By Kelly Keene

There was a flash, a BANG! And next thing I knew I was flat on my back looking up at the ceiling of my own kitchen. Clicking and chirping sounds brought me back, and I could still smell the faint aroma of papaya fruit cake. I’ll admit, it was one of the more unusual recipes I’d tried recently, but even this was beyond what I could have expected. 

After sitting up, I froze again. There were five of them. One on the counter, eating directly from the tin; scaly claws scraping at the white tiles. Two others fluttered near the ceiling. They seemed to be waiting to pick up scraps when the larger one was through. The other two were at my feet, licking up fallen bits that had landed to the floor by my ankles. “Breathe Kelly,” I told myself. “Breathe.”

Was I dreaming? Was this real? It felt real, but I didn’t feel like I could move my body. The sound of scavenging creatures feasting in my kitchen faded to the background. My own thumping heart felt like it had moved up into my throat. I eyed the knives, untouched, in the block on the counter. Could I reach them? If I tried, I’d have to stand up, and reach right past the largest creature, still perched on the counter. These animals were unlike anything I’d seen before. Deep green, with claws and alligator tails, they flapped and fluttered like bats with beaks and deep purple saliva dripping all over their meal. I couldn’t reach for the knife. 

Could I run? Subtly slip away and try not to disturb them while they were still distracted by the baked goods? Could I reach my phone and call for help? What would I even say? “Um please send help, there appear to be aliens in my kitchen, and I don’t know what to do!” This was insane. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. 

“Yoohoo! Howdy neighbor!” 

They stopped. All five pairs of eyes looked towards my front door. It had been hot baking with the oven on in my tiny little apartment, so I’d left the door wide open with nothing but the thin screen keeping Mr. Jones outside. “I brought you some extra lemons from our tree! Anyone home?” I didn’t move. Would it be better to stay quiet? Let Mr. Jones, the kindest old man on the block, slip away unharmed? Or should I call out? Tell him what’s happening and risk an attack when the aliens finally heard my own voice?

Mr. Jones decided for me. He rang the bell, and it happened again. A flash, like lightning, brought my whole kitchen into vivid focus. Then the bang, then they were gone. If I hadn’t seen it, and if my papaya fruit cake had remained in tact, I would have never believed it had really happened. 

I scrambled to the door in time to thank Mr. Jones. He handed over the lemons but didn’t linger long. I’m sure my pale face and shell shocked expression gave him a hint that I wasn’t in the mood to chat.