A door opens. Three massive aliens stand on a ledge. Silently, they watch over Earth.
I squint my eyes to see better. Are their eyes red? And do they have… scales?
I watch as the world unravels.
My heart rocks against my sternum, but I find the courage to smile.
What are they?
“Aliens,” I say.
And they’re here to take me away.
Three
Emma
I snap out of it. Majorly.
As soon as those brutal beasts step back into their craft, I run out of the office in a total state of panic.
Outside, cars smash into buildings. Honking horns blare near my ears. Screaming people weave and push past me.
Heels clashing against the concrete, I run and keep my head down, but all I can see is the evil stare of those alien eyes, the burning red embers of predatory sight.
A great siren roars above the city.
I never thought it would get this bad, so fast. How was I to know that my tabloid paper was actually right? Aliens do exist, but they’re so much worse than we ever could have imagined.
Green. Sticky. Naked and un
caring of their savagery.
Stumbling, I stick to the path. When I reach the door to my condo, I shoulder it open and dive toward my living room’s hologram screen.
I make the mistake of turning on the news.
I hear someone in the hallway. “Emma? Is that you?”
It gives me a shock, but it’s just my mother. I forgot I offered her a room this week. “Jesus, mom. You scared the crap out of me.”
Today would have marked her thirtieth anniversary if my father hadn’t died two years ago. I’ve tried to make an effort to be there for her, even if we never really got along too well.
Today was not the day to have her over.
Dressed in her old, pink nightgown, she hobbles into the living room. Sirens ring out from the holographic tablet screen, echoing outside my windows. My mom doesn’t acknowledge it.
Her expression tells me she’s in one her moods.
Mom sighs. “You’re gaining weight again. It’s all those carbs you’ve been eating,” she says.
Did she really just mention my weight? I’ve only gained ten pounds this year. She’s definitely the one to go for the jugular.
“Or maybe,” she starts, “it’s from sitting on your butt, watching the news like a zombie.”
Never mind the fact that I’m a journalist. I have to keep up the news whether I like it or not.
She doesn’t mean what she says. She’s getting older, and she lost the love of her life. I empathize with her pain, but the comments sting.