Saturday the 58th — a postcard story
You dragged me around the corner and pointed––that’s it, that’s where I saw Twilight Zone, that creature crouching at the edge of the airplane wing just staring. You know the episode. It was real. It was there, looking at me through the glass.
Babe, I say, the tv isn’t even plugged in. You sure you didn’t dream it? You set the camping chair up in the road close to the curb. Set it up like you were watching a movie and waiting for me to bring the popcorn. Our reflections looked back at us sorry souls talking about the unbelievable. The sun was going down, and you had that bulldog with a bone look on your face. I knew you wouldn’t let it go.
I set up my chair, sat beside you. At some point we held hands. And when the sun ducked below the houses and trees––right when it went dark, static shot across the tv screen, flickering and frantic until two eyes, boiling red, stared at us from inside the glass. A single talon tap tapped as if knocking to come in––into our world.
The damnedest thing––all I could think of was buttered popcorn, even as its clawed fingers reached through the screen.