July 27
You can't see their eyes. You don't even know if they have eyes. Some said they were robots, some, some kind of insect, with an exoskeleton.

I remember when we decided to take action. They had let us wander about at night. I say let us becuase they had to know. They know almost everything. I realize that now. Many thought that we were just good at sneaking, getting past their "perimiter" as we would "recon". Fools I think them sometimes.

Geoff and Buddy were taking a long time setting the charges. Charges! It was a pipe bomb, plain and simple. The rest of us were laying on the top of the embankment overlooking the parking lot off the mall. Of all places to take over they decide to take the mall. Turns out to be fortunate for us.

We had watched them many times before. I had to press hard for it. We had to just study them, to watch, to learn. We had to learn their habits, if they had habits. If they had routines. So we had watched them, here at the mall, many nights. There never slept. They were always moving about doing something, night or day, rain or shine. And they had routines. Robotic-like and insect-like. These things could be predicted. And part of their routines here at the mall left us a window of opportunity.

Geoff and Buddy had run down the embankment when the gap between their movements left an opening. There was some debris off to the side that they were to hide the bomb next to. They were to set the time for exactly 23 seconds after they got it in place. We timed that it took 15 seconds to get down there, 8 seconds to place the bomb, 2 to set the timer. Any time extra to do their thing had to be subtracted from the timer. They were now 5 seconds over their time to get it set. My scalp started to itch.

But they did it. They ran back, jumped down behind us and slid next to us. We all wanted to watch. I wanted some of them to start heading back but they were determined. I know why it is said that curiosity killed the cat.

The two aliens, exactly on time, came around the corner. Both model IIs. Called that because they were the second type that we saw. Humanoid in shape; arms, legs, torso, head, square frame, shiny in places, metalic. They slowly walked across the front of the building along the side walk. There were columns between them and the parking lot. We wacthed as they moved from one to the other. We could faintly hear the tinking noises that they made as they moved. No, no sound of servos, no whirring noise, no clanking. Just a tinking, like metal expansion and un-expansion. They were near the bomb now. Just a few more steps. If Geoff and buddy set the timer correctly, just about now...

They can't believe it. But I can. I thought all along that these things were more than we imagined. We, we humans, tend to think in human terms. How else are we to think? Books, movies, science and technology, all together lead how we think. We think of future wars in space and we think of firing bullets at other humanoids. Bullets of some sort of plasma or something, but bullets just the same. Our spaceships of the future are like our jets of today, roaring through space with flames coming out of their ass. We'll communicate through radios in the future too. Bullshit. All of it. And these aliens show us. Their communication is almost instant and like thinking. It has to be. They act like it is. Their weapons have remote precision nobody ever dreamed of. I've seen them. I've seen crowds of people just fall down dead. I've seen buildings just collapse in rubble. Seen planes and armored vehicles turned to dust. These things don't fool around with projectiles of energy. They directly manipulate energy. And of course they aren't bother by precussion weapons. But we had to make the test. We have to learn. We had to see how they reacted. And they didn't.

They just kept on walking, those two aliens. The explosion went off right on time. We felt the concussion in the ground. We heard the boom. Pieces of pipe flew everywhere. A column was chipped, a window smashed out. Smoke actually billowed. And went the smaoke cleared. Nothing. They just kept on walking as if nothing happened.

"You were out too late last night Kathleen," her mother told her as she entered the kitchen. "Was that why you missed breakfast?"

"Oh mom, it wasn't too late and I was just over the Dayton's," Kathy said, brushing her lengthy dark hair. "Paul had a going away party."

"You mean you were giving him a going away party I'll bet," said her father sitting at the table eating.

"Dad!" Kathy stammered. "Practically everybody in the neighborhood was there. Even his parents were there."

"I don't give a damn," her father said, turning toward her. "Staying out late is one thing, but your not going to stay over a boy's house at night. You hear me?" He turned back to his food. "Especially that Paul Dayton. He's a bum. I don't want you seeing him anymore."

"He's not a bum and I didn't stay over. And anyways he's going back to college tomorrow."

"There's some lunch left Kathy," her mother said to her, sitting down at the table.

"I've already eaten."

"And please go brush your hair in the bathroom," her mother added.

"Well I'm done brushing," she said, putting the brush in the back pocket of her cut off dungarees, taking a can of soda from the refrigerator. "I'm going now to meet Samantha. She's coming in on the one o'clock bus."

Fishing rods in hand, Paul and Tom ran down the just rained upon road, breathing in the sweet smell of warm tar that a fresh morning summer shower always brings; they went to catch tonight's dinner.

They ran down the middle of the road, past their neighbor's houses, waving and shouting hellos to those that were out doing lawn work, picking up the newspaper, or putting out the trash. Into town they went onto the sidewalk and jogged slower, passing the many shops.

Woods' Hardware; Zelinski's Deli; Baker's Barber Shop, not yet open; Woolworth's -- the sign still reading Five and Dime; Lady's Apparel, which they looked at with frowns; Bert's Sporting Goods, where they paused for a little window shopping; the fire station, where Bob, Sam and Cook were always sitting out front; Daily's News Store, "Just the right name for a newsstand," he always told the boys.

After running for a whole mile they neared the edge of town and turned down a winding path that led into the town forest. Over the hill and through the valley they quickly came to the lake; running around logs and rocks, sneakers slipping on moss and dew in the shadows from the large boulders, twice their height, they came to their spot. Their own secret spot where the best fish lay in wait.

It was a warm night. It was a night with a soft breeze carrying the smells and sounds of summer. It was a night for boys.

"Go wash your hands."

Upon their father's command, the two boys raced on up the stairs and into the bathroom, trying to wash their hands at the same time. They finished with hands flicking at each other and they ran back down the stairs, drying their hands on their shirts, jumping three whole steps at the end.

"Slow down," their mother said as they slid into the kitchen full of the aromas of their dinner: ham smothered with raisin sauce, candied yams, peas and carrots wallowing in butter, and for dessert? That would be a surprise.

Harold didn't see the ground coming up toward him, he felt it. Only after the second of disorientation and the reminder of gravity and pain did he realize that he was face first in the dirt, the feet of the cause of his predicament walking away. He tried hard to prevent his tears. He was unsuccessful.

Harold got up slowly, wanting to wait until the crowd dispersed. Luckily then, the bell rang to start the rest of the kids off to class.

After a long drag on his cigarette Chase stared at its large glowing head and blew his breath over it, exciting its redness with an array of spark and ash, then flicked it up at the underside of the overpass above him, causing a burst of hot red rain to shower down on him and his crew. The others jumped or rolled aside, batting their heads and cursing.

"What the fuck, Chase!" Rat said wiping his mohawk. He called himself The Rat but everyone else just Rat.

"Let's blow this taco stand, Cruds," Chase said. Computer Redundant Usurping Dudes. Radix, that freaking computer addict came up with that idiotic name, even wears a goddamned computer, knows his shit though.

"Yeah! Let's go do crimes," Scarface said. Scarface. Scarhead, Scar, Scarry, Scarman. Cut open his own face with a razor, into bodyart, body hacking is more like it. Has more cuts, burns and marks on him than a Middle-East torture victim. But being fucking crazy has its usefulness. Point man.

Chase slid down the graffiti covered concrete ramp, past the graffiti covered concrete pillars and stepped over the glass and can infested graffiti covered concrete curb and onto the road, his crew following.

July 20

It has been a long six months since last I was able to write. I am weary. We are all weary. We have a new home and Basram is staying with us. His parents are dead as far as we know.

He is holding up well, considering what we have been through. I mean what he has been through, especially. He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't talk much anymore, actually. He reads his books, few that we managed to keep, over and over. That's almost all he does, except to go out at night to look for more books. He does not want me to go with him. We are not supposed to be out after dark. I am afraid for him, but he seems okay mostly. Poor Basram.

They stood at the ticket counter, the father arguing with the woman behind the computer terminal, the mother sighing, constantly rolling her eyes, ticking her tongue and looking at her watch.

"Here you are, Sir," said the woman behind the counter, passing him a ticket booklet. "You have to call the number on the back of the ticket to file a formal complaint--"

"Don't you think I won't," the father said. He was in a slightly disheveled light brown suit. He hastily bent and picked up his bag and turned away, peering down each end of the long hall before picking his direction. "Come on, Alice. Let's get going."

"Come along, Becky," the mother said. She had a tube shaped pocketbook with a long strap on her shoulder, a wide, flat brimmed hat, eyes that were hidden behind large brown sunglasses, and a face hidden behind makeup. She turned and followed her husband.

"Come along, Peaches," their daughter, wearing a light blue dress with white shoes and tall white socks, said to her doll.

With trembling hands he picked up the small faux brass figurine and brought it to the smiling face of the woman behind the table at the flea market. With the two dollars given the slightly stooped, slightly balding man held the figurine with both hands.

In his car he placed the figurine--a small child sitting with hands on knees, with a face bright and up raised, with small wings attached to her shoulders--carefully on the seat next to him. When he arrived home, up the wide steps of the brownstone building, down the creaking, musty hallway and into his apartment he immediately made room for the new arrival among the other figurines and statuettes throughout the room. Among the porcelain and brass and glass and crystal and clay figures, among the little angels and cherubs and fairies, sitting and dancing and standing vigil, he made room for one more--always room for one more.

After dusting and adjusting and gazing, he paused and stood before his collections. Always room for one more.

And after making tea he sat in his favorite chair, near the window, facing inside the room, beside the small picture--a child, sitting with hands on knees, smiling, always smiling, with the faded inscription, Pixie, 1957-1967.

January 15

They are actually a kind of beautiful site those huge rounds ships floating in the sky above. Not that I'd ever say that out loud, not even to Basram. But to you my imaginary reader, I will admit that they have a mystique that intrigues me.

January 9

Everything is still different today except for one thing. Most of the adults treat us as if we can't be trusted. As if we wouldn't be able to understand. I don't know. (I say that a lot I guess, and it's true. But it's just that I can't find the right words to write down how I really feel about something. Basram says that it is not necessarily a lack of intelligence but a lack of knowledge. He said he'd get me a few good books. One on history and another on philosophy. I always thought that I'd be better off without school. Boy was I wrong. I really miss school now.)

January 8

The bombing of Buchanan's shop has really stirred things up. We have been a peaceful community despite our hardships; or perhaps because of our hardships Basram said. He said that people who are poor and destitute are generally more tolerant of their neighbors (except for the few who would resort to stealing--but when everyone is poor what is there to steal?). I don't know. He may be right though for we have been getting along with our neighbors for all these past years. In the beginning there was some fighting, but mostly over property and food. After everyone realized that each family was as bad off as the others we all got along. There is an underlying tension between some of those who go to church and those who don't but we've all been fine. Until yesterday. (Which is why I didn't write anything.)

January 6

I can't believe what happened today. I am still shaking.

Basram and I spent the afternoon in town. We aren't usually allowed, but since the electricity has been back everybody seemed more relaxed or something, some even happy. I guess we just thought we could take advantage of that. We should have known and we almost got in trouble. Some are afraid of reprisals. Or that the electricity will be turned off again. Or that maybe we are being manipulated, or tested. Sometimes I feel like we are rats in maze.

January 5

Where to begin? So much has happened!

First, obviously, we have electricity! My God you wouldn't know how much it was missed until you get it back--then it sinks in. It's like being cold all day and then suddenly you are standing in front of a warm fire!

"There's something on the window."

"Huh?"

"On the window. There."

"What?"

"There's something..."

"Oh."

"...on the window."

September, 1863, hot and dry. Jacob had worked hard all that year. He made sure that the stocks were all full up for the winter, that there was enough feed for the pigs and chickens, and enough wood chopped. He was giving the barn one last going over, all the while telling his younger brother, just going on thirteen to his sixteen, what to do while he was away, stressing how he was to take care of Ma, to make sure that Uncle Clem does not stray from his help, and that if they be needing anything to fetch old preacher McCain.

"I'll be off right soon, Willy. Before Ma comes back. You know how she'll fret, not wanting me to go and all. You know your chores right well I reckon."

Little Lisa, clutching a blonde Barbie Doll, was prancing around the manicured green grass of the park. Her parents were busy setting up the picnic table.

She walked along a path kicking her legs up high and softly talking to her doll when she spotted a candy wrapper on the grass.

"Look at that, Peaches," she said to her doll. "A litterbug! Some careless person let that trash fall on the ground." She picked up the wrapper and skipped over to a nearby trash-bin and stood up on her toes to drop it in. "That's where all the trash belongs," she said into the shiny black container, "In it's place."

"Over here, son."

"Yes, Daddy?"

"Did you have a nice day today?"

"Sure did. Went to the zoo. Saw monkeys and tigers. And I had ice cream. It was nice to be out of school."

"I'm glad, son. It is school that I want to talk to you about."

"Yes, Daddy?"

"You know how at school there are different grades? Some children are grade six or seven?"

"I'm grade... grade five!"

Every one remembers, George mused, where they were on September 21st three years ago today, as he and his long line of companions left the warehouse that the Aliens had assigned him to.

September 21st was the day that the Aliens showed themselves. No one called them "extra-terrestrials", or "beings from another planet," for the Aliens are not little green men from Mars or humanoid "Class M" inhabitants. The irony of the Hollywood stereotype was that the aliens of earth's first contact were actually brutal, mechanical monsters. Whether mechanical robots or just encased in armor no one knew. What was most disturbing of them though, all who saw them agreed, was that they had no eyes.

The shuttle shook as it left orbit under a battle trajectory and fell to the planetoid's surface--something somewhere rattled near the Colonel's ear. The shuttle's usual hum was now a roar in his eardrums, soon there would be a feeling of ice-picks being jammed in. He swallowed in anticipation. It did not help. He tensed his abdomen just as the ship turned in its deceleration. There was a loud boom followed by a loud bang and the ship stopped with a great jerk. The "tow holds," as they were called, kept the men secure.