The Arrival from Is It Today?

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

The mist descended out of nowhere, immersing, absorbing her. Izzy breathed its acrid vapour, inhaling the damp, dewy musk. The temperature plummeted. The chill shot icy shards into her body. She froze, then twitched, jerked and jumped like a shattered porcelain marionette thrown in the air by a demented puppeteer. They passed through her, knife-like, unknown entities, etching their sordid intimate imprints on her soul. Her mind grappled with the absurdity of intruders permeating her numbed brain, writhing inside her vital organs: What are you? Leave me alone! Get out of me, won’t you? - The Arrival (18) from Is It Today? Fantasies by HJ Furl: Experience The Arrival live at:

Ian's Hybrid Mountain Bike


It was unusual for Izzy to find a midult lying by the hewn oak logs in the clearing at twilight. There were rabbits scarpering into the bushes. Foxes returning from raiding hens’ eggs on the allotments. Deer foraging. Izzy even spotted a badger, once, squashed across the forest road. It was unheard of for her to find a midult, though, in the forest, the vast triangular swathe of silver birch, ancient beech, and oak that teemed with prolific wildlife.

There were new-borns, seen but not heard, sickly-sweet dummies stuck into their bleating mouths. Izzy had found one, screaming, abandoned by his mother in the peat bog. She’d left him there in case his parent returned.

Then there were toddlers, babies who could walk unaided but spent their time being walked around the west loop in buggies until they fell asleep. Izzy would sit on a tree stump and watch them perambulating, some of them as old as seven. She never saw a child at play in the forest.

After dark, Izzy invariably stumbled across drunken adolescents petting on the stubbled heath, coupling in lengths of grassy meadow, inside a sleepy hollow, kissing behind a lightning-dead tree. Her attempts to communicate with them invariably impeded by headsets. In broad daylight, adolescents were seen in their natural habitat, the high street, terrorizing old-aged shoppers with shiny new garden implements bought at the town’s hardware shop, or ripping wing mirrors off of parked 4x4’s.

The commonest forms of wildlife found in the forest were the youths, midults and senults, which co-existed in classes: working, new money and middle class. These sub-classes or phyla frequented the woodland habitat at differing times of the day depending on the clemency of the weather, their mood and motivation. Izzy made a point of hiding in the blackberry bushes to study their distinctive rituals.

First to rise, at civil twilight, were male runners, identified by their pouting bare chest and determined expression. Izzy noticed that the female joggers, dressed in plastic ear plugs and lycra leotards, always looked the other way when the lusty males cried their mating calls.

Cyclists and mountain-bikers presented a dangerous occupational hazard to Izzy. There had been numerous occasions when a cruising hybrid, sporting a broken bell or failed front brake, narrowly missed careering into her and hurling her callously to the ground. Izzy wondered if she would hurt when he did. Wondered if he would stop and tend her wounds. Or would he shoot off mercilessly down the gravelled hill towards Marten. Leaving her, just another push-bike injury statistic strewn across the wayside, black tyre burns etched into her slender thighs like grotesque rubberized railway tracks.

The die-hard ramblers and experienced walkers gathered in the carpark for the 10:30 send-off. Mainly retired or redundant midults and active senults keen to find companions to alleviate the boredom of their cosseted, house-bound lives. Cheery, chatty, souls who waved at Izzy as she perched on a convenient oak branch, happily tanning her arms and legs under the warm sunshine.

Sometimes, she watched them change out of their hiking boots, gossiping about charity coffee mornings, coach trips to heritage railway lines. Or just helping each other come to terms with Death and Bereavement, two unpleasant issues Izzy would never have to face. Afterwards, they slowly filed out of the pot-holed carpark, leaving by the wrong exit, fearful of shredding their tyres on the scary yellowed crocodile teeth.

Senults only entered the forest in organised groups, living in a society where human life feared growing old. Violence against the elderly had soared to new highs. Increasingly, senults were abused by those they should be able to trust. Neglected in care homes. Treated as easy financial targets. Assaulted by thugs who knew they’d get away with a legal slap on the wrist. Petrified of leaving their own home, senults represented an obstacle to THE ARRIVAL that would have to be overcome utilizing the radical solution.

Other, more unsavoury, characters could be found in the shadier recesses. Izzy knew where. Drug dealers. Criminals. Weirdos daubed in body paint, squatting peacefully as they pipe-smoked dirty weed under the shelter of makeshift tepees. All of them lurking, skulking about. In the forest. On one occasion, ramblers were stunned to see a coachload of colourful strangers hastily disembark in the carpark, run off up the hill path, and disperse among the dingy copses. 

And then there was Izzy. An extraordinary young adult by any standard. Izzy the enigma. She stood over the midult.

‘Are you alright?’ she said.

Izzy was always asking questions. On this occasion, a particularly stupid one. It was clear, from her traumatized demeanour, that this midult was not alright. She was distressed. There were brambles tangled in her honey blonde hair. Her cheesecloth dress flapped open in the cool breeze. Her stockings were bunched round her ankles. She crouched by the pink shale track, mewling quietly. So quietly that Izzy couldn’t understand a word.

‘Sorry, you’ll have to speak up, I can’t hear you,’ she said.

The midult gabbled something about love-in-the-mist.

‘Love? Mist?’

The midult stared blankly at Izzy.

‘Where? Here, in the forest?’

‘In the forest?’ Izzy repeated impatiently.

The midult remained silent.

‘Try, won’t you?’

She was beyond help. In any case, Izzy couldn’t help her, not even if she wanted to. Being familiar with the midult’s mate: a tall, slim, male midult with a cock’s crest quiff, she reasoned that her predicament was the result of coital concerns such as:

Where’s my lacy underwear?

Did I just fake it for him?

The earth was supposed to move for me, right?

Did I feel okay?

Did I just dislocate my leg for him?’

And: Surely, he doesn’t want sex with me again tonight, does he?

Izzy strongly suspected his request for repeated sex had caused an altercation which spilt: out of their luxury apartment, onto the village green, into the churchyard, through the meadows, and into the forest. In other words, they had a tiff, went to the woods, made it up, and had sex. In the mist. That kind of made sense? She glimpsed at the female whimpering at her feet. So, what happened to you afterwards, eh? 

Not that the midult’s plight was her concern. Her mating partner had made it abundantly clear to Izzy that she was not to get emotionally involved with female midults under any circumstances. Female midults were obstacles to THE ARRIVAL. Izzy muttered her a heartfelt apology, skipped over her feet, and walked away.

Iain waited until Izzy had gone, rode up to the midult on his metallic grey hybrid mountain bicycle and rang its prawn pink RING ME ANY TIME bell. Irin’s initial reaction was one of shock. She ceased mewling as an appalling notion shattered her addled mind: the cyclist might be an alien.

It was tough for Irin to tell what the bloody thing was from its bizarre apparel. An enclosed blue cycling helmet, fitted with a customized amber visor, concealed its face. A thermonuclear protective vest and red-lined road bib, with an integrated rubber jock strap, hid its body. The cyclist sported trendy coyote light assault boots, built-in shock absorbers, studded cycle gloves, and it spoke:

‘It’s only me!’

She panicked and crawled off on all fours. He dismounted, shouldered off his rucksack, and grounded her. She bleated like a little lamb. Ignoring her gibberish, he reached inside his sack, extracted a misshapen object, and untied its brown wrapping paper. Her spirits sank when he rolled her onto her back. Her scared eyes haunted him. She pleaded for her life. He felt for her.

She kneed him in the groin. He winced. She wriggled free of him, snaking across the dirt. He exhaled. She made it as far as the undergrowth. Abruptly, he took the jagged garden rock and clumped her round the head. She dropped, her arms splaying as if trying to break her final fall. Removing his gloves, he knelt next to her, pushed back her bloodied hair, and felt her neck.

She was dead.

He looked around.

They were alone in the moonlight. 

‘Can’t let them see you like this, Irin.’ 

Iain rolled Irin onto her back and dressed her, rolling her stockings up her taut calves, over her knees, and up her thighs, carefully re-attaching them to her ruby and black suspender belt.

Irin watched Iain with her dead eyes as he smoothed the scarlet-tinged curls from her face. He lifted her cold hands. Her poppy red fingernails were soiled with dirt. He picked them clean. He sucked them. Her face was dirty. He cleansed her. Iain took a deep breath, pausing over Irin’s precious mound, broke down, and cried. His tears subsided.

He recovered quickly, his nimble fingers moving deftly, sealing her corpse inside her dress.Her membrane had adhered to one side of her mouth as she bit her lip, baring her sparkly white teeth. He took her head in his hands and kissed her cyan lips. A single teardrop rolled down her cheek. Irin had been loyal, loving, and faithful to him. Iain would always love her. He had to leave her. To care for Izzy.

Wearily, he lifted Irin in his arms and carried her far into the woods where he laid her to rest in a dry ditch covering her with soil and broken twigs to keep her warm. Then he mounted his bicycle and ascended the winding hill.

Izzy tied her teak hair back in a crude knot and ran. Iain watched as she danced up the hill in her grey sports bra and red fitness pants: young, free. He wanted her. His heart fluttered as she vanished in the gloom, his bright elusive butterfly of love. She had the face of an angel: teardrop eyes, her spoilt lips divinely pursed, rather droopy at the corners, the faintest brown moustache.

Iain closed his eyes and imagined her naked. The light faded. He tightened the stiff strap on his helmet and pedalled to where the path forked. He would ride the west loop, past dewpond, bog, marsh, climb the steepest inclines, descend the deepest troughs, until he found her in the mist.

Izzy - limbering up for her jog through the dark, dark forest.

The sun set in the velvet sky presaging rain at dawn, freshening the stale air. Izzy shivered as the fresh breeze cooled her midriff. Goose-bumps bristled on her tummy, caressed her waist, massaged her back.

A swarm of marauding mosquitoes descended on her, a kamikaze death squadron. Flapping her arms, slapping her neck, Izzy fought to stave off their impending feast. The females adored her, settling in her scalp, nestling in her folds, pricking her skin, injecting their saliva, sucking her blood. She fell to earth cowering until the pests had had their fill of her, itching, scratching, rows of puce bumps erupting in blunt infant volcanoes along her jawline, her armpits, her soft creases.

Apart from the plagues of mosquitoes, Izzy loved summer evenings, her favourite time of day, the only time she felt at one with nature. She checked her illuminated wristband. They would all be fast asleep now, the midults, snug in their luxurious cots. Whereas she was made to sleep on a bunk inside a box.

Relishing the soft earth under her bare feet, the tightness pulling at her hot calves, she slid down a shallow slope into a dry hollow, crushing twigs and early-fallen acorns, squashing beechnuts. Izzy picked up the pace, feeling the burn, stretching her supple limbs to the limit, grinding her way uphill past clusters of felled silver birch until the track levelled out.

The going was good to firm made treacherous by sprawls of tangled beech roots. She cherished the peace of night, the reassuring natural noises, nocturnal animals: fallow deer, rabbit, foxes, badgers, all strays scampering in the thicket. That is what she was: a stray, who came out to play at twilight, a nocturnal animal released from captivity to run wild, run free, in search of her dream.

The sky faded to black. She entered the wood’s heart, where peat bogs fermented, and let her imagination run wild. Were there fire-flies? Will o’ the wisps? Faeries? Witches? Magic?

What… the fuck… was that?

The Arrival

The mist descended out of nowhere, immersing, absorbing her. Izzy breathed its acrid vapour, inhaling the damp, dewy musk. The temperature plummeted. The chill shot icy shards into her body.

She froze, then twitched, jerked and jumped like a shattered porcelain marionette thrown in the air by a demented puppeteer. They passed through her, knife-like, unknown entities, etching their sordid intimate imprints on her soul. Her mind grappled with the absurdity of intruders permeating her numbed brain, writhing inside her vital organs:

What are you? Leave me alone! Get out of me, won’t you?

The intrusion ceased as suddenly as it began. Izzy collapsed, exhausted, in an untidy heap.

Why do I feel so tired? What’s happening to me?

The mist lifted. The sky cleared. She stared at the heavens, the blue void filling with crescent moons, glitterball stars, gasping, awed by what came next…

‘Can’t take much more of this!’ she protested.

Her walnut eyeballs rolled, revealing their whites. Her heavy lids sagged, drooped and shut. Izzy surrendered to her deathly fatigue. Rolling onto one side, curling up in the foetal position, she fell asleep and dreamed the strangest dreams.

When she woke up, Izzy was lying flat on her back, emotionally drained, staring at the starlit sky. In time, she regained her strength, clambering to her feet unsteadily, as if she were a young doe rising out of her bracken bed. Her head span. She staggered up the steep slope, stumbled, fell into his arms, and passed out.

He had a body to die for: race-fit, solid muscle, tuned for speed, ready for the heart-pounding sprint. He was one-of-a-kind: his open-edged brows maximized his field of vision. His neon red night eyes enabled him to see more. His advanced snub nose bridge opened out his airflow, combating fogging, preventing his internal body from overheating. He suffered from alien drug rash, hooded brows, teal eyes, chiselled jaw, sticky-out ears, bum fluff, hooked nose, dry lips, pipe neck.

He appraised Izzy’s sleeping face. She looked beautiful.

He threw her over his shoulder, took his bicycle in one hand and tore round the east loop, down the winding hill, through the meadow to the main road. His resilient fit moved with Izzy instead of against her, built for longer ride comfort. He had hidden reflectivity in his backside. His legs wore smooth edgings with rubbery grips to help him to stay in place.

From the road it was a short jog: past the church, right at the crossroads, over the cricket pitch, to an overgrown path skirting the allotments, to the grey clay lane that led to the remarkable little box he gave her to live in.

Iain threw the door open, stomped into the box, and dumped Izzy’s inert form on her bed.

He’d fashioned the box for her with his bare hands, erecting a central plasterboard partition to create two cubes. The solid oak door, with its deceptively ornate devil knocker and doorbell, led the occupant off the tarmac lane onto bare wooden floorboards. The living cube, Iain had determined, was primarily suited to nocturnal activities: sleep and sex. With such functions in mind, he had installed blinds over the front and back windows. He drew them down and locked the door.

A sawn-out bolthole in the partition led to the sanitary cube, a cork-tiled conurbation of ceramic splendour in angelica, a beautiful toilet and wash hand basin suite that added elegance to any converted garage. There was a curved shower unit in the corner, a blacked-out oval glass portal, and an integrated fan unit. Cooking facilities, food storage and waste disposal units were unnecessary. Izzy fed carnivorously, metabolizing her own waste, methane, and by-products.

Iain regarded her inert body, sprawled haphazardly on the bed. She’d be out cold for half an hour. He lifted his burly right arm, followed by a well-muscled right leg, and sniffed himself like an animal, baulking at the stink of stale sweat, sediment and soil deposition. Microclimatic conditions for THE ARRIVAL depended on body purity, fertility, and compliance with hygiene, health & safety due diligence in the profligate progenitor. Prior to procreation with a suitable progenitive who could produce progesterone in preparation for her progeny.

As he discarded his foetid, outer layers, he prognosticated. Izzy was producing oxytocin and seemed pretty relaxed, if not proactive about pregnancy. Her high prolactin level would enable healthy nutrition for her progeny, pending THE ARRIVAL. Iain stood in the shower, scrubbing his tainted torso clean, and tried to prioritize process:

Izzy would reproduce with him tonight. His dead mate, Irin, would be interred and moved to a deeper grave in the churchyard. Her burial would require assistance from Irma, the local gravedigger, who was open to bribes. He made a mental note to contact her in the morning. Irun, manager of the charitable recycling facility, would arrange for the collection of Irin’s clothing and incinerate her underwear, stockings, perfume, cosmetics and toiletries on the local allotment bonfire. Izzy would then move out of the box and bring up her progeny in the spare room of his apartment overlooking a village green famous for its Donkey Derby and Firework Display. He would meet Ilene at The Gate tomorrow night for drinks, and float the idea of her relocating into Izzy’s box, in return for a leading role in Senult Control.

Iain had been left with no choice but to kill Irin: she was an obstacle, like all female midults. She had to die. Just as all male midults had to be assimilated. Just as Ilene had to coordinate the cottage industry of processing all senults, transgressing them through the village halls. Iain bore ultimate executive responsibility for enaction of all operational aspects of THE ARRIVAL.

Satisfied that he had made detailed plans for THE ARRIVAL, he stepped out of the shower, towelled himself dry, sprayed his body with musk, switched off the fan-light, and made his way silently into the living cube.

His angel was lying on the bed waiting for him to inseminate her with his alien spermatozoa. He went and knelt beside the bed so that he could examine her. Izzy was still unconscious. She was perspiring lightly; the tips of her teak hair were dark and wet; her brow was covered with tiny beads of perspiration. He brushed a stray strand out of her mouth, rubbing her lips gently with his thumb, so that her face grinned at him. Her eyelids were closed. Iain flicked one open to reveal the walnut iris. The eyeball was lustrous, clear of the tell-tale threads which would manifest her whites once full parasitic infection had set in.

He ran the edge of his hand down her neck and appraised Izzy’s body. Her jawline, shoulders, armpits, midriff, the creases and folds in her limbs, were spattered with bright red hives. Iain reached for his rucksack, took out the tube of antihistamine balm he kept for insect bites, squeezed a little onto his fingertips, then lightly massaged the soothing lotion into Izzy’s inflamed skin. Izzy smiled to herself, enjoying the sensation of her body being explored by his tender touch. She felt the lump swell between her breasts, like a large raised hiatus hernia. He rubbed the cream into her legs, screwed the cap back onto the tube, dropped it on the floor and took out the sachet of weed, hiding it under the bed. He looked up. Izzy was awake. She feigned surprise when he brushed her cheek with his hand. The lump grew in her chest.

‘Where am I?’ she said.

Iain sat her up in bed, took her in his arms and embraced her, patting her back as if he were winding a baby. She smelled his musk and smiled. He was clean for once; he must have washed. She felt the spur rise up her oesophagus, felt uncertain.

‘You’re safe in the box, Izzy,’ he told her, reassuringly.

She let Iain pull her grey sports bra off over her head. ‘Safe?’

He held her tight, loving the thrill of her naked breasts pressed against his manly alien chest.

‘I found you asleep in the forest,’ he said.  

Izzy looked puzzled. ‘Asleep? Why would I want to sleep in the forest?’

He ran his fingers through her damp hair. She was beautiful. Had the face of an angel. He wanted her so badly. He slid his hands down her slender back and tucked his fingers inside her fitness pants. Izzy smiled as her lump grew. The spur extended as far her throat. She was ready.

‘I have no idea, but you’re safe with me now, that’s all that matters,’ he said.

She let him pull off her fitness pants. Izzy was wearing a pale grey thong. A frisson passed thru them.  Izzy took the weed and put it in her mouth like a naughty child. It was dark brown and tasted bitter like dust and bark that had been ground to a must by a sorcerer’s pestle. She masticated, grinding her teeth, kneading the ayahuasca with her tongue, crushing the greens and stems into a pulpy spinach mulch. Izzy suspected the ayahuasca was dirty, full of toxic impurities, like her mating partner. Rumours abounded that dirty weed masquerading as ayahuasca liquid, mulched vine of the dead or synthetic DMT had led to the deaths of countless teenagers at wild parties and rock festivals. Izzy needed it to sleep. Chewing the psychedelic cud was Iain’s idea.

‘Take the weed to relieve the tedium, Izzy,’ he said, ‘Open your mind.’

Her oval face drew with doubt at first. Still, she supposed, if the natives enjoyed this shit in the jungle, why couldn’t she get off on it in bed? She duly took the weed, took off her thong, opened her mind, opened her legs to him, and enjoyed their best sex since her arrival. Once he had finished, Izzy lay on top of him, playing with his wet hair, rubbing his lips with her thumb.

‘Do you love me, Iain?’ she asked.

He saw Irin lying in her shallow grave. ‘I love you more than life itself, Izzy,’ he replied.

‘Then let me kiss you.’

He opened his mouth to her tongue. Too late, he felt her spur slide down his throat, extend as far as his oesophagus, and suffocate him. Izzy relaxed as the tubular organ drew neurotoxin, pumping poison out of the swelling in her chest. Her secreted toxin entered Iain’s bloodstream, stunning him. Izzy felt her lump contract as she squirted her volatile secondary fluid into Iain’s digestive tract. His dying body twitched involuntarily as the molecular acid dissolved his flesh, his muscle, tissues, his organs, his bone, turning his torso into a skin-encapsulated sac of mulch.

She fed on him for five hours…

As a result of one night’s gay abandon, Izzy was lip-hooked, tongue-set, utterly dependent on her dead boyfriend. In time, her stomach extracted the liquid entheogenic from her digested prey, vomiting it into the glass bowl she kept by her bed. She was drenched in a brilliant white light. Purged out, Izzy felt herself leave her body and travel the void, transiting into a fluffy world. Effortlessly rebirthed, she popped out, releasing all her negative energy, her bad emotions. Izzy descended into a realm of inner peace. Her mind and body united by subliminal blood rushes, congealed alien flesh, liquified organs and body fluids; she regurgitated Iain, spat him out in pellets. Then she slipped on her pyjamas, climbed between the sheets, and fell asleep.

Slowly swinging her slender legs off the bunk, Izzy fumbled with the camelia satin waist band around her midriff, divesting herself of her wondrous, velvet-piped jimjams and playful toys and dolls. She tried to stand. She was groggy, permeated by weed and alien residue. Her addled brain swelled like sodden sponge. Her heavy head whirled. She slumped onto the bed.

Izzy clenched the edge of the bunk tightly. Her throbbing head hung below her knees, the lemon extensions attached to her burnt sienna hair drizzling down her calves, kissing her feet. She instructed herself not to overextend her abs for fear of an unsightly acid reflux. Pretty soon, her retching abated. Fisting her slim arms deep into the duvet, Izzy pushed herself up onto the balls of her feet. 

Beside the bed lay a modacrylic sheepskin rug which, judging by its squashed, sorry look, had never been shampooed. This rug was where Izzy performed her post-digestive stretches. Other than the built-in bunk and radiator, the black hole’s only other feature was the full-length gilt-edged mirror, a car boot sale bargain that hung despondently off the crumbling plaster wall, facing her quilted cot.

Izzy appraised herself in the mirror. She had a pallid complexion, anaemic milky white skin.

Her body started to bloat…


They spread quickly through the mist and infected her. They thrived in her maternal body. Izzy really mattered now! She carried them inside her cells. They mutated with her ova. Izzy had a body to die for. They lived inside that body as parasites. She carried within her the hopes and aspirations of future generations. Izzy was selected for her stamina, resilience and endurance. Her absorption rate for male midults and reproduction capacity were phenomenal. She bred…


The fog emanated from a dewpond in the forest, an unfurling blanket of phosphorescent blue. A minuscule hole appeared at the epicentre, spreading rapidly like spilt ink, rippling in a pool of indigo. The pool burst into a swirling kaleidoscope: a distant galaxy, the faint glimmer of a dying star, a solitary sea-green planet.

They ARRIVED, shrouded in mystery, freed from all physical constraints, finding sanctuary.

They found a host in Izzy, then another, Morgan, then Ilene…

Soon, there would be millions of them:


Submitted: December 05, 2021

© Copyright 2022 H-J FURL. All rights reserved.

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