This is a flash fiction piece for which I won first place in the Writer’s Mill July online monthly contest with the prompt, “I thought my generation was very lucky until…” I had a lot of fun with it, deciding to come at it with a sympathetic view toward the Baby Boomer generation on which I have been known to be too hard.
Undivided
By Clayton M. Davis
It’s a beautiful early summer day, the sun beaming down without oppression and a gentle breeze floating on the air. It’s the kind of day that reminds me of summers in Ohio on my uncle’s farm in the late ‘50s. I can smell a certain fragrant aroma that hadn’t lingered in the air the past few years, with something else that was unusual. I figure it must be from some wildfire down south.
I begin walking back from the park’s mini rose garden toward my daughter and granddaughter. I hadn’t seen them most of the year, Serena busy with her new teaching job and her daughter Michelle preoccupied with the boys and drama that come with middle school. We were lucky enough to get the park to ourselves.
My Consumer Cellular phone vibrates in my pocket. I let it ring and go to voicemail as I sit down next to Serena on the park bench, as Michelle frolics on the playground. I consider Serena a good enough parent, with some exceptions, at least from my infrequent observations of them together.
Malika calls out to her mom, her braided locks waving in the air as she swings on the monkey bars, “Look at me, mom! I’m like Tarzan.”
Serena looks intently at her iPhone, completely sucked in by her Facebook timeline. Not looking up she says, “oh yeah, that’s great hon.”
“No, look, mom, I’m making it the whole way.”
“Great job, baby,” my daughter says, still fixated on the screen.
I want so badly to say something, but I hold back. Perhaps it was the mistakes I made as a father that made my visits with them so seldom, that Serena still held onto old resentments.
Malika drops from the monkey bars, looking disappointed, but showing that she is used to it. She draws her own iPhone from her pocket and taps on the screen, pulling up some app. Now neither of them are truly here. She holds the phone out and begins recording a video.
“I just want all my TikTok fans to know the new Spiderman movie is incredible! Even if Dakota doesn’t think so. Dakota always, like, did want to be me and I think she’s just jealous…” my granddaughter says, continuing her recording.
I try subtly to get Serena’s attention, to bring her back to her daughter. “So how has the job been? I read in the Post the teachers near me went on a strike recently.”
Nothing. After a few moments she says, “Uh huh, oh yeah, it’s been fine.”
Now I’m getting frustrated. That odd odor in the air is getting stronger. I might as well pull out my flip phone and check my voicemail. It is from my wife Irene.
“Douglas, there’s something in the sky. I don’t know if you can see it, but it’s highly unusual. I’m sure it’s nothing but I wanted to see if you and the girls were ok. I hope all is well.” End of message.
I put the phone away and look up at the sky. The smell, that smell is even more profound. It smells like sulfur. I see what looks like black smoke coming out of a cloud, followed by a massive sphere.
“Oh my God, Serena, look!”
Three more spheres, larger in size, emerge behind the other.
“Serena, there’s something in the sky!”
No response.
“Malika, come here to granddad, we need to go.”
“…here’s my top 10 must see shows for the summer. One…” Michelle says, still recording on her phone.
The spheres begin to open and a swarm of smaller egg-shaped craft fly out, circling in formation and then holding a pattern above the city in the distance. “Serena, we need to go now!”
“Dad, please, I’m posting memes. This is how my generation is saving the world, you wouldn’t understand.”
One of the egg-shaped craft approaches the park. A car drives past, but doesn’t stop; the Millenial driver is texting on their phone.
The egg comes closer to the playground. Before I can rush to grab Michelle, the craft emits some type of laser and pushes me on my feet.
“Serena!”
Nothing, and then laughs at her screen.
A strange voice comes from the craft: “We demand your undivided attention. You shall submit to us.”
“Turn down your phone, Malika, or put on your earbuds,” Serena says, not looking up. Serena then gasps and says under her breath, “I can’t believe he said that. The nerve,” and begins tapping furiously on the screen with her thumb.
“You’re interrupting my live stream, mom! Ugh!”Michelle says.
The ray from the craft hits my chest again and I begin to rise off the ground. A few moments pass, me suspended in terror. The craft then drops me.
“Why do they not submit?” the voice from the egg asks.
I stand on my feet. My powerlessness turns to deep irritation. I can not hold back any longer. I take out my phone and throw it at the craft.
“What are you doing?” the voice said. “Stop that!”
As I point at my child and grandchild, both completely lost in their phones, I laugh.
“You fools! Don’t you see? You came to conquer the wrong people. We’ve already been taken over.”
Clay The Scribe 