Ode to Bacon and Eggs
Dear Diary:
This morning I was going to write to you the poem I composed in my sleep, about a sumptuous breakfast of bacon and eggs. You would have loved it, I'm sure: my lavish attention to detail, my dry wit and melancholy, my clever cadence. Yet now it seems so futile.
The aliens had no regard for it when they landed beside the patio, digging a trench of WWI proportions through the strand of pink dogwoods and burning the peonies to the ground with the ship's foul exhaust. I ignored the crash, of course. I was occupied fashioning a culinary masterwork in order to verify my poetic visions. But the aliens had no respect for the rituals of breakfast or poetry or any other ritual, for that matter.
Brazenly, the pair shuffled to the door and, though I did not invite them to enter, forced their way into the kitchen. Naturally, I was startled and dropped the eggs onto the floor.
"Take us to your leader," they slobbered, their voices thick with yellowish mucous bubbling from mouth-like orifices.
Clearly, I couldn't answer because the bacon was burning and I just knew the smoke detector would blare if I didn't get the window open quickly.
"Take us to your leader," they gurgled again, as the alarm squealed because I'd moved too slowly.
"I can't!" I screamed. "Don't you see? I'm on the verge of a breakthrough! A masterpiece to resonate through the ages!"
I turned back to the ruins of my breakfast. I turned my full powers of imagination on; I dug deeply within myself. In a whirlwind, I created a breakfast such as the world had never seen. The eggs were as fluffy as nebulous clouds so that I thought they might float off the pan to join their brethren in the heavens. The bacon – oh, the bacon! – crispy, smoky, sparkling with fat. I marveled at the platter, marveled more that my conceived poem did not only honor the breakfast, but surpassed it in beauty and meaning.
I began to recite, turning to my guests so that they might marvel with me. But they were gone. The back door swung in its hinges and, past it, the aliens trudged down the dirt lane. Then, Diary, my "Ode to Bacon and Eggs" was forgotten. For if those who traverse the solar system, galaxies, and universe cannot appreciate its genius, then who on this humble planet will?
Signed,
Hillary Sorensen-French
© 2007 SC Bryce, Reprinted With Permission
This story originally appeared in Kaleidotrope, No. 2.
Discuss this story at ResAliens Forum at SFReader.com.
SC Bryce is a long-time reader and writer of speculative fiction and has been published in Flashing Swords, Lorelei Signal, Byzarium, and AfterburnSF to name a few. Born in Washington, DC, the author currently resides outside Manhattan. Read more at SCBryce.com.
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