell away
there.’
‘Not
at all gentlemen. It was mentioned last night in that theatre, that abomination
we were forced to sit through. You remember the piece? The argument next to the
horse? Do not try my intelligence gentlemen for I have an excellent memory, and
anyways, to trust this paper now, 'tis by God's will I am here.’
‘As
simple as that?’ asked Stewart.
‘Trusting
men ask few questions. I am alive sir when once I thought to be dead within an
hour. I am grateful however it was done.’
‘We
didn't save you Anne. We found you in a toilet.’
‘Yet
your physician tells you I am she. I should like to meet this man. Send for
him.’
‘Raggy
is a Rastafarian and not someone you can order about.’
Frankie
stood again, more than mystified by his encounter with science. He had expected
Raggy to examine the tiny sample Anne had freely offered, and once analysed,
expected the computerised report to state that it was jam-packed full of drugs,
alcohol, sperm, dust mites, dog poo or whatever...
What
he did not expect was Raggy excitedly pumping him for information, and
insisting that he must know from whom it came because it was so wonderfully
unexpected to come across a sample of western blood that was seemingly so
untainted with the usual garbage that he was forever finding in his line of
work. However, given even that, Frankie was quite guarded in what he was
prepared to believe. Unlike Stewart who now spoke as if Anne was not even in
the room.
‘What
are we going to do with her? How did she get here?’
Frankie
glanced at his lover hopelessly. ‘Oh, I think the answer is simple Stewart. We
come to our bloody senses! This is not Anne Boleyn. She has not time-travelled
five hundred years just to sit here and watch digital TV!’
‘Which
is goodly entertainment this morning! Every soul exists for pleasure only. Your
bed companion is convinced. Why do you doubt?’
‘Bed
companion? Me and Stewart are...well it doesn't matter what we are. What
matters is what you are.’
‘This
costume?’ asked Anne lightly and coyly, knowing full well it was not. ‘Is it
yours?’
Frankie
huffed himself up in indignation. ‘No, it isn't! It was Stewart’s mother’s!’
‘Anne
found it in the spare room. The shoes fitted perfectly too.’
‘It
is of the finest weave and almost luminous. So light. It gives me much
pleasure, yet it is the most guilt inducing garment I have seen outside of any
bedchamber.’
‘Where’s
your precious hat?’
‘Do
not humour me fat serf! I am entitled to sleep as I feel comfortable.’
‘Wearing
a hanky on your head will not prevent you getting sick.’
‘By
your words then, this tells me you believe who I am.’
‘Not
at all. I’m just saying...’
‘Aye,
then say not and keep thy hole closed!’
This
was a reference to one of their closing arguments the previous night. Anne was
entirely dissatisfied and quite horrified with Stewart’s suggestion about how
she slept concerning what she ought to wear, which was virtually nothing. She
insisted at least on a full-length gown, which they could not supply, and some
form of headgear, for a reason she did not fully explain, but indicated that it
had something to do with her health. Eventually, she made a covering out of a
large white handkerchief and wore a dressing gown. Frankie, indelicately, at
the time, laughed at her. Which was a mistake.
All
three slept poorly with Anne, who was in the room next to that bedroom, crying
out periodically, the victim of some delirious dreams and wandering about the
flat looking for a pot and banging on their door asking for candles among other
things.
However,
the night’s dissatisfaction fully dismissed, Anne stood and gaily twirled, but
seriousness suddenly flooded across her face.
‘If
I dare leave the safety of this abode, I can propose a proof sirs of my
identity.’
The
atmosphere became charged with a positive stillness.
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Highcross castle was a strange place at this time. (At this time?)
Although Glayva employed over two hundred servants, very few were visible for
any length of time. Their remit was to do the job they were employed to do, and
in the meantime and preferentially, even while they were doing it, to be as
invisible as possible. This partly explained the numerous narrow passageways
and stairwells worm-holed throughout the structure so the underlings could go
about their business without being seen by He who employed them.
For its time, it was a modern innovation, and the architect of Highcross
castle could have taken the idea far further than he did. The designers on
early twentieth century steamers like the Titanic did. Its servants were
practically ethereal and vapourous.
So in effect, even though the place was teaming with staff, there was
hardly a soul visible, and therefore, as they headed after Anne, no one to
question them. Entering the dense wood, the air became cold and dewy, and their
world became drenched in a green-like quietness as parallel beams of bright sunlight
struck diagonally from sky to ground, caused by the smoke of the burning apple
spoils. They hurried along the single path for perhaps a minute until Stewart,
who was in front, stopped and held up his hand.
‘Listen.’
Perhaps a hundred feet away several bushes were waving back and forth,
and Velvet thought it was either two small animals fighting or Anne was
involved somehow. They were there within a short while, but when they reached a
small natural clearing, what they saw perfectly shocked them. Even Velvet.
For Anne was sitting astride a boy of about ten, her knees digging into
his arms, her hands squeezing the life out of his throat. Blood was smeared
across his nose, the result from an obvious blow, and his tongue protruded in a
silent scream. Anne was demonic, her full weight on him. This was not much, but
to a child it was enough to keep him pinned to the dirt.
With one swoop, Stewart swept her away to an agonising scream, and then
a gush of foul insults. The boy flopped back choking as his neck was released.
He was a proper little Tudor boy as if they needed any confirmation on when
they were, but his very fine clothes, in resplendent bright colours were now
smudged with forest muck, and ripped in several places.
Agatha's kind and gentle nature came foreword, and she immediately went
to soothe the child, but her offer of help was rejected just as fast by, first
a wave of his hand as if that were enough, and then, by a swift blow to her arm
accompanied by a grunt deep enough to unlikely issue from the voice box of one
so young.
Whilst Anne remained in the air, her legs kicking, arms flailing and her
mouth uttering so many expletives that even Frankie was impressed in a negative
sort of way, Velvet stood over the boy.
‘Oh my God! Anne! Just what the hell were you doing?’
The struggling ceased, and she reverted into the vernacular.
‘Thou knowest who this is?’
‘That doesn't give you the right to kill him.’
‘Aye it does because I am here, and according to your magical science, I
can prevent the happenings of the future.’
‘Just because you can, doesn't mean you have the right.’
‘Excuse me? Who is this then?’
‘Oh, thou knowest not the foul bastard?
‘If I did Anne,’ Frankie cocked his head to one side, ‘I wouldn't be
asking.’
‘Lower me Stewart.’
‘Okay. I'm keeping hold of you though. Wicked temper that you've got.’
‘My father will see you dead you foul wench,’ the boy managed to sit up
a little and croaked, ‘he will have you flailed alive for assaulting the royal
personage.’
‘Velvet? Who the hell is this kid?’
‘This Frankie, is Henry.’
‘And why does Anne want to...oh! Oh my God! Henry? Not...?’
‘The same!’
‘If I do him now then he will not hurt others.’
‘Anne, Anne? Think. He may not but what may replace him? A less vicious
murderer?’
‘None can be less than his monstrous acts.’
‘I am never far from help. If I cry out, the King's men will find this
prince, and that will be the last for you all.’
‘Hey! Nobody is going to cry out okay. So shut your mouth and sit there.’
‘You dare speak to me as so!’
‘Henry?’ Velvet rounded on him, ‘be glad we came along when we did. This
woman does not like you, and frankly, either do I and never have done. I'm
thinking of an incident in the kitchen one Sunday morning after Mass, but I'll
have to let that go because you don't know...anyway, the fact that you're a
spoilt kid who's a psychopathic bully waiting to grow up is enough for me. What
are you doing here? Where is your master? Why are you on your own?’
‘You ask questions madam as if I am deemed to answer, but when my
father's men catch you it is you who will be answering questions.’
‘Feisty little guy isn't he? I can kind of see where he's going.’
Frankie smiled.
‘Anne? You can't hurt this boy. I can understand how you feel but...’
‘Thou canst not understand at all! How knowest you to be so betrayed by
a husband?’
‘Anne?’ Stewart swivelled her around. ‘English we know honey? You're
talking too fast.’
‘He is an evil brat and deserves to die! How many thousands will perish
under him illegally?’
‘Be that as it may Anne, we cannot do anything to this child...how will
your Elizabeth be born?’
This question had a remarkable effect, and she palpably relaxed. So much
so that Stewart allowed her to sink to her knees where she relapsed, murmuring
a string of Latin. For a brief moment, her voice and Henry's hard breathing
were the only sounds they could hear in the deep forest.
‘I've got no words for what's happening here.’
‘Makes a change for you Frankie.’
‘Sorry Stewart for calling you stuff.’
‘Sorry as well.’
‘Thou will all be sorry.’ Henry tried to staunch a trickle of blood that
popped out of his nose. ‘My men will find thee and cut thee down.’
‘He is feisty isn't he? Was he always like that Anne? Anne?’
Anne stopped her intoning upon hearing her name, unclasped her fingers
and stared upward, directly towards the centre of Velvet's face. For she
understood her to be the polestar of their small group.
‘Will I have affected my chances?’
‘No Anne. If you had done damage then we would not have memories of your
mother, and we have guys yes?’
Both men nodded.
‘Sweet lady...’
‘Had me held in a dungeon...’
‘I do fear that I understand now this illusion of duration. How one tick
of a moment can affect so many other times. How one occasion can alter the
tempo of the past, and what time may come. Even now, I am not here, yet I exist,
and my daughter is not yet glorified in thought...’
‘That's right Anne. You cannot hurt this child. He's just a boy. A
child.’
Anne twisted away from Stewart, and carefully stepped back to Henry,
looking down on him.
‘I am sorry my Lord. I was not myself.’
‘Henry, I suggest you leave?’ Motioned Velvet making a swishing effect
with her hand. ‘Just go and we will too. You can send your soldiers after us if
you wish, but take it from me, you won't catch us. Just trying to save you some
time.’
‘I will not rest until you are all quartered.’
His parting words before he sped away.
‘Well, good luck with that Anne!’ Frankie smiled yet again.
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Molly's uncensored opinion!
This was a terrible book to write! My hardest ever in terms of sheer complexity. Taking a full six years to complete, the logic of the story-line tested my pea-size brain-power to its limits. To keep track of all the characters and where they were in both space and time, I had a length of plain wallpaper, some fifteen feet long, tacked around three walls of my living room and divided into all the time zones that the characters would occupy. And from it, hung ribbons, each colour representing one person.
The ribbons hung down and across, snaking their way from wall to wall turning my room into a complicated bad Monday wash day. Just to look at it gave me a headache! And the mistakes I found! Endless, endless errors where a character was where he or she should not have been. Rewrites? I know about rewrites!
Eventually, I came to my senses and tore the migraine-inducing kaleidoscope down, replacing it with a huge sheet of paper some six feet high by four feet wide upon which was divided again, the time zones. This time I replaced the ribbons with coloured pencils which at least proved to be more hand-able. However, upon going through the story for the umpteenth time, the result looked like a chimp had been let loose on it. It was at that point that I began to feel sorry for the poor souls who were going to pay to read it! Was I subconsciously getting my own back?
Parts of the story, even I didn't know what was going on! But that's the nature of time for you. Beware the grandfather paradox! I remember, in the fifth year of its development, a third attempt at simplification was made with the help of a high-tech solution; my Apple Mac. Now let me tell you something important. There does not exist a computer that can handle that sort of data without it crashing and burning every minute, no matter how much RAM memory it has! Microsoft Excel? The Leopard operating system? Huh! No match for the complexity of my Alien Queens!
But, bother! I've been thinking of a sequel now. Perhaps I'm subconsciously getting my own back on myself?