We Are Aliens
by Iggy Shuler
Trying our best to blend in here on Earth. When we first came to this planet, we thought it would be enough to inhabit human bodies, to wear them like handsome foreign vehicles, to weasel into the offices of heads of state, glance at a few maps, shake a few hands, and report home. We tried it. But of course nobody believed that act.
So we tried again. We, like you, surrendered to being born, the first in a long list of cruelties. We were born in a small town with two cop cars. We had many brothers and sisters. We played in a sandbox shaped like a turtle. We learned about hospitals. We went to space camp. We sang the national anthem. We bought a truck. We filled out forms. We saw things on the television about Syria. Several times, we bought or received flowers. Once we had a girlfriend. We loved her very much. She sent us communist literature on the internet. We saw footage. We got ideas about things. This was all immeasurably cruel. We were hurt often, even relentlessly. We moved to Cuba to wear less clothing and practice communism in secret.
Who knows how long we’ve been in Cuba. Long enough to learn astronomy and join a religious order and fast for three months out of the year. Long enough to forget our real names. Long enough to forget the names after that, too. Long enough to fix up an old HAM radio with oil and glass knobs and a long green wire like a snake. A long time ago we forgot to study the humans; in Cuba we begin to study the sky.
In Cuba we are building a treehouse. Because of something called nostalgia, we are compelled to fire up the radio and listen to the police scanner in our old home town. Sometimes we feel sad for something far away but we cannot say what. We attribute our suffering to living too long and knowing too little. Our therapist says it is because of our childhoods. We develop theories. We practice herbal healing. We put on Elvis and try to dance. We learn about pangs. We have limbs that change colors in the sun. We understand that cielo can mean sky but it can also mean heaven. We understand that there are things that exist that we cannot see. We call our ex-girlfriend but we talk to an answering machine. Why doesn’t anything ever work out for us? Does anyone still care? And what is the meaning of all this? In asking, we are no longer imposters. We lift the HAM radio on high by a pulley and try to communicate with aliens. We wear hats made out of foil and fear the arrival of something strange. We claim to believe. We eat coconut flakes. We forget where we came from. We monitor the sky for any signs of life. In this way, nobody suspects a thing.
About the Author:
Iggy Shuler is a writer, communist, and farmhand from the Carolinas. Their work has been featured in Menacing Hedge, The Daily Gamecock, Litmus, Prairie Schooner, and elsewhere. Their favorite bird is the starling, and their favorite Debbie cake is the humble honey bun.
About Weekly Flash Prose and Poetry:
CutBank Online features one work of flash prose or prose poetry every Monday. Submissions are free and open year-round. Send us your best work of 750 words or less at https://cutbank.submittable.com/submit.
