Category: Fiction Factor

Freddy Stanhope – drunk off his ass – wasn’t sure where things went wrong as he stumbled down the side street toward his house.

The bulk of his adult life involved having long, depressing conversations with other drunks at the Will O’ The Wisp bar, a watering hole conveniently located just two blocks from where he lived.

Oh, he had one primary drinking “buddy” – a guy named Ashton – but their relationship started at beer bottles and stopped at shot glasses. He didn’t even know Ashton’s last name because friendships among sots are often confined to establishments with liquor licenses.

Plus, he knew nothing about the dude. He might’ve been a serial killer – or worse, a TikTok influencer.

Freddy didn’t even take advantage of living in one of the most beautiful places on earth.

One step into his Duck Springs backyard was like walking into the pages of an Appalachian Mountains brochure, but he had long since forgotten how to appreciate the area’s brilliantly colored falls. His labored strolls in the mountains had become less about marveling at nature’s red, orange, yellow and green palette and more about how much effort it took just to make it through another boring day.

Once he had hoped to marry, build a cabin in the woods, stock it with vodka and canned beans, and simply live a simple, happy life.

But that ship had sailed and sunk.

More likely, considering how many brain cells he’d killed, he’d wind up in “The Home.” It was not appealing to imagine himself as an old man wandering naked in the activity center, asking if anyone knew where Betty White was – and why she stole his fish sticks.

Yet, just as he was bemoaning the quiet desperation that was his uneventful and uninspired life, he found himself standing in front of an alien spacecraft and debating whether or not what he was seeing was real.

In the movies, such intergalactic vehicles were often silver and saucer-shaped. This one, however, more resembled a 1975 AMC Pacer, although the fact that the aquarium-like machine hovered more than 20 feet off the ground and emitted a hazy, orange glow suggested it was not a product of Kenosha automakers.

One thing it did have in common with cinematic close encounters, though, was the blinding white beam of light that shined from the bottom of the ship and formed a perfect circle on the ground. Freddy assumed if he walked into it, he’d be taken aboard.

Truthfully, that sounded like fun – and a great story to tell Ashton during the next “Free Hot Wings Til You Spew” Happy Hour at Will O’ The Wisp.

So, he staggered into the light and raised his arms toward the heavens.

“OK, boys,” he slurred, “take me to your leader or supervisor or head honcho or whoever runs the show up there. No need to do one of those anal probes, though. I had a colonoscopy a couple of weeks ago and they found some polyps. Trust me … you don’t wanna go there.”

The light was too bright to look at, so Freddy closed his eyes and waited. He could hear a hum coming from the craft and it gradually grew louder. Although intoxicated, he had sat through enough sci-fi films to know that this had to be the sound of a tractor beam that was pulling him aboard.

He wondered what the aliens looked like. Perhaps they’d be the standard little gray creatures with the weird heads and big, black eyes. They’d make hand gestures toward him, much like the beings in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Or maybe – just maybe – these were E.T. aliens. If so, Freddy would extend his finger and hope the alien would touch it with a glowing finger of his own.

The moment would be perfect if Neil Diamond’s Heartlight started playing over the spaceship’s sound system, but he didn’t want to over expect.

However, time seemed to drag on and Freddy was going nowhere. And then, the beam of light shifted approximately 10 feet away from him.

Freddy opened his eyes and wondered if they had done some sort of experiment on him without his knowledge. Perhaps there had been a time jump, and once he made it to his house, a week will have passed.

“Hey,” he yelled. “Did you guys do something to me? My butt feels normal. I do need to pee, but then again, I have had quite a bit to drink. Can you communicate with me? Can you read my mind?”

The beam of light disappeared and Freddy noticed that the hum had stopped. Still, the glow of the UFO Pacer remained.

He felt something touch his right shoulder and as he whipped around, he was face-to-face with the alien. It looked nothing like any “Martian” he had seen on the big or small screen. It was more mannequin-like, roughly six feet tall and translucent. There were no eyes, ears or mouth visible on its perfectly round head, and its arms and legs were sans hands or feet – like a stick figure on a road sign.

“Are you going to hurt me?” Freddy asked, hos voice trembling.

The being spoke in a Transatlantic accent, although from what orifice the words came, Freddy had no clue.

“We have no desire to harm you or anyone else, dude,” it said. “And I’m really sorry we got you involved in this mission. We try to just zip in and zip out undetected so as not to cause any disruption. As you’ve probably figured out, we’re not from here, we don’t belong here, and we don’t want to stay here.”

Freddy had begun to sober up somewhat, and the gravity of the situation was becoming apparent. Whether he had made first contact or not he couldn’t be sure, but he was most definitely in the presence of a  creature from another planet.

“You’re on a mission, but your mission isn’t to hurt anyone,” Freddy said. “So, you aren’t here to take over the world … or take over the planet … or take me as a specimen?”

The alien made a sound that mimicked human laughter.

“No, man,” it said. “Klaatu got shit-faced and lost his fuckin’ keys again. We’re just trying to help him find ‘em.”

Mount Laurel, New Jersey, would be the last stop before Ace and Shelby arrived in New York City, and the Silver Rodeo was just off I-295.

Home of the “Endless Fondue Fountain,” and, no doubt, endless stomach distress, it was a cheesy all-you-can-eat franchise but a place where Ace and Shelby could sit, talk and be ignored.

No one would care what they said or how loud they said it since the Silver Rodeo clientele consisted primarily of people seeing how much fried turkey, brisket, mac and cheese and potatoes and gravy they could stack on a plate – topped by that “Endless Fondue” abomination.

Those folks were on a mission to eat, not to eavesdrop.

“This really is gracious living,” said Shelby as they entered the restaurant, which was decorated in the style of an old west saloon – if old west saloons had steam tables, drink stations and wait staff who wore cowboy hats, chaps and name tags.

“It’s so authentic! It’s like being back in a frontier lunchroom.”

Ace snickered as the two made their way through the buffet line, trying to separate the barely edible from the inedible.

He loved a smartass and Shelby was most certainly that.

“We have one of these on the outskirts of Sevierville,” Ace said. “You don’t come to a place like this for the food … you come here for the atmosphere. And food poisoning.”

The two made their way to a booth, which featured a wooden table adorned with an oil lamp and a carving of a Native American woman holding a baby while a wolf and what appeared to be a platypus looked on.

“So,” Shelby asked, spinning her fork in a glop of what was probably (but by no means definitively) mashed potatoes. “Are you going to be straight with me? I trusted you enough to bum a ride with you, so you need to trust me enough to talk to me. Tell me the truth.”

Ace ran his left hand through his graying hair, pausing to try to find just the right words to describe how things had gotten so sideways during his four decades on the planet.

He was a desperate man, sure, but at no time did he think he was acting like one – until recently.

“It’s my family,” Ace said. “When I heard about this year’s Thanksgiving plans, the big feast and then Black Friday, something just finally clicked that this was the time for me to do something I’ve never done. I’ve never gone on vacation by myself. I’ve never gone to the Empire State Building before. I’ve sure as hell never even considered picking up a hitchhiker, and still can’t explain why I broke that rule for you. I just wanted to hit the road and now I want to see where that road leads.”

“And?”

“And just get away from my family.”

“And?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Ace said, his voice slightly raised.

“I want you to tell me what the end game is,” Shelby said. “I want you to tell me what your grand plan is. The whole time we’ve known each other – which isn’t very long, I admit – you’ve never mentioned anything beyond going to the Empire State Building. Are you gonna live there? Can you even live there?

Ace looked straight into Shelby’s eyes.

“I just want to run away and see what happens,” he said. “I might keep driving until I get to Canada. I just don’t know. I only know I can’t be part of my family anymore. I just can’t, and there’s no way I can make you understand why.”

Shelby reached over and grabbed his hand.

“Try me. What is so bad about your family that you drive thousands of miles to get away from them? Every family has issues … problems. How is yours different than any other?”

Ace leaned back and sighed.

“Trust me … you’ll just think I’m out of my mind. Look, it’s Thanksgiving. Let’s just eat this turkey-type thing and get back on the road. I enjoy your company and you seem to enjoy mine, so let’s make the best of it.”

The pair finished their meal, Ace paid the cashier, and then excused himself to wash up. He held his hands under the cold water and splashed his face, leaning close to the mirror and examining his eyes.

The full moon was still a day away, so he could safely take Shelby a bit further before putting her in danger.

He might be leaving his werewolf family behind, but he wasn’t sure if he would be able to leave the werewolf life behind.

And he was really starting to like Shelby.

“You ready?” he asked.

As Shelby and Ace slowly walked to the car, she paused to look at the sky.

“You know there’s a spell,” she said.

“What?”

“There’s a spell I can cast … one that can help control the transformation.”

“I don’t … I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ace said, unconvincingly.

“Witches have been helping lycanthropes for as long as there have been witches and lycanthropes,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “There’s a reason you picked me up and a reason I let you. No more secrets, OK?”

The faded silver door to the exploration craft groaned and whistled as it slowly opened, hesitating slightly before finally – and violently – swinging upward and coming to a grinding stop.

The travelers on board, Dr. Glandick 871 and Dr. Torlock 6096, gingerly stepped to the edge of the Class G vessel and jumped to the ground.

There was a time a few centuries earlier when journeys to Original Earth were considered prime missions. Not only were the top Voyagers from Replica Earth dispatched, but the inhabitants of RE anxiously awaited their return. Clues to what happened to the dead planet might help to determine the ultimate fate of its namesake.

But over time, it became apparent the missions were yielding nothing of intrinsic value. Scientists were unable to determine the nature of the extinction level event, and the fact that it was little more than a burned-out shell meant most evidence of civilization was wiped out.

Oh, there had been bits and pieces of structures salvaged, along with skeletal remains of ancient humans and animals to make for an interesting display at the Replica Earth Interactive Museum. And some literature was found, enough to speculate about the forms of religion and government that had been practiced. But Genus Homo Prime had limited knowledge of who they once were and what their purpose was, and with each decade that passed, there was less curiosity about it.

Thus, those who chose to continue to make the star flight back and forth from RE to OE had to do so on decommissioned shuttles using discretionary funds – funds that would soon be gone. Ambassadors of the Replica Earth Collective saw such anthropological work as little more than vanity projects for researchers.

Glandick 871 remained curious, though. There were once philosophers and faith leaders – who were they and what did they teach? And millions of people on RE called “Cinder Heads” had ushered in a retro phase in which they spent time celebrating OE for what it was, or at least what they thought it was.

It might not matter to the majority of Genus Homo Prime anymore, but any information gleaned could still prove to be worth studying. And after this latest mission, perhaps a glimpse into its long-extinct inhabitants might be at hand.

Torlock 6096 had unearthed what appeared to be the full text from an ancient printed work on a dig, and – to date – it was the only one of its kind ever recovered. There were examples of artwork that had been found on OE, but never more than a few pages of written words. This discovery was unprecedented and truly remarkable.

Glandick 871 had placed the find in a transparent, element-proof cube and clutched it tightly as he made the dusty walk from the craft to the laboratory with Torlock 6096.

“So,” Torlock 6096 asked, “from a philosophical standpoint, this could be the greatest find in Genus Homo Prime history, could it not?”

Glandick 871 sighed.

“Could be … could very well be – to those who think like us. The problem is, I don’t think it much matters to the Collective. Every time we make a trip to OE, they keep telling us how many trillions of Currency Units have already been wasted and they’re weary of wasting it on us because we learn nothing new. But who knows? If we can figure out what this means, we can pass it on to those who participate in Knowledge Symposiums. If they find it useful in some historical or kitschy sense then maybe – maybe – they’ll at least give us a stipend for more missions.”

Once inside the lab, Glandick 871 placed the cube on a luminosity table and carefully lowered a translation scope over the text. The scope was able to reconstruct parts of what had been written and drawn, and the cleaning process helped remove the centuries of debris that had collected.

Translation protocols were initiated, and the pair of scientists were excited to learn they had uncovered – in chronological order – 388 pages. What they read, however, could best be described as fictitious prose.

“Considering what is written, I posit that this must have been a popular story among ancient Earth dwellers,” Glandick 871 said. “And while that has great meaning to you and I and likely the Cinder Heads, I doubt seriously that the Collective would see it as worthy of additional subdizizing. But – and just hear me out – what if we can convince them that this is the holy text to one of Earth One’s religions? There are trials, tribulations, good, evil … this is a cautionary tale, and one that ends in a measure of redemption. Let’s prepare a brief and present it to the Collective.”

Torlock 6096 was stunned.

“But we don’t really believe this, do we?” she said with brows raised. “I mean, this is a monumental discovery in its own right, and we should celebrate it. But presenting it as anything else is being deceptive. It’s not a holy book, it’s just … a book.”

Glandick 871 shrugged.

“Deceptive? I believe deception for the greater good is merely guilelessness in disguise. We know there is more to be learned about OE, but we also know we won’t have the opportunity again if we don’t take some liberties.”

The next morning the pair appeared before a small assembly of ambassadors via hologram.

“Eminences, we deeply appreciate your time today and we think it’ll be well worth it,” Glandick 871 said. “As you know from the advance material you received, our latest trip to Original Earth resulted in the discovery of 388 pages of what we  believe to be an authoritative book of scripture. After this find, we would request that we be able to return in hopes of uncovering even more books representing more faiths. There is obviously much more to the lost civilization and we feel there might also be invaluable artifacts to be uncovered.”

Members of the collective read the first passage:

The great fish moved silently through the night water, propelled by short sweeps of its crescent tail. The mouth was open just enough to permit a rush of water over the gills. There was little other motion: an occasional correction of the apparently aimless course by the slight raising or lowering of a pectoral fin—as a bird changes direction by dipping one wing and lifting the other.

“It appears that the deity of OE worshippers are what scientists once called Carcharodon Carcharias,” Glandick 871 said. “But more importantly, we have  learned the title of the book is JAWS, which we believe is an acronym for Journal Attesting Worship Sects. It is written by Peter Benchley, who we assume was most likely a highly placed spiritual leader. With your support – and your funding – we are confident we can excavate even more of his teachings and, thus, uncover the secrets of Original Earth.”