Every night, I dream of the mothership. Of escaping just before detonation. Of authorities hot on my trail. Of stashing my pod in the barn before collapsing in the yard. The kindly humans who revived me, tucked me into bed, and claimed me as their offspring.
I’ve been here for so long now. I can’t remember the last time I looked for my pod in the barn. I worry it might not be there. Memories of my before-life are just a tangle, a smudge, a flittering, fleeting thing I can’t quite grasp. If it wasn’t for the dreams, I feel it might be winked out of existence altogether. I wonder if my species still searches for me, or if I’m assumed dead. I wonder if things are different now. If everyone is equal. If they all get a say, a vote, a voice, a life of freedom, making my sacrifice worthwhile. I get sad thinking about it, knowing I crash landed into something just as broken.
My human mother says she’s worried about me. That I need to eat more than just saltines and peanut butter. I tell her it reminds me of a dish that my other mother used to make, but it was made with another kind of nut, one that doesn’t grow here, and I can’t tell her the name of it because the human mouth can’t form the sounds to properly say it. She asks how I speak such fluent English then if I’m from another planet. But I can’t answer because my mouth is full of peanut butter.
About the Author
Diane D. Gillette (she/her) mostly writes short things, but sometimes she strings them together to make longer things. She works as an English professor in Chicago, where she lives with her partner and two feline overlords. Read more at dianedgillette.xyz.
