Invasion

By Bob Schueler

Aliens land; strong, fast; kill by right hand chop to the neck. They show no emotion, but seem fascinated by ours.

Most people die.

They only spare singers, poets, comedians…like me. We become their pets; I share sitcoms and soaps with mine; it watches me laugh, touches my face, my tears. We go to improv; it musses my hair when I make another pet laugh. Life is easy.

I wake to gargling and a sitcom, loud. My usually expressionless owner zips into my room, gargling—no, laughing—pointing to tears on its cheeks. Then draws back its right hand—oh.