“Our First Thanksgiving On Earth”

Fiction. 6 minutes to read.


You toss the spare key on the table when you get inside, the one you found yesterday when you didn’t have a house for Thanksgiving. You don’t care for the local customs but you know she does. She wants to make life. Real life, like humans do. It hasn’t happened yet, but not for a lack of trying. 

Squeezing tight, kissing fast, squeezing all you can from her, all the juice, the cream inside you, inside her, letting it mix together like half n’ half, giving everything you can, everything that’s left, sucking her in, gushing mist, hot whispered pleasure seeping through her heartstrings, melodies played on silver baby hair, purring wild in the bubble bath, splashing, soapy suds soaking with you, inside. 

Turkey’s in the oven, heating up.

The shower rushes over you, washing, cleaning, cleansing the city’s masquerade. Your head slips behind the curtain, just the tip, playing in the puddle with no rain boots, lost in pink frosting pleasure, fluffy ripe strawberries floating over goosebump areolas, prowling through downy pubic gardens glistening wet with dew, howling to the moon, her tummy pressed to you and your starlight helmet, cracked at the top, ready to release, rising heat, buckle up, bushwhacking in the Garden of Eden where everything is free, she feeds you spit and whispers, “fill me.”

In candlelight shadows, her smile flickers white flame. Clothes scatter floorboards like breadcrumbs in a witchy woman’s house. She’s half-naked in the kitchen, breasts out over a smokey cauldron, stirring her bubbling brew with a wooden spoon. 

Balsam fir bedsheets and peppermint pillows; she’s sugar sweet on a gingerbread mattress. Yesterday, you followed Mr. Gucci Suit through Beachwood Canyon and watched him vanish inside a vaulted palace before his daughter snuck out, locked the door behind her, stooped down, put the key under the WELCOME mat, skipped to her boyfriend’s Mercedes with renter’s plates, kissed him, checked herself in the mirror, kissed him again, laughed, and sped off while you jogged across the lawn like a basset hound finding its bone, Gucci Suit’s spare key, now gone. 


You wait for Gucci Suit and Daughter to leave town for the holiday before unlocking the door for “m’lady,” aristocrat style, sweeping your hand forward, “after you.” She curtsies, “why thank you, monsieur, what a lovely little home you have here,” reciprocating. 


Turkey’s in the oven, burning. 

Smoke’s rising, sweeping through the cracks. Wispy columns invade the polished wood table with stacks of paper mail pushed to the side where earlier, the two of you indulged on fine cheese and crackers, sliced prosciutto, salami, dates, olives, berries, jam, and a very dry rosé. 

You leave everything on the table to explore the house while she gets distracted with cider and fudge, forgets to set a timer on the oven, and skips down the hall after you.  


You’re glowing from a stranger’s bed, your seed, canoeing downstream, lands on secret beaches inhabited by driftwood babies sprouting ivory maple leaves. 

Her legs, draped over yours, glide back and forth, whispering visions of children in your ear, the kind that blossom in your chest and quiver down your joystick, perspiring, hyperdrive set to future days lost in paradise, sipping coconut smoothies in the sand, shaded under palm trees, you, her, and a flock of cherubs building sandcastle cities. 

You’re tired of running, tired of fighting, nature’s calling but answering nothing; Earth’s dreaming but never sleeping, in her arms, nothing’s beeping, no sirens flashing, helicopters beating, just her slow chest rising, exhaling somniferous wind, carrying you on winged Pegasus, beating feathers, fluttered lips, stay forever in the meadow, far from Gucci Suit’s labyrinth, far from Los Angeles, far from Callisto, and the turkey burning in the oven. 

The fire alarm’s blaring, shaking the house.

She jumps out of bed and runs to the kitchen, grabbing the nearest dishtowel, fanning the smoke while you throw the windows open, trying to disable the screaming alarm from a kitchen chair; to cut the sound. But failing; afraid to look in the oven.

The turkey’s cozy in a black carbon jacket, burned crispy. 

There’s no time for Thanksgiving food babies, the doorbell rings before the smoke clears. Behind the peephole, three firemen fill the glass, knocking hard, shouting fast. She looks at you, startled, as if for the first time realizing, eyes wide, that you’re not alone in this world. 


(Mission Log From Fire Dept. Station 108)

PREVIOUS INCIDENT: 495

LOCATION: 4600 HOLLYWOOD GROVE, CA. 90028 

HOLLYWOOD SECTOR.

RESPONDING ENGINE: 504 

THE FOLLOWING FOOTAGE IS TAKEN FROM THE CHEST CAMERA OF RESPONDING FIREFIGHTERS SKINNER, CHRISTIAN, AND LYLE.

WHAT FOLLOWS IS STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL: THE FIRE ENGINE ROARS TO A STOP AND PARKS ON THE CURB. NO SMOKE OR FLAMES ARE VISIBLE FROM OUTSIDE THE HOUSE. ALL FIREMEN DISEMBARK THE ENGINE. 

THEY KNOCK, ANNOUNCING THEIR PRESENCE. NO REPLY. 

FIREMAN CHRISTIAN LEANS HIS EAR AGAINST THE DOOR. HE HEARS AN ACTIVE SMOKE ALARM AND THE SOUND OF MOVEMENT. SKINNER LOOKS DOWN AT THE DOOR FRAME, SMOKE SLIPS THROUGH THE CRACKS. HE RADIOS FIRE STATION 504, GETS THE ALL-CLEAR TO ENTER. GREEN LIGHT. 

THEY SMASH THE DOOR. 

THICK SMOKE COVERS THE ENTRY. POSSIBLE REASON: KITCHEN FIRE. SMOKE IS THICKEST IN THE KITCHEN. SKINNER, CHRISTIAN, AND LYLE MOVE FORWARD. SOMETHING RUNS THROUGH THE SMOKE. LYLE SCREAMS. 

(WARNING. WARNING. DISTURBING FOOTAGE, MAY CAUSE PSYCHOLOGICAL DURESS. VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. WARNING.)

TWO FIGURES, HUMANOID IN STATURE, DART THROUGH THE SMOKE. ONE HAS BLUE SKIN. THE OTHER HAS GREEN. WHEN LYLE SCREAMS, THEY TURN, NAKED. NOTE THE PRESENCE OF POSSIBLE MALE AND FEMALE REPRODUCTIVE ORGANS. GILLS ARE PRESENT BELOW THE MALE’S PECTORAL MUSCLES. THE FEMALE DOES NOT HAVE THEM, POSSIBLY A DIFFERENT SPECIES. HER EYES ARE ABNORMALLY LARGE AND YELLOW, GLOWING THROUGH THE SMOKE. 

CHRISTIAN SIGNALS FOR COMMUNICATION WITH THE FEMALE. SHE RAISES A HAND. INTENSE SHAKING OCCURS. ALL FIREMEN RETREAT. THE CEILING BEGINS TO CRUMBLE AND FALL. FIRE STATION 504 PULLS THE PLUG. PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: GET OUT SAFELY. 

SUSPECT ALIEN LIFE FORMS HAVE SIMILAR GOALS. LEFT VIA 1ST FLOOR WINDOW. REPEAT: UNIDENTIFIED LIFE FORMS ESCAPED.

REPEAT: SUSPECT ALIEN LIFE ON EARTH.

REPEAT: SUSPECT ALIEN LIFE, MALE AND FEMALE.

REPEAT: SUSPECT ALIEN LIFE.   

OVER.

*as published at The Periodical, Forlorn

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