Entertainingly Evil

ALIEN GIRL: FROM THE 11TH by Lorraine Schein

You can tell she’s one. She comes from another planet. Where eyes are clairvoyances, mouths are vortexes of voices. Where it is always night. Where one whirls, not walks; implodes, not talks.

She got here by illegally crossing the borders between hypnogogic sleep and subliminal waking REM. She sews tiny mirrors in the hems of her skirts that she peers at, to make sure her face and legs are still there. What are breasts for? What is the cavity between her legs for? Her hair is an uncontrolled substance.

Your thoughts are a contaminant to her. Stop thinking! Earth is decade-infested. All Earthens must be onzydecimated!

Thunder is the voice of the Eleventh Planet. She hears messages from home in lightning storms. She sees by remote-viewing. She is a spiritual emergency. The kundalini energies run through her brain and neurological system and sometimes burst out, catching onto Earthlings’ spinal columns, an orgone-flame licking their third eyes ablaze.

She’s told them about the discovery of her planet, in the ninth dimension, somewhere between sleep and autism. She tells them that reality is not only the exact opposite of what they say is true, it is what they have omitted. Like the Occult Masturbation of Comic Strips. Comic Strips being the medium for the secret revelatory parables of the Eleventh Planet, “The only way you Earthens will ever learn!” she yells as they put the jacket on, too tight. The Deeper Reality, occurring in the spaces between the panels, and the panels left out, the colors the papers don’t even print in. The third-dimensional instead of the two.

But at night, black holes open up in the word balloons, blooming in their empty spaces, uttering symbols in an inverted black language. Then you’ll all get closer, closer to the Eleventh. You’re just comics within comics, until you see the light, like Little Nemo and Dale Arden, peering around the edges of the frames that have always been their lives, seeing that there’s more, there’s other, that they’ve been lied to. Then the real story spills out, the real universe, from under the colored ink dots. But no one wants to believe; they climb back into their panels, ignore the sound and smell of the Eleventh—jasmine thrown into the heart of the sun, acrid jasmine-plasma.

She spends a lot of time in the white wards, the padded rooms. They take away all metallic objects from her: her pocket saucer, ion transporter in the shape of a silver lipstick and interstellar dream communicator. They can’t take away her subliminal objects, because they can’t see them. She tries to communicate to the base by autogenic sleep jerks. She tries to pick up messages by remote viewing of precognitions.

As a child, she always felt so different from everyone; she thought that would change when she got older. But she still feels that way. She’s trying to escape, to create an alternate-reality tunnel through pinhole universes with bits of skin. An electric bulb filament, a match and her dermal surfaces, burrowing a hole into the web of extra ninth-dimensionality that’s visible when the screaming starts.

The suicidal are really attempting to go home, to adjust to a foreign environment. Depressed females are just remembering where they’ve come from. The schizophrenically lonely are really stranded aliens.

But there is no way to contact the Mothership. The Mothership can’t save her; it’s left through a time-warp too subtle to follow, towards a new universe unimaginably far away.

Lorraine Schein is a New York writer. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Strange Horizons, Mad Scientist Journal, Gigantic Worlds, Aphrodite Terra, and the anthologies Drawn to Marvel, Phantom Drift, and My Favorite Apocalypse.  Her poetry book, The Futurist’s Mistress, is available from mayapplepress.com. She used to work at Marvel Comics and is now working on a graphic novel.

This story was originally published in Space & Time magazine

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