Alienz

A girl sits in a grassy glade inside a circular beam of white light. The glow radiates from a spaceship hovering some distance above her, like it’s her own personal metal moon. It’s dark outside the ring of white, only a rumour of the surrounding trees. She senses them more than sees them: a warm breath of pine and needle and bark whispering over her bare shoulders.

A little distance away, a boy — about the same age as the girl, although he does not know her — climbs a chainlink fence and scrambles down the other side. His heart is rabbit-fast as he thumps onto the ground. He aims his torch in front, the silver-light pooling on the metal of the crane, forming a giant’s iris that stares back at him. The crane’s great yellow neck stretches far above the trees and into the unseen midnight distance, dangling a UFO from its tip like a bauble.

He makes his way past a red warning sign, his torch lighting up the occasional alien: humanoid in appearance, but with patchy purple skin and an extra eye behind their heads that he feels burning into him as he walks by.

He’d read online about the advert being filmed here. A confectionary product so delicious that aliens flocked to earth to wait in a long queue to purchase the chocolate. They’ve been filming for a week and will film for another yet.

The boy’s breath hitches in his throat when he sees the light pouring onto the girl, her skin bleached by the frosty light. She almost looks incased in glass, a brightly lit exhibition in a gallery.

He hopes she’s a prop for the advert, but she waves a hand; he imagines she’s about say: I come in peace.

But what she really says is: “Hey.”

He walks cautiously towards her. Is she a young method-actress who’s turned up eight hours before filming to get in the role? He doubts it.

She pats the grass by her side.

The boy steps into the white light, feels it drench him, feels it pour through his skin and into the darker places inside. It’s only ever the light during the nights that can do that, he thinks. That can pierce his outer body and shine on the darker, more ominous emotions inside.

”I didn’t expect anyone to be here,” he says, turning off his own light, which compared to the UFO’s, seems like a drip to an ocean.

She shrugs. “Well, someone was here.”

”Guess so.”

He sits on the grass opposite her. Studies her face. Watches as she closes her eyes and takes deep breaths. So relaxed he’s envious. Has he ever in his life been so at peace? She’s maybe a little younger than him — definitely not an actress. Not a flake of makeup on her. Just the bath of light that smooths out any imperfection on either of them.

“I’m an alien,” she says, eyes still closed.

He raises his brows, plays along. “Are you trying to get back home or something?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t ever go back home. But I’ve been coming out here the last few nights, when they’re not filming, and imagining it.“

He tries to look up at the UFO but it’s blindingly bright. “Imagining… your home?”

”That’s right,” she says, calmly. “I imagine this light engulfing my essence and beaming me far away to where I belong. Destroying me and remaking me somewhere else.”

Her eyes finally open. Settle on him, hold him perfectly still as if they’re twin vices.

“So? Why are you here?” she asks.

He’s tempted to say he’s an alien, too. But he knows that answer would sound glib and sarcastic from his mouth. From hers, somehow, it sounds sincere. From his, it would ruin this strange moment. It would be to drop a stone into a pond.

”I want to be a journalist,” he confesses. “A reporter, you know?“ He takes a notepad out of his jacket and waves it. “I figured I’d use this place as a trial run. Pretend this was a real alien invasion and I’ve snuck into their camp.“

The girl smiles. Her smile lifts his lips with her own, as if their faces are mirrors of each other. Or as if invisible strings connect them, he thinks. Then he wonders if these strings go further — if there are strings connecting every human on the planet like this. It’s a strange thought and he doesn’t fully understand it.

”Now you can write about an actual alien you found here. Lucky you.”

A strong gust of wind blows, ruffling the pad of paper, her hair, the UFO dangling on the wire of the crane. The patch light sways, rocks back and forth, changing the play of light and shadows over them.

He sees a bruise on the girl’s forearm. Two of them. As if someone has snatched at her. Selfishly tried to keep her.

The light settles, the darkness of the bruises are lost in the soothing glow.

He‘s about to say something about them, when she says, ”Why do you want to be a reporter?”

”I don’t know,” he says.

“You don’t know? That’s strange, don’t you think. If you want to be something, you should usually know why. Or at least, I think so.”

His cheeks flush. “I wanted to be a poet when I was younger. Then a writer. But I wasn’t much good at either. I only ever seemed to be able to tell facts about the outside world. But to be a poet, you need to be able to see the internal facts. And I could never do that.” His eyes flick back to her arm, searching for the marks.

They’re silent for a while. The breeze is gentle again. Just the scents of the forest and sweet quiet fragrance of each other.

”If you stay here with me,” she says, “and the real aliens return, they might take us both away.”

”Do you want to leave the world that badly?“ he asks.

Her smile melts like candle wax, falls into a frown. His smile matches. Invisible strings.

”I’m sorry,” he says.

”Don’t be.”

After a while of quiet, he opens his notepad. Holds his pen ready but is not sure what details to note. There doesn’t seem anything worth noting except for this girl who doesn’t feel she belongs.

“Write a poem,” she says.

”A poem? No, I can’t. I told you, I’m no good at them. I write them and then read them and realize they’re trash.” He doesn’t say that, some time ago, he shared two poems with his parents, and a few days afterwards they suggested he try other forms of writing.

”Maybe you think you’re an imposter,” she says, tilting her head.

”An imposter? Like an alien, you mean?“

She grins. “Yeah, maybe. Maybe you think you’re an alien like me. Maybe you think that, and because you think that, you can’t write the human things you want to. But that’s the thing, right? You only think it. It’s in your mind. That’s all that‘s stopping you.”

He thinks for a moment. “Maybe you‘re the same,“ he suggests. “Maybe you think you’re an alien. You think you don’t belong but that’s only in your head. Maybe in a few years things will have changed so much that this planet you don’t recognise will blossom and you’ll think: Oh yeah, this was my home-world after all — I just started out in the wrong part of it, it’s a good thing I didn’t leave early.”

She‘s quiet for a while. “Maybe.”

The UFO’s light flickers, then steadies itself again. The warm wind engulfs them both with the same cradling hand.

He begins to write. Slow but full of intent.

”Journalism?” she asks.

He shakes his head. The invisible strings tug gently at both girl and boy.

”Can I see it when it’s done?” she asks.

He never shares his poetry. His heart is in a deep metallic safe that he only opens and peers into when he‘s certain he’s alone.

But he nods, says quietly, “Okay.”

*****

THE END.