Penguins

As soon as this random word came up, I was sure I'd written about penguins before. Then I realised it was back when this blog was on Myspace. So - cheating slightly - I dug it out. I think it was worth a retread. I hope, dear reader, that you agree... 

Dreaming Spires

Who knows what strange things led to this dream? Who knows what dark, subconscious thoughts convulsed in the depths of my brain. Whatever they were, they led here…

I was on a small, wooden boat with C*, crossing (I instinctively knew) not the sea, but a huge lake. The boat, roundish with a flat bottom, and an oar for each of us, was travelling happily, as the lake was fairly smooth and wave free.

As the shore began to recede, with no sign of our destination in sight, I recalled a vague warning about the centre of the lake, "where neither shore can be seen".

The far bank gets smaller. Grey clouds start to swirl above us. The colour leeches out of the world. As the water gets rougher in the sudden wind, spray forms clouds of mist that dance about us. Enormous swells build beneath our vessel, toying with the small boat, buffeting us as we try to hold onto the oars and drive ourselves towards the farther shore.

Then, suddenly visible through the mists, tall shapes appear. At first they appear to be masts of sunken ships, jabbing upward into the gloom from unseen depths. The narrow splintered trunks seem to sway, but as we get closer we realise that it is only us and the sea moving – these lofty pylons are not wood, but rock, and rock solid. Urging ourselves forward, we drift alongside one and lash a rope to it, clinging on with wet fingers.

And then, as dreams do, everything changed. The roil of the waves ceased, the rock of the spikes changed to what it had seemed to be anyway – wooden spires, submerged ships gasping for breath by shoving their masts desperately into the air. The water was no longer water, but a stony, barren desert, with pebbles instead of foam, but otherwise as featureless as the lake had been, stretching into the distance with no discernible landmark. Oddly for a dream, I was conscious of the change, and shared puzzled looks with my companion. We were still rocking – looking more closely I could see that it was the masts that were swaying as if in the breeze, dragging stone and sand with them as they metronomed back and forth, a wooden grinding noise punctuating the sudden quiet.

As I sought to untie the boat, I could see something happening beyond the masts. Shapes, many hundreds of them, were pushing their way through the arid soil, sloughing off the sand and stones and lurching towards us. Gripped by fear, I dropped the rope, and sought to hide us behind the mighty, swaying masts, but we were too exposed. The beings moved towards us, misshapen lumps they seemed, hunched and featureless, and I gripped an oar in self-defence as they drew so close I could hear their shuffling feet in the sand.

I prepared to fight, and the nearest shape rounded the jutting spar, revealing itself clearly to me for the first time. It was…

It was a zombie penguin.

How I knew it was a zombie penguin I'm not sure. It just looked like an ordinary penguin but with a vacant expression. Perhaps they were penguin fans of daytime TV. But I somehow knew they were more than that, and kicked the first one in the head. It toppled over like a bag of marbles.

Beside me C lashed out with an oar, flooring another shuffling bird, but there were too many. Desperately (smacking another penguin over the head with my own oar) I looked again at the apparently featureless desert, and was gratified to see a motorway service station shimmering like a mirage. Grabbing my companion's hand I jumped from the boat, and we weaved amongst the snapping beaks of the flightless fiends as we sprinted towards the mysterious Little Chef. We charged through the doors, just evading capture, slammed them behind us, and then secured the lock with a handy BIC pen.

"Is there something I can help you with?" asked the Butler, standing there with a cloth over one forearm and the bleeping lights of a fruit machine flickering behind his left shoulder. He looked disapprovingly at the BIC pen.

"Zombie penguins," I explained. He nodded understandingly and ushered us through into the canteen.

A little while later I removed the BIC and peered out, but the penguins were still clustered outside the door in silent vigil, and I had to kick another one in the head just to get the door shut again.

We were trapped forever in a Little Chef.

Not one word of this in an embellishment. Honestly. Except for the brand of the motorway service station. It might have been a Moto.

Speedy (clearly sick and in need of treatment).

* Name withheld to avoid attention of the RSPZP.