They looked like us—talked like us. But the similarities ended there. They came to breed. Something must have gone wrong in their system, or maybe this was what they had to do to reproduce.
The one thing I couldn’t figure out was when our women coupled with male aliens, they only produced girls—blond, blue-eyed, pretty things attached to their mothers with a brownish, stalk-like umbilical until about the age of five. Flexible like an elephant’s trunk.
It didn’t matter what color the mother was. The children were always light-golden haired; straight skull cap with curly layers around their necks like a wreath. Ivory skinned and slightly bright blue eyes. They were like clones and they were everywhere.
Somehow the human race just viewed this as an evolutionary change and raised these children as if nothing was different about them. They were demanding, yet charming, and so beautiful. They pushed any other children to the wayside as if it was necessary to survive. Mothers bore only one of these children. Mothers started failing over time—eventually dying. Others took over the children’s care.
My mother bore one of these children. As she lay in her bed slowly moving towards death, she knew I knew. I was surprised she knew, too. She tolerated the child’s stalk with the patience of a saint. It was, after all, her child. I did not view her as my sister, and this pained her.
The child’s alien father sat in another room talking with an alien woman who seemed to be a leader. I was a problem, and I knew it—so did they. He had a nice head of curly brown hair and a mustache set in a rounded face. He was a bit heavy and tall. He looked European from Southern climes. She seemed frail. She lay on one side of a double bed, thin brown wisps grappling at the sides of her head. Face sallow and sickly–round, brown eyes looming towards whatever they met.
I had called a Federal agency and this dude, Mcgee showed up. He was standing in our sunshine-strewn kitchen—bright white with walnut wood creeping half-way up the walls. White curtains softened with yellow flowers graced two windows on one wall. The floor was white Armstrong with traced pink squares vined with occasional small flowers.
Mcgee was not overly tall with a slightly balding head sporting an oval face with a squared jaw. He wore a dark brown suit, unbuttoned in the front. His blue eyes sparkled though not with humor.
“I’ll be right back,” I said.
“Wha..” I was gone before he could finish his thought.
I left the kitchen and strode quickly through the dining room with its bold set of cherry table and chairs—six in all. I walked through the open door to see the man—my supposed step-father—standing between the bed and me upon where the alien woman lay in repose. Their eyes turned quickly to me, and I slashed at Dad’s short-sleeved arm with a two-foot-long piece of metal I had brought with me. The fluid seeping from the wound was clearish. I swiped my hand over it to bring some to Mcgee.
The strange woman and my step-dad traded a brief hard look. She stared at her hand for a moment and then flipped her hand toward my retreating back, releasing a thickish green goo. It hit the back of my shirt, which was loose, so she had to use some force to make it touch my back. The fluid seeped through to my skin.
I rushed through the rooms to the kitchen and watched the shock on Mcgee’s face as I ripped all the attire from my upper body.
“Wash it off my back,” I said. “Hurry!”
I was already feeling the effects of whatever it was. I picked my shirt up from the floor, told him what the woman had done, showed him the goo on the back of the shirt, and handed it to him.
Mcgee tried to help me wash the stuff off of my back, but it left some sort of shiny residue. Mcgee mumbled something about having it analyzed, and I mumbled something about being dead by the time they found anything. I’d seen this before.
Then I woke up.
I figured with all the hard hitting pieces I’ve thrown out there, it was time for another break. Have fun!! And Happy Tuesday!
Copyright 2017 Joyce Bowen
About the Author: Joyce Bowen is a freelance writer and public speaker. Inquiries can be made at email@example.com
Sobre el autor: Joyce Bowen es un escritor independiente y orador público. Las consultas pueden hacerse en firstname.lastname@example.org