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Something About the Rain II
Continued from last week plus one...
I may have been lulled into a false sense of security by the tapping at the windows and the reveries I slipped into whenever I get to thinking about the 80s, which seems to be alarmingly often these days. At any rate, that lull I was in carried me right through the stage where the gentle, soothing tapping of the rain against the window turned into knocking.
When a little sliver of glass spit off the window and off (though nearly into) my arm, I roused myself from wherever it is I had gone in my reminiscing and into the present, where my formerly nice large French doors appeared to be spitting glass at me.
You'll note the doors were neither formerly large nor French, they were still that (though maybe short a little bit of glass), but I was definitely not considering them nearly as nice as they were when they just sat there, letting the rain tap off them nicely while I sat on the couch and appreciated the gentleness of the tapping.
My second thought was somewhat rushed by the events that followed, and that was, "I wonder if this isn't the cat's fault."
That thought was left no time to hang around though, suddenly my formerly nice large French doors became fully formerly doors when they shattered inwards, wood, glass, and little brass-like door handles all.
If I had been a sloth, at this point I almost certainly would have considered moving to a different neighborhood, or at the very least hoped a nicer neighborhood might develop around me while I sort of just continued sitting around as I was.
But I was, and probably still am, though I need to check on that, a hand-spun string twister, so my reaction was to duck and roll. The couch I was sitting on being against the furthest wall from the doors/huge gaping hole in the wall, unfortunately, that meant I rolled right over a carpet of glass and wooden splinters until I hit my coffee table.
And it was a good thing I hit the coffee table, too, or I might not be here to tell the tale now.
Because if I hadn't, I probably would have squashed the littlest person I've ever seen. Wearing an improbably small pair of mirrored safety goggles and a tiny black waterproof suit.
And it became an even more good thing that I hit the coffee table when the little person zapped (I suppose that's the right word) a little, very little green moving vegetable looking sort of thing that was looking surprisingly menacing for an inch high broccoli wielding a splinter of my former door like a spear. And aiming it at me.
In the aftermath of the zap-like effect that came out of the little almost-squashed guy's left hand the splinter hovered for a second in the air as if it were just checking the menacing was done and it could go back to being a piece of French door detritus, and it did just that, plonking back down on to my floor with a soft plonking noise.
The little guy in the funny waterproof suit didn't even look back really, at me, and ran full-tilt towards the door like an action hero, which, in a way, I suppose, he was. Or she. Those government agents all look the same to me.
By the gaping hole in the wall, now letting in the gentle rain on to my cat hair-free carpet, I occasionally saw little flashes of purple and red much like the ones that vaporized or at least disappeared the little broccoli creature.
My phone started ringing again in the bedroom. Or the kitchen. Somewhere in another room, anyway. It was probably the other guy on the twisting floor. Tim was his name.
But I didn't need to pick it up, I knew what he was calling about.
That little secret government agent, the one I'd almost rolled over I'd seen before, oh yes I had. Back in the 80s, as a matter of fact, when I was bored, then, too, and I was staring at a spider web beneath the porch steps. And I knew what they were training for then, in those dew-dropped spider webs and in the damp of the concrete foundation under the stairs after a spring shower.
The aliens had started coming down in the raindrops.
disclaimer:
This issue is dedicated to a shiney piece of tinfoil in an otherwise dark world, again.
And it is dark, you know.
California, here we come.
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