Eric and I were abducted by aliens.

Not your typical aliens, however.  These aliens spoke perfect English, enjoyed fine brandy and cigars after dinner and exhibited surprisingly polite behavior.  Except for the experiments.  Those were slightly less than courteous. 

Long story short – we have been returned.  Intact.  Mostly.

Although, Eric does now go by the name, Zimmerman Pike, typically sports robin’s-egg-blue tuxedo jackets with oddly-shaped fur hats and habitually repeats the phrase “that’s what she said” on an endless loop (which, honestly, is fairly distracting while trying to carry on mundane conversation).  I’m not sure if he writes much anymore.  Probably more so than I.

I seem to have survived the ordeal with minimal damage.  The red hair is redder, the white skin whiter and I see someone else’s face when I look in the mirror.  (I'm confident that last is only temporary.)  The strangest outcome seems to be the fact that I’m unable to put two cohesive words together without a snifter close at hand and the haze of Cohiba Behike smoke in the air. 

Considering a cigar of that caliber fetches $450 a pop, I don’t write much. 

-H

 

Copyright 2012 - Split Fiction