by Jane Hammons
We live in Midway. It's a place that isn't even a town. Midway between nothing and nowhere is what Mama says. We sell gas and groceries in a little store that sits on the highway by the railroad crossing. All around us are farms and down the road is Walker Air Force Base. That is where the government took the aliens from the flying saucer. Mama says they are in some kind of freezer there. We have a freezer here at the store. It has meat and popsicles in it.
Mama reads about UFOs in paperback books and newspapers with big cloudy pictures. Her girlfriends know about flying saucers, too. They get drunk at night and when they are sitting all alone in their living rooms because they are divorced or married to men who have run off or to farmers who are out bailing hay, they call each other up on the telephone. All I can hear is Mama's end of the conversation, but I know what they are talking about.
Cigar shaped.
They can get you pregnant.
She blows smoke out both nostrils. She picks a fleck of tobacco off her tongue with her long fingernails that are painted a cloudy color.
We have a party line. To get the other half of Mama's conversation, all I have to do is listen in on Mrs. Harold Day when she is pretending to plan a bridge party or a church supper, but what she is really doing is gossiping. I can only do this when Mama isn't looking, which is most of the time. She is either working up front in the store or lying around in our apartment at the back of the store with a sick headache.
Mrs. Harold Day thinks Mama and her friends are crazy. When she talks about Mama's friends, she doesn't call them Mrs. Jack Ransome, or Mrs. Buddy Smith the way they call her Mrs. Harold Day. She says that Cora Smith sees pink cigars in the sky and that Dixie Butler wakes up electrocuted by sex. She knows that Babs Hanson calls the weather bureau at White Sands Missile Range so often that her name is on a list and that my Mama can't sleep.
And she knows about Dad, too. Dad calls from tracks in Florida and California and all around the country, even Chicago, where he says he goes to train horses but what he is really doing is gambling. When Dad ran off, he left me behind. I heard he had girl trouble, so he couldn't take me with him. But he took my brother Tommy. He promises to bring Tommy back real soon. Mama doesn't call the sheriff. Dad has been in jail before.
I don't sleep so good at night either. Some nights there are little lizard men whispering beneath my window. They want to electrocute me. Some mornings when it is still dark and Mama smells like an empty glass of whiskey, she wakes me up and we take off in the station wagon with its bald tires and whiney engine.
“Keep an eye out for the lights,” Mama says. She taps the windshield with her fingernails that make a cloudy clickety click. But I keep my head down. We can't outrun a flying saucer.
One time Mama drove right into a bar ditch and screamed at me, “Look at the goddamned lights!” But the only thing I saw was the morning star. All summer long we wait for Dad to bring Tommy home and chase Venus into the dawn.
When school starts, I sit behind John Day. His clothes are so clean and stiff that he can't help but sit up straight. His crayons never wear down into dirty stumps. The last time my teacher rapped my knuckles for staring into space, I was right in the middle of figuring it all out.
Mama is not running away from flying saucers. She is running to them.
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This story was originally published in taint magazine and was recently published again in Everyday Genius. Michael Kimball had a hand in both.
this is so so sad, and reminds me of one I wrote very much - a poem I wrote featuring UFOs and divorce and an alcoholic mother. Wow. Love the lizard men... love so much here.
Beautiful. Clear voice and so much here. The last line kills it. Excellent.
We can't outrun a flying saucer.
this is magic, star.
This is brutal and bittersweet. Loved it.
Thanks everyone. I think I may have recently written what could be the final piece in this series. Which is good because when I started writing them I couldn't see a direction for them as a collection but only individually. Putting them here is really helping me re-see them.
Beautiful story. Expertly crafted.
That opening paragraph is wonderful, and so is the closer. Such a nice pair.
Wow, this is great. Really full of characterization. Love the use of the word "cloudy" throughout. I never favorite anything, but this gets it. Thanks for the read.
Michael K is one of my favorite writers/editors. He published a piece of mine in Taint, back in the day. Of course he re-wrote nearly every word and made it all the better. His book, "Dear Everybody," is smashingly great.
While the piece was wonderful, the last five words made it fantastic.
Kudos on the Hint Fiction Anthology.
For me your story is real nice for a bunch of reasons. Least of which I was brought up in a house where all of the local UFO chasers met once a month. Lady lives behind us watches too much Star Trek under-the-influence and when there is police action in the neighborhood w/ lights flashing she stands out in her yard yelling at the sky, "You have the wrong house. You have the wrong house."
This is perfectly written. Great strong voice. Such vivid images with just enough detail.
As others have said, this piece has a strong, convincing voice. All of the things that are going on in this work make it rich. Yeah, the last line is exceptional. Seriously great stuff here!
Thanks for your comments, everyone. Gabriel, we lived way out in the country, so we never had the cops called on us, but we often had a gathering of women in the yard all staring at the sky. It was both frightening and kind of beautiful. That tension, I guess, is what drives a lot of these stories.
Jane, I think I read this before on SheWrites. At that time my favorite sentence was "His crayons never wear down into dirty stumps." New favorite: "She says that Cora Smith sees pink cigars in the sky and that Dixie Butler wakes up electrocuted by sex." What fun! (The writing, that is....)
Killer set up, slowing the pace and measuring your words before dropping that last-line epiphany.
I know and love these people. You paint them in such a fine way, I can almost smell their coffee. "... electrocuted by sex." Marvelous.
Thanks for your comments, Ashwin and James. I love these people, too. Someday I hope to fill a small book with them.
Not running, running to them....ah, the great stuff. So good. So good. What else can I say? Let's just say it again...so good.
I do love this, Jane. I await the collection.
I just found this one. You have a remarkable gift for taking life as it's found ... out there in the flyover zones, or somewhere in the past ... and giving voice to people we never hear, but should. I loved this. Please finish that book.
Poignant, and your use of language is enviable. The mood of this story reminded me very much of the book "Lullabies for Little Criminals".
I love this quirky story, and its sci-fi overtones. Jane, thanks for another lesson in how to write in a clear, convincing voice. *.