Something Is Amiss on Planet Earth

SOMETHING IS AMISS

ON PLANET EARTH

DESMOND SHEPHERD

Something Is Amiss on Planet Earth is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2023, 2024 by Benjamin C Young

Background Cover Image by guille pozzi on Unsplash

Earth Image by Elena Mozhvilo on Unsplash

All rights reserved.

Published by Arthur Unknown

License Notes

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1

THE METEOR AND THE MURDER

OKAY, I’LL ADMIT this first part is a bit fuzzy. But I’ve learned my lesson. I have.

I sat outside my home, bottle grasped in my right hand, staring out into the blackness of the sky. The pinpoints of stars bled through even with the lights from town a few miles away shining upward and trying to pollute what should be an otherwise peaceful night. All those little white spots splashed about the sky but one of them kind of stuck out with its orange tint.

You know, that light pollution wouldn’t have been such a nuisance, or exist for that matter, if not for that factory that kept everyone employed from high school to retirement. A sock factory. Can you believe it? They manufactured all kinds of socks. Compression socks. Sports socks. Dress socks. You name the sock, they produced it. Surfit, it’s called. Owned by that jerk Collin Borator. It’s not pronounced Surf It like it looks, but it’s Sure Fit. Stupid, right?

I wasn’t employed there. I found better things to do with my life, if you could call it that. If you could say at the time I had a better life. Of course, those better things led to my predicament at that moment.

My work kept me busy. And in my line of work, maybe I could have managed it better. But I had to go to the city to bring in the bacon, as they say. That’s the only place where I could find a batch full of clientèle, most of which were only concerned if their spouse had decided to renege on their vows, so they had an excuse to leave them. Humans are a funny bunch, aren’t they? Making commitments and breaking them when they decide it’s okay. You know, if they just took a page out of The Good Book, they might not always find themselves in such misery.

I lifted the bottle in my fingertips and widened my eyes to challenge the blurriness to clarity: three-quarters down, a quarter to go. I pressed the opening to my lips and let the nectar coat the back of my throat. The burning sensation was gone, which meant I was about to be, too.

You’d think with all that investigating I did for other people, I’d have seen it happening in my own backyard. But keeping busy, working so much, ignoring too much, it never dawned on me. It never seemed like a real possibility.

As my mind mused on my life regrets, that orangish star seemed to shine brighter than the rest. It even had a tiny flicker. I furrowed my brow, squinted my eyes.

Is that a plane? I said.

Of course, no one answered. Why would they? No one was home—no one to blame but me.

My ex and I always wanted kids. But we just couldn’t get it to work. Maybe it was her. Perhaps it was me. Neither of us ever knew because we didn’t want to get any tests done that would lay the blame. It’s part of the vow, right? For better or worse. Stick it out regardless of the why. I could've fooled myself into believing maybe that’s why she left me. Nah. She still had no kids now. That’s how I knew it was my fault she left.

I stood up from the beach chair on my lawn of dust and weeds, the bottle still in my grasp. I wasn’t releasing it until the right time. And that time was when it was ready for recycling. I sucked air through my nostrils in a deep breath, and it parted from my lips.

So much for a therapeutic sigh to alleviate my drowning sorrow.

I kicked my feet in the dirt. She’ll never come back, I said. You had your chance, and you blew it. How many times did she tell you you’re never home? Never spending time with her? Never taking her out to dinner? For the love, you never even brought home flowers once in a while. You—

I stared at the sky. That orange star had brightened further. I could swear, compared to the other dots, it had doubled in size.

You seeing this? I looked to my left and right at the invisible audience surrounding me, hoping for reassurance.

My gaze turned to the bottle. What’s in this stuff? I took another mouthful and treated it like mouthwash to see if I could taste anything different.

It was too late for that. I couldn’t taste anything at all.

As I stared at the star, my eyes glazed over, and my mind returned to the same ritual I followed every night for who knows how long. Maybe I should have paid more attention to The Good Book. I’ve read the thing for years now. It’s a fascinating documentation of history. Some think it’s fake, and some think it’s real.

Regardless, if followed, the information contained within it could solve every problem humanity has. That is, if humanity as a whole would stop their nonsense and follow it. If I had looked to it, followed it better, did what it said, my ex might not be my ex. I could still be happily living life in this small town where most of the locals file into Surfit, punch a card in the morning and again in the afternoon, all happy to keep someone’s feet warm or from getting blisters.

It’s about this time, during my wallowing self-pity, that I sang a tune. I can’t remember the lyrics because I made it up on the spot. I’m sure it had something to do with my wife leaving and my job going into the toilet. Stuff like that. Pretty much a country song. My song was horrible. I guarantee it. But some of the music that people make, I love it. Music can take you back or forward or any which way the lyrics and beat move your emotions.

When I started my ritual of sitting in my front yard into the wee hours of the night, I’d turn on the radio, tune it to 101.1 FM, and let it play. The music was too low as the night continued, so I would increase the volume knob a notch. Eventually, it’d be blasting, and I’d see the lights blink on at my closest neighbor’s house about a quarter-mile away.

Then the police would show up. Most times, it was Police Chief Trey Torsten. He had a voice like a baritone and a body built like a cliffside. He’d pull up, lights circling, step out with his pointy-tipped boots, which I never understood because I’d never seen him on a horse in my life, wearing aviator sunglasses (yes, in the middle of the night, and yes, I’d never seen him fly a plane), and he’d say, Leon, we got a complaint. Can you turn it down?

That’s what I’m called, by the way. I probably should have mentioned it at the outset. Albert Leon Dweller. Though I prefer the middle name. If I ever had to sign a contract, like the divorce papers, it always started with the initial A. and then the rest.

With my line of work, Trey tended to find me irritating. On a few occasions, someone would hire me, and the assigned task intersected with Trey’s job. So in moments like this, when it’s late, the music cranked, neighbors complaining, and he had to ask me to stop, I’d usually respond with a slurred tongue saying something like, Suurre, officer. Right after I’mmm, done rockin’ it ouuutt. It doesn’t sound so funny now. But I used to think whatever came out of my mouth was hilarious in those moments.

He placed a hand on the gun in its holster like he would shoot me because I was enjoying some tunes. And in my state of mind at the time, I thought he would. So I immediately cranked the volume knob counterclockwise a few notches, and he was back on his way down my driveway with a cloud of dust following him.

Eventually, I gave up playing the music because I was tired of seeing Trey or anybody else in his goon squad. I would make my own tunes with my own lips, tongue, and throat. And the best thing is, when you’re singing, people can’t always tell you’re not talking straight.

That bright orange star caught my eye in the middle of what I imagined was a fantastic lyric. It had become a giant ball of fire and smoke rolling through the atmosphere like the after-effect of an explosion.

Is that a meteor? I asked. Again, no response. Has to be a meteor.

I blinked my eyes a few times and shook my head. We’ve all seen shooting stars. They streak against the sky for a split second before disappearing into nothing. This thing, though, it wanted me to see it. It lumbered along like an elephant with nothing to do. If it was a meteor, it might have a central nervous system and a brain.

This is crazy, I whispered.

At that moment, I seriously considered stopping my ritual. Maybe I had finally lost it. My brain had cracked open and said, Let’s expect more of reality. It fed me visions of impossibilities. It made me believe it was all real like it made me think my song lyrics were worthy of being a Top 40 hit. Maybe it would make me believe I had my wife back and that she didn’t leave me for someone else who rolls socks onto her feet when she’s cold at night. Or we had a child, little Timothy Dweller, that we spent all our time raising and loving.

I punched at the air with my left hand, knocking myself off balance, and brought the bottle to my lips, downing the last of its contents. As I pushed it away, my fingers lost hold of it because my eyes had to be deceiving me.

The meteor had shifted. Slowly, its path curved toward town and the lights of Surfit that killed the sky. It had also increased in size again. The rolling smoke and fire surrounding it moved like a creature squirmed out of thick mud. My ears tuned tighter, listening for a crackle or rumble. I expected to feel vibrations in the ground. Instead, the thing was either too far from me to hear and feel or as silent as the night.

Its trajectory now wholly altered, it headed directly toward Surfit. Wouldn’t that be justice? I imagined it continuing its path right into the most excellent sock factory of all time, blowing it up and sending the embers and ashes of knee-high socks into the air, raining on the town. What would Collin Borator do then?

Maybe the meteor came to change my life for the better, get me out of my turmoil, and bring life back to what I knew it should be. I’d do better next time if I got a redo. I swear I would.

The meteor stopped and hovered over Surfit. From my vantage, it was about half the size of the factory. It sat there—actually, floated there—for at least half a minute. I stared at it in amazement. A good citizen might have called someone, put somebody on alert, did something to save humanity from an intelligent meteor from outer space. But I was so entranced and struck by what my eyes witnessed that I could not move. I think I held my breath. I wanted to speak but was unable to find the words. Finally, I stepped forward, hoping to get a better view.

Without warning, the space above the factory was normal, empty, without a meteor. I rubbed my eyes to see if I could will the meteor back into existence. I did it a second time.

Where’d you go? Hey! I said, ‘Where’d you go?!’

Was I going crazy? Had I actually lost my mind? That meteor was there. I know it was. I wasn’t going to let it get the best of me.

Come back here! I yelled. I punched a fist upward. I’m sure I looked like an idiot fighting the air and this imaginary meteor. You coward! Come here and challenge me!

I fought the sky. I punched and kicked. My momentum spun me around, and I tipped to the side, balanced on my left leg, right leg in the air. I wondered if I was in a yoga position for a brief moment. Then, my face smacked the ground, and I tasted dirt on my tongue and lips. I faced the town. The meteor hadn’t returned, and I was about to leave, also. My eyelids fluttered as I tried to keep them open, but I gave in to my body's request.

* * *

THE NEXT THING I heard was this constant, high-pitched bell. It repeated itself several times, stopped, and a minute later would start again. It kept doing this, but I refused to open my eyes. Instead, I basked in the comfort of my dirt bed during the silent breaks. That was until another wail in the distance that soon increased in volume accompanied it. Then there was the sound of rumbling bass that sent a subtle vibration through the ground.

I managed to open my left eye to figure out all the commotion. It caught the blurry view of a pink sky on the horizon that cast a glow over the area. I propped onto my right elbow, muscles stiff, sharp, and yelling at me to stop moving. My head pulsated like a bass drum.

The phone in my house was ringing, but I turned my head to the sound of the wailing sirens. Three of them, flashing blue and red lights, clashing with the beauty of the sun’s rays trying to wake up the area.

I rubbed my eyes, though it worsened as the dust layered on my hands made it difficult to keep them open. But I saw the lead car door swing outward, and pointy-tipped cowboy boots stepped onto the ground I had called my bed for the night.

Hey, I said. Hey, Trey. I laughed because it