“Kiling Humens and Baysbawl” by Chris Milam


Well, my mom slept with an alien. This was ten years ago, two years after the invasion. She met him on SpaceLove.com. His name is a bunch of squeaks and squeals and is spelled with weird symbols, so she called him Bruce Greenwood, who she said was an underrated character actor. Anyway, they met online. Bruce only listed two interests: killing humens and baysbawl. He’s not the greatest speller in the galaxy. She thought it was cute even though the aliens literally killed millions of humans when they first arrived. After a few dates, she introduced him to me. I took in his lobster claw hands and praying mantis head and told mom that I preferred she get back to together with Chuck because at least he wasn’t from another planet and looked somewhat normal in his khakis and vintage rock t-shirts.

After a few months, he moved in with us. But one good thing came from their union, my brother Jacob. He also has lobster claw hands but his head is human, though his feet are webbed. The alien is an attentive father, unlike my own, who left years ago to chase alcohol and other women. Bruce walks Jacob to school and vaporizes anyone who makes fun of him. My brother is untouchable when he is around. They also share a love of baseball, the Yankees to be more precise, and they always play catch in the backyard. I watch from my bedroom window wishing it was me and my dad out there bonding and throwing curveballs.

When dad found out that my mom married Bruce, he stormed over and demanded that she divorce him immediately because no god damn alien was going to be a step-father to my son. Bruce clicked his tongue three times, which was alien speak for I’m about to kill you, so dad backed off, said screw it, I need a drink and took off. I haven’t seen him since.

There are others like us in the neighborhood. It started slowly, a mixed family here and there, then over the years over half of the families had an alien in the household. Even Jason Preston, the saddest guy I ever met, found love on the internet. He calls her Rosamund, after Rosamund Pike, who he said was really hot. We all get along and have cookouts every month or so. Aliens love grilled chicken for some reason, maybe it tastes like whatever they ate back on their planet. There will always be peace in the suburbs because we know the aliens could kill us any time they want to. So we behave around them, give them our respect which is a disguise for fear. 

Bruce Greenwood tries to fit in. He wears skinny jeans and slim fitting Polo shirts. He bowls on Friday nights. He even dresses up as Santa Claus on Christmas, though most children know he’s just an alien in a red suit. I do admire his efforts, to be honest. I hated him at first but lately, I’ve grown to like him in a because-he-makes-my-mom-happy-in-more-ways-than-one way. He dotes on her, buys her little gifts, though he doesn’t totally understand the concept. He’s brought her a bag of crickets, a dead rat, a box filled with dog poop. He buys her things like Bic lighters and mulch and toothpicks. She says it’s the thought that counts and she loves him because he tries so hard to impress her.

I met a girl recently in the neighborhood. I call her Jennifer after a middle school crush. Even Bruce Greenwood gave me a tree branch to give to her on our first date. We are going to the ice rink at fountain square. I just hope her huge webbed feet fit into the ice skates because I really like her. I really do, alien or not.


Chris Milam lives in Middletown, Ohio. His stories have appeared in FlashBack Fiction, Molotov Cocktail, Lost Balloon, Bending Genres, WhiskeyPaper, and elsewhere.
Twitter: @Blukris.

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