“They emerged at twenty-three hundred hours and were above sixty major population centers within thirty minutes. For twelve hours they scanned us in ways we don’t even understand.”
“And then they just… left?”
“Yep. Gone.”
“Any theories?”
“We think maybe they were looking for something. And they didn’t find it.”
It was New Year’s Eve, and the world was quiet. There were no people banging on pots and pans, no fireworks, no descending balls of light.
The humans peacefully, mysteriously slept.
Arthur C. Clarke predicted contact with extraterrestrial life in the year twenty-ten.
He was wrong by half an hour.
She was a natural athlete; she was born running and never stopped. She had a long career as a world champion and Olympic gold-medalist in track and field.
At the age of one hundred and three she stumbled over a chair, which gave Death a chance to finally overtake her.
Eagor was asleep on the couch.
“Lazy nephew,” muttered Dr. Frankensteve affectionately. “I shall soon cure that!” He drew a device covered in blinking lights out of his pocket.
With a flash, Eagor was transformed into a super industrious bumblebeaver.
“What have I done!?” cried Dr. Frankensteve, and changed him back.
“I missed the train again,” whined Alyssa over the phone to Gunther, her unsympathetic pet gorilla.
Gunther said, “Suck it up, princess,” but it was in sign language, so Alyssa didn’t see.
“Thanks for listening, hun,” said Alyssa. “See you tonight!”
As usual, Gunther spent the day plotting his escape.
“My stuff is in the truck already. Where’s yours?”
“I still think this is a colossal waste of time.”
“Look, I don’t make the rules. On Boxing Day we pack stuff, drive it around, and unpack it again. It’s tradition.”
“No, it’s idiotic.”
“Are you calling me stupid?”
“Absolutely yes.”
‘Twas the night before Christmas
And throughout the ‘net
The blogs and webcomics
Tried not to forget
To mention the season
And wish readers well
As if missing Christmas
Would be their death knell
And this lowly website
To follow the herd
Adhered to the pattern
In just fifty words
“Crash!”
I covered my ears and cried, “What’s going on?”
“Bang!”
I shut my eyes and shouted, “What are you doing?!”
“Boom!”
I clenched my teeth together and grunted, “Stop, please! You’re frightening me!”
He said, “Look, you asked me to demonstrate what onomatopoeia was, and that’s what I’m doing.”
The howling of wolves pierced the frosty twilight air.
“If I weren’t so scared for my life,” whispered Mina, “I’d find that eerily beautiful.”
“I think it’s still possible to find something beautiful when you’re scared,” whispered Frederick.
“Are you flirting with me?” asked Mina.
She never got an answer.
“What is she like?”
“Like hearing your favorite song play with just a slight hiss from the vinyl.”
Blank stare.
“Like a robin sweetly singing just for you.”
Furrowed brow.
“Like the smell of sunshine.”
Bewildered eyes.
“So what does that make her?”
“She’s an indescribable experience you never forget.”
Lawrence Fawkes hails from Southern California and aspires to become some sort of professional writer in journalism, fiction, or another field.