The whisper of the craft spooked the cattle, and they ran blind through the night, some hitting the barb wire and shredding themselves in their terror. One young steer bawled for an hour as he fought the sharp fence. He was stuck, and was left behind as his herdmates disappeared into the dark. An unearthly light shone green on the field and a lone figure was deposited unceremoniously down into the cow dung. The boy lay limp, unmoving, and in the cold fog, appeared dead.


Sightings around the Carbondale area had increased. Sometimes in broad daylight. Most at night-- there were no explanations, and Thomas' parents didn't seem to notice when he was gone ... they didn't miss the time, it simply didn't exist. And most attributed the UFO's to the nearby air force base, one of the largest in the world. Experimental aircraft was the talk at the diners and offices. The people were used to it, and believed that the government was just keeping the country safe. Tommy knew better, but he couldn't have told had he wanted to.

As the morning woke the birds, and the sun struck him in the face, he opened his eyes to the slobber of an Angus bull who was standing over him, staring with big brown eyes--boring a hole through him like a laser gun. Ready to stomp him into the ground.

He coughed and spit air, his throat as dry as the dirt wallow beneath the shade trees. Most of the herd had returned to their familiar spot, the wounds from their flight into the barb wire, raw and fly-ridden. The younger calf hung, wound up, and dead in the fence; he'd lost the struggle, and here stood his sire--hornless, but with a head the size of a buffalo's. Old George, his daddy's pride and joy. And sometimes mean as a snake too.

"Get away, you big lug." Thomas waved a thin, pale arm at the creature, mentally preparing himself for certain death. The bull could easily gore him six feet under right here, but backed up, snorting a shower of nasty snot.

Then he remembered. They'd come again ... he'd been stolen away to the stars again. This time it had been longer between their visit. Over a year, and as always, he was left naked as a newborn babe. This time they'd wanted his older sister too. But she hadn't been there. Gone, just married, she had moved several states away. He almost laughed at the misfortune of the aliens, but he was in too much pain.

A sudden wave of despair sent his face down into the filth, and he wished the bull would just finish him off. Hot tears burned his dirty cheeks. There was simply no answer. There was nothing life could offer anymore. There was nothing to be done but pick his drained body up and stand. He took a stance, a mighty alpha male, and flung his cape back from his arms as he brandished the imaginary sword at the creatures. He could see the glint of the steel blade as it drew their life's fluids. But pain stole the mirage, and his mind fell back down to earth.

Flies found his genitals, and he swiped at them in disgust as he walked gingerly through the field. Skirting the edge, along the tree line, he knew well the path to take, and how to sneak into the house without his mother seeing him.

He cringed with each step, they always put things into his privates. He always came back sore. They always did mean things, and it hurt ... so bad. He wished he could hide. Anywhere. He wished he were someone else. Why him? His mind swirled with repulsion. And an overwhelming sense of helplessness and shame. He dared not tell. It was too late. No hope remained of a reprieve, only a long painful path that stretched ahead like a gauntlet of fear. Was there a light at the end? He didn't know, and now it was unlikely anybody would find out before it was too late. Some battles, he reflected, were lost before the first rasp of an unsheathed sword. Sighing in resignation, he steeled his jaw, and put one foot forward into the future.


Time heals all wounds, or so they say. And the man kept working, never getting close to anyone and tried to fool himself into believing he'd be okay. That he was happy. But the grays were always there. He could feel them watching ... waiting. And he finally began to lose weight. He decided not to eat good food anymore. He began riding a bicycle, hoping beyond hope, that maybe, just maybe, it would ruin his ability to produce sperm. He'd read that somewhere ... so, he rode the ten speed up and down the road. It was worth a try. Anything was worth a try ... .

But Thomas Crane could not do enough to ruin himself for his tormentors. Twenty months. Three years. Ten. And the grays always found him. Always returned. A larger craft each time ... in invisible cloaks that could not be seen by mortal eyes, and he walked as if in a daze, putting one foot, then the other ... unwillingly into a future that would never end.