Departure

At some point or other, one has to think about oneself. One can't go on just taking crap from everyone.

That was the reason why I left the whole charade behind me, the haughty manners, the arrogance, the conceit, their constant critique of my wild theories about aliens living in our town, disguised as humans.

I'd been working four years there. I was the one doing the accounting, the books, the research. I called the cops, the military, the airports, the meteorologists, not them.

So there I was, leaving an assignment I loved, working for the only damn UFO-society in the state that paid their staff.

I remember standing at the street corner, not really knowing what to do on that dull Thursday night. Everyone was home watching the Superbowl, only my former colleagues sat dumbfounded around the conference table, having told me I had to give up trying to convince them of something as silly as disguised aliens wearing human skin. My throat was still sore from all the screaming I had done to defend myself.

Human anatomy.

These guys were just not built to be as sturdy as us.

We had to work more on the transformation.

I pressed on my forehead, activating my implant.

"Xcuztik?" I spat.

"Yeah?" my boss groaned. "What's up, Sguz?"

I shook my head.

"These humans are too inflexible. I tried to collaborate with them, but they never believed a word I said. Their problem is that they never are open to new possibilities."

"So, what do you want to do?"

"I wanna go home," I spat.

"Well, then you gotta take him with you," my boss said, rustling with a few papers in the background.

"Everyone thinks he's dead,"

I answered, softly.

"Sguz," my boss demanded, "all the more reason for guys to leave. We'll have to map out another plan how to improve humanity."

"All he wanted was to bring beauty into the world, Xcuztik," I sighed, manifesting my rocket as I shed my skin.

A short pause.

"Where's he now?"

I heard a faint voice from inside my vehicle, now visible.

He hummed one of the songs that made him famous, a song about a mother and her child.

"He's inside the rocket, Sir," I said, opening the door, seeing Michael practicing his Moonwalk.

He turned around.

"Hey, Sguz," he crooned.

"Hey, buddy," I said, walking into the vehicle, "practicing teleportation?"

Michael shook his head, swirling around in a pirouette and laughing.

"We going home?" he asked in his characteristically high voice.

I nodded, switching off Xcuztik for now. As we headed for the alternate reality, I heard angry voices emanating out from the UFO-society, and I wondered if we would ever return.

THE END

Bio: Mr. Moulton grew up in a trilingual and artistic family and spent his childhood on stage. He played his first role at age 11 and has since then acted and sung in over 100 stage productions. His publication credits include horror stories for SNM Magazine and Aphelion, historical articles for Socrates and Skirmish and literary fiction for Idea Gems and Pill Hill Press. Mr. Moulton enjoys versatile creativity, is married and has a daughter. His last Aphelion appearance was The Stranger in our September, 2016 issue.

E-mail: Charles E.J. Moulton

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