He walked into the bar, tattered backpack over his shoulders, translation dictionary in his hands. With much struggle, he ordered a beer. The bartender, frustrated, sighed. He sipped his beer, printed a to-do list that stretched to his last day. Museums, stores, restaurants. Then he pondered the language: how much does that cost, good afternoon, may I buy you a drink?
The something arrived one day, a fractured monument in miniature resting in the town square. You said, it looks like a golden avocado. I disagreed, thought it was more like squash, a copper color. Everyone saw the something differently. An authority said, it might be from space. Which caused parties, weirdness. Let’s not go, you said, and I agreed, so we watched the night from our window, celebrating things we knew, goblets of champagne and meteor showers.
Christian Bell lives near Baltimore. His fiction has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Wigleaf, Skive Magazine, rumble, JMWW Quarterly, among others. He blogs at imnotemilioestevez.blogspot.com.
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