By Breanna Workman
From the Buena Vista High School literature magazine, Persona, Jan. 2012.
June 16, 1947
Well, that’s it. I’ve really messed up now. There’s no way around this one. I might as well commit social suicide. You see, I was minding my own business on the main deck of our grand Mother Ship 889. (I know that technically we’re not allowed up there, but I needed to give my second cousin two times removed his birthday present because it’s bad luck if you miss gifting someone their present on the exact minute of their birth. So there, Captain Yillofilanthropaster, there’s a perfectly good explanation and excuse). Anyway, there I was and then, out of nowhere, came this blip on the screen. I took a quick look around, and saw that no one was there. So, naturally I took it upon myself to check the monitor. The green blip was getting closer and closer to the red blip!
I couldn’t just sit there and let that blip get any closer, so I pulled the alarm/emergency break. The ship immediately came to an abrupt stop and a very annoying siren blared through the P.A. system. I could hear several screams and shouts of protest to the sudden change in motion. I, myself, wasn’t too happy about slipping very harshly to the floor and slamming my right shoulder into one of the many rows of computers and other important technology on the main deck. However, I did not complain one bit – mostly because it was me who caused this. That’s how Captain Yillofilanthropaster and his four assistants found me.
“What, exactly, do you think you are doing, cadet?” Captain Yillofilanthropaster half-yelled.
I couldn’t use my words at that moment, so I merely pointed at the radar monitor and tried to pick myself up off the floor as distinguishably as possible. Captain Yillofilanthropaster gestured to one of his assistants to check out what I had already seen. The assistant studied the monitor for ages and then finally glanced up at his captain and shrugged. Captain Yillofilanthropaster marched angrily over to the monitor and stared at it. He stood up to his full height, and glared at me. “What did you think these lights were?” he inquired a little too politely.
“Well, Captain, I figured the red was us and the green was an enemy of ours,” I answered honestly.
“That green blip is us, and that red blip was the Zygomatici. We were closing in on them for a surprise attack. When you chose to be a meddling moron, the Zygomatici saw that a moving motion on their monitors had suddenly suspiciously stopped. Realizing the threat, they switched into hyper-drive and got out of RANGE!” Then Captain Yillofilanthropaster let loose a string of phrases I wish not to repeat, for they were not kind in the least. He then sent me to my quarters to pack up my things. It has become apparent that I am no longer needed on this ship. Most likely I’ll be sent back home, which isn’t a bad thing. I kind of miss home.
June 18, 1947
I’m not going home. I’ve been expelled to Earth. So many of us have been expelled to this forsaken planet and have never come back. I’m a little afraid, but will complete this expulsion with the best dignity as possible.
Well, I guess I could list the positives … so – there aren’t any positives. I haven’t been home in five thousand and one days. I miss it so much: the cool forest green sand by the red water of my favorite beach, my house which I always kept in the best condition, my wonderful garden I de-weeded whenever I was a little upset – I kind of miss those weeds right now … and I miss my darling wife. I’m sure she’s moved on by now. She was never the patient type.
Oh, that’s my shuttle call now. At least I have my own shuttle all to myself. This is so depressing.
June 19, 1947
I can see my new “home” from my pilot’s window. It looks … blue, and a little bit green. I’m not sure which part of it is wet and which is not. I’m hoping blue means wet. I love beaches, and if I have to live the rest of my pitiful, lonely life on this alien planet, then I wish to spend it with the utmost of content. I have few hopes for finding any intelligent life on this planet other than savage creatures, which have, no doubt, murdered past Tingyletropts who were sent here on the same sentence as my own.
Fortunately I was granted the use of a micro-blaster before my departure. Of course, it’s only doomed to run out of ammo, so I ought to be sparing in what I choose to kill.
I’m nearing this ugly planet, and should lock in some coordinates before Earth’s gravitational pull grabs hold of my shuttle.
June 22, 1947
Well, I think, that could’ve gone loads better. My coordinates took me nowhere near a remote area. Instead, to a very scenic area, a highway no less. The gravitational pull of this planet is much higher than my aircraft is used to and I crash-landed in the middle of a highway. I’m fairly certain I injured no innocent aliens, however, they took my ship and locked me up in some facility they call “Area 51,” whatever that means.
They speak a language I’m not acquainted with, but I am picking it up rather fast. (It’s a very basic language, you see.) They seem a little standoffish and I’m very eager to get out of here, but I have doubts I ever will. They wear white lab coats and rubber gloves whenever they enter my cell saying that they would like to run some “tests.” Again, I’m not sure what that means.
They’ve taken some of my skin cell samples, blood work samples, and hair samples. I have suspicions that they are running similar “tests” to my ship. I miss it. I’ve asked several times about it, but they pretend as though they have no idea what I am talking about. Oh well, I suppose. It was an older model anyway.
June 30, 1947
I’ve been feeling very strange lately, and I’m concerned that this will be my last entry in this diary. Since my last entry, these aliens have run thousands more tests. My body is tired of being poked and prodded as though it has no feeling. (That is partly true now; I’ve gone completely numb since the last test yesterday.) These aliens are relentless: dragging me out of my cell every hour or so, and then shoving me back in it quite rudely. Which brings up another complaint: these creatures have absolutely no manners. They act very savage towards me, and I must say I miss my own kind.
Last night, one of them mentioned that they have one more test they wish to give me. This either means that I will be dead or released after this last test. I honestly don’t care which it is, just as long as this horrible torment can end.
