Blue

I found this short story scrawled on one of my yellow legal pads I used for poetry. I think I wrote it sometime in the fall of 1994. This actually makes me supremely happy to read. It seems unfinished. Or is it?

Blue

We were standing quietly in the middle of the desert, on that mesa I insisted on scaling, when the aliens came and abducted you. It was just last year. Nowhere near Roswell.

We stood atop that mesa with the capitalized Big Blue Skies over our heads, not a cloud in sight. The skies are so vast from the top of a mesa. I saw the moon like a pale pearl in the ocean. That was right before they landed.

We had a picnic from the gas station: a couple of beers, some Coca Cola and a bag of Fritos. We took the hardtop down on your baby blue and drove forever, past the crater, and then I saw the mesa. You pulled over so I could go up.

When the aliens abducted you, they came in a bright ship with lights. It was broad daylight. I didn’t stop them. Aliens have ideas of their own. They might have thought you were a soil sample.

You came back a few minutes later. You didn’t say anything and neither did I. But I knew. You didn’t act any different. But I knew. I knew.

When someone has been on a ship, their aura shifts. Yours was blue. You thought this should be our secret. You didn’t say it out loud, but I knew anyway. I know a lot. We had a lot of secrets, you and me, blue and otherwise.