By Andrew Graham Martin
8/1/2024 11:41pm PST
Through my telescope I see a city – no, city is inaccurate. As a scientist it is my duty to be accurate. Let me begin again.
Through my telescope I see a gathering of creatures –
Does ‘creatures’ otherize them? If they looked like humans would I refer to them as creatures?
Through my telescope I see a gathering of organisms participating in a society. The organisms appear to be roughly 6 feet tall (1.82 meters), have two sets of arms on either sides of their body, and green-colored skin.
More to follow.
8/3/2024 09:31am PST
Upon further consideration I must amend my previous entry. It’s come to my attention that ‘green’ is an unhelpful descriptor, as our narrow human interpretation of the color spectrum is nearly offensive in its unsuitableness when discussing complex matters of space.
For that matter, is ‘arms’ appropriate? ‘Gathering?’ ‘Gathering’ may mean nothing to one who’s being isn’t even composed of DNA. Our souls aren’t even neighbors.
What good is language if it’s only for me and those who look like me?
Need further thought on matter.
8/4/2024 10:15pm PST
Here. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll momentarily set aside semantics and neutrality and impartiality. I need to do this in order to comprehensively document the fast-unfolding situation I am witnessing. Then, once the situation is recorded, I’ll revisit and see what language needs to be amended.
Now.
Through my telescope I see a city of aliens participating in a clearly alien society. The aliens are freakish and grotesque. They have four, spindly, sinewy arms and their skin is warty green. They scuttle up the sides of their buildings like those fast spiders we have here on Earth. The aliens don’t use sidewalks, all they do is scuttle up and over buildings. I fear what they would do if they reached Earth. We could never outrun them.
Better. Feels good.
8/9/2024 01:15pm PST
The females – I assume they’re female because they wear pink bows – eat the males when they are done with sex. Sex is had out in the open – in parks, in orchestra pits, on subway platforms.
8/11/2024 02:31pm PST
The aliens are incredibly busy. They have assembled what is clearly a powerful laser and they are pointing it directly at us –
Stop.
This is where impartiality becomes partiality. I cannot in good conscience graft intentions onto a foreign, unknowable species over ten light years away from me. What hubris to assume their laser cannon is pointed directly at me and earth? Why must we earthlings always center ourselves in every discussion? We aren’t even the tip of an eyelash on God’s divine body, and yet we assume ourselves the heart, the liver, the Holy Motor.
And who am I to assume malicious intentions? What looks like a laser cannon to me could simply be a flower cannon, designed to helpfully populate its target with beautiful daffodils, lilies, and carnations? Now wouldn’t that be nice?
8/11/2024 02:33pm PST
Not if you were a cat! Cats – and this is not well-known – are deathly allergic to lilies. Even a single mite of pollen from a lily is enough to cause even a healthy, robust cat, to keel clean over. If the alien’s flower cannon is aimed at a Cat Planet, the alien’s intentions once again become nefarious.
Will update as necessary.
8/12/2024 03:33pm PST
The laser – not laser – Engine? Device? Item of interest?
Whose interest? Mine? Who am I?
It’s turning blue.
Not blue.
What I recognize as blue. What I believe to be blue. What I consider blue, based on a lifetime of interpreting photons and categorizing them into aesthetic categories for ease of description.
Blue gets brighter.
I fear words no longer useful. I fear language failed experiment. I fear sight of laser powering up. I fear sides humming bright like neon Budweiser sign in window of drinking place. Can’t recall. Difficult to describe. Beauty is fleeting. Brighter brighter brighter.
What is cat. Who are lilies. Beam stronger grows. It does what good is to do. Speak only write well. Be good. Hope not miss.
When. Here. Now.
Andrew Graham Martin’s writing has appeared in Smokelong Quarterly, Bright Flash Literary Review, Shirley Magazine, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, and elsewhere. He lives in Indianapolis.
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