On my bus ride home, sometimes I’d get off a stop or two early. I’d walk down the street and hover near this one house. There was a small entrance, and a porch on stilts.
And that’s when the aliens would attack.
Little guys, they usually attacked my eyes, or burrowed through my ears. They crawled up the pavement and up my legs.
Raiding horsemen would gallop by, heaving torches at thatched roofs, and I’d stand, staring at this red-bricked house.
Occasionally, mushroom clouds appeared on the horizon, but that didn’t bother me much. It was only the systemic destruction of the human race.
My friend who lived there, she never came home when I hoped she would. The only reason for being there was the hope that she’d come home, and I’d see her.
You never feel so much like a creep when you’re standing outside someone’s home, for all intents and purposes, stalking, and the person doesn’t even come home. It doesn’t help that asteroids are falling and velociraptors are running around screaming like dying rabbits.
You should have just made a move, old boy. Now you’ll have this weighing on your shoulders forever.
By this time the Spanish Inquisition has got its hands on you, dragging you, and a group of people with crosses, following behind, begging you to confess, but you won’t confess, not to these animals, you won’t confess any strange behavior, because even though you’re strange, you’re real, and these people wouldn’t understand that. Of course, this makes it seem like what you’re doing is premeditated. In reality, you’re just drawn to this place like horses to water, or magnets to metal. You couldn’t leave if you tried.
You’re just catching a glimpse, like someone on a Hollywood tour. You’re just hoping to see something greater, something different. Something to convince you that all the time spent behind desks and putting up with assholes has been worth it. It deserves to be dramatic, even if it feels shameful. I wanted to stand outside a porch, and wait for the fair lady to come out, tell me to climb the vines, but she never came. And now I won’t climb porches anymore, I won’t climb for anyone, and I don’t care who comes along, whether it’s witches, Nazis, earthquakes or superbugs or killer spiders or another wonderful woman, the next one won’t get me.