Howie didn’t like his eyedrops, though it prevented ulcers, which prevented further vision loss. I could have been gentler. I was holding his head with one hand, trying to get the cap unstuck with the other, when I no longer heard his nails scraping the floor.
We were off the floor. We were floating, a few feet above the linoleum. And then, after we were funneled outside, the Earth. It was painless. I felt fine. I didn’t need to pee or eat. I was scared, but I suppose they couldn’t do anything about that.
They definitely didn’t say “conquered.” They definitely didn’t say anything. You could see their lights, moving in a smooth pattern, somewhere between clouds and space. But they were completely silent.
Howie got used to the levitation before I did. He curled up, midair, and took a nap. I tried to “swim” toward him, like I’d seen astronauts do, but the physics weren’t right. We were separate. We were moving. Slowly, like them, above us. We were in the same rotation for the first day, but at some point he drifted. It didn’t feel accidental, and he was sleeping, so I didn’t call his name.
They made sure we didn’t get too hot or cold. A couple months had passed. It still didn’t feel natural, but I’d never been to Spain, which was nice. There was a lot of ocean, for a while, then land. I saw a sign that said “Bar Ciaboga.” It was a tourist area, but there were no tourists, apart from the thirty or so other folks I could see hovering above the street.
Some of them I knew a little. They mostly slept, occasionally cried. I traveled with the same neighbors for about a week before the rotation would shift. It was subtle. If there were rules, apart from being just out of arms reach, they weren’t explained.
The wind that pushed us along reminded me of Howie’s breath. It smelled like Doritos. It wasn’t wind, but what else could I call it? “Force” felt a little mean, though of course we were being moved against our will. Kept away from each other, street signs, anything we could easily grab.
One man, I’d like to believe as an act of resistance, masturbated continually. We could still grab ourselves. When he ejaculated, the substance lingered by his side a few minutes before evaporating. I knew he’d be gone within a day or so, but still. I was formulating the perfect phrase, to get him to stop, when I fell to the ground.
Which isn’t fair to say, because they made sure I landed softly on my ass. Something invisible held me to the sidewalk. They had commandeered an electronic billboard. I knew this because the screen read, “We have commandeered this electronic billboard.” Ivy obscured the edges. The graphics were not too good, but despite the poor quality, I could tell it was me, footage of me.
All my moments of grace, and mistakes. The big ones of course I remembered. But the majority, I didn’t. The everyday kindnesses and incivility. It lasted about two hours. I’m not sure how they compressed it. The scenes were fast. I should have expected that. They were, are, nothing if not efficient.
I was never good at math. This they did not seem to know, or care about. At the end, a big equation was displayed. Then I was, unceremoniously, back in the air.
The numbers were lopsided. They had made a calculation, but it felt too impersonal to be a judgement. Plus, there had been nothing about Howie, who I knew I could have been gentler with. Did they not consider dogs? If not, how intelligent could they be?
By the time I reached the end of the city, there was an amusement park. The attractions were still. There was a statue at the entrance of the rollercoaster. Of an alien, our idea of aliens, from before, holding its palm upward. You had to be that tall to ride the ride.
They didn’t say “conquered.” And they didn’t say anything, when I gripped the little green plastic hand.
It took a while to pull myself down, but whatever had formerly held me, gradually gave way. Someone nearby shouted. It was the masturbating man. He had already passed the roller coaster, but began kicking backward, in my direction. He stretched toward the ticket office, though it was clear the rotation was shifting again.
He screamed, “How?” I had no idea. It shouldn’t have been possible. Just like it couldn’t have been Howie, hovering over the concession stand, pointing his snout toward the tent.
It was him, though. I whistled. I kept saying his name. He cocked his head each time, but went back to sniffing eventually. Maybe he didn’t remember me, or just couldn’t see anymore.
It took a while before I could walk. I only made it to the concession stand before collapsing under this tent. There’s cotton candy here, prepackaged. I hadn’t realized I was hungry. After sunset, I feel mosquitoes, for the first time since we were conquered. They eat me, while I eat the sugar. Lots of things buzz in the dark. Has it always been so loud at night?
There are small campfires across the bay. Other escapees, but I hope not my dog. I hope he stays forever buoyant. Maybe all the dogs will. I’m already forgetting how I held his head. I do it to myself, seizing my own scruff. I fake howl into the void.
Someone howls back. It’s the masturbating man. He scurries under the tent. He asks for the cotton candy. While he tells me how he freed himself, I keep my nails dug into the back of my neck. And overhead, they don’t say a goddamn thing.
Thomas Mixon is a fiction reader for Short Story, Long. He has poems and prose in Pithead Chapel, Rattle, Eye to the Telescope, and elsewhere. He sometimes writes at https://inanorchardsoftwithrot.substack.com.
Lost Balloon 