THEN

Marissa sat calmly in class. The desks were arranged in such a way that anyone could probably stick gum under them and no one would even blink an eye.

The news had mentioned there was a meteor coming towards Earth that morning. Marissa was worried about the fact it might hit, with similar results to the Prehistoric meteor strike she had heard about so much at school. Her mom and dad had shook their heads, saying if the humans died it would never be a meteor that did it. The fact that they were so sure caught Marissa off guard. A simple statement, yet most simple statements didn’t usually sound so certain.

It was instinct, and instinct was a deadly adversary.  

The rush of the bell whooshed a shock through her, and Marissa’s hair stood on end a smidge as she moved towards her next class.

NOW

They had said the green woman was the least of  their problems. She called herself their daughter, but they knew better. She was not of this world. She had stolen their daughter somehow, and knowing their daughter was out there fueled their fury towards the green woman.

The green woman wearing their daughter’s thick slacks wept opaque turquoise tears. She knew she was Marissa, but if they weren’t listening, then maybe she shouldn’t care?

THEN

Marissa sat on a bench outside of the school. Her long hair trailed behind her head, flowing in the tornado of the wind. It was a bus day. As always, on bus days Marissa would have the fare for the bus in her pocket, but today the school behind her creaked under the pressure of the meteor that had struck where the bus bench was, and Marissa was currently sitting.

NOW

They said aliens didn’t have any rights. She was the first alien, so they tested the rules out on her like a lab rat. Then the next aliens came, and she promised to move to Oregon to protect them, as equals.

Oregon was an Indian reservation for aliens, and calming them down was hard when they were trapped. Various other people evicted from Oregon crowded into houses of family friends, and loved ones.

“They stole our homes,” stated some previous Oregon citizens.

But the truth is, it would have happened eventually.

THEN

They said she had been in a coma for so long. So long she shouldn’t even truly quite be alive. Living on life support was hard when everyone wanted to pull the plug.

She was, however, locked in a room with one trustworthy doctor for this amount of time, so she was religiously fed, washed, etc, the trustworthy doctor salivating over the experiments he could do with her after she woke.

It wasn’t until six years later, when the green woman awoke, as pristine as ever and ran off, ripping out her cords as she went, green clashing with hospital white.

When they found her, they would rip up her rights and throw them down the toilet. So she ran further and further. They still ended up taking her rights and warping them, but now, at least, she could deny that she was the test subject everyone was talking about.

NOW

She sits in a swivel chair, reading a book entitled ‘Alien and Human Rights. What’s The Difference?’ Her cell service has been cut off, since, as the government says, aliens could use anything to control poor, poor citizens.

Not that she is bitter in any way, not her. Her house is a small but well lit shack in Salem. Seems like her small cabin is made of, not steel, but stakes of wood, tying her down. At least back at school, there would be hope of a better future and even a job stemming from it. But the tight, thick logs just taunt her, that unless she turned this around, she may never even get there.  Like that book she is reading.

It seems that this book was obviously trying to be a mainstay in alien homes. C’mon, a piece of literature that color of pink has to be selling something. An ideal, maybe? Tacky as that rag is, it may end up being somewhat of a lifesaver.

Someone in 2024 immediately got to writing this trash but it’s the only resource she has. The aliens, at that moment, had only appeared several weeks ago, and it was weird but darkly apt that such a comprehensive guide was likely written by a ghostwriter.

After all, what is the name Seymour Rayes, barring a pun? Paradoxical that making notes in here would jumpstart needed confrontations. She plans the ‘Hostile Alien Invasion,’ as the Anti Alien League calls it. They also call it ‘the Alien Rebellion.’ She smiles a bit at the thought.

THEN

She rushed down the stairs in pairs of sixteen steps, trying her best not to collapse as the government agent and her family gave an ultimatum: leave in peace, or not in peace, but leave.

It was a hard sell, yet Marissa knew the alternative was much worse. Her suitcase bumped through the little cracks in the stairs over and over again. Her clothes were doused in a perfume-like substance one hack had dubbed ‘Alien Repellent.’ It smelled almost as putrid as the thought that she would have to move.

At least the house would be a house. Some aliens didn’t even get the chance to live in one.

NOW

She stands in a room that says ‘Standing Room Only’ waiting for a judge. She knows she will not even have her case stand the light of day, but the messy notes on a rag like “Alien and Human Rights: What’s the Difference?” are sure to at least partly appeal to her judge. It pays to do research, since some people say aliens can’t.

Some people might sympathize if she said she is a newly ‘turned’ alien, since somehow ‘birth alien’ makes it worse. She pities those idiots as she waits interminably for anyone to take her case.

THEN

The room was crammed. It wasa dull army green color, with splotches of white under the peeling surface. The wallpaper showed obvious cracks. It was hard to even make this place hospitable.

Her only saving grace was a wall with a barren bookshelf. On the bookshelf were such classics as the book that would hopefully free all aliens from their torture. Seymour Rayes was probably some underpaid ghost writer who didn’t even earn enough money to feed a family! But maybe, just maybe, Seymour would be what she needed.

NOW

The lawyer is a scruffy one. Best she could get, as an eighteen year old alien woman. He explains that rules and regulations probably will not change, but Marissa decides to challenge that stance one more time. She pulls the heavily annotated book from her pocket, her trusty failsafe. He laughs.

“Oh, that thing? Wrote it for a hundred dollars. Always keep one in my back pocket.”

He sounds amused.

“Care to lead the way? Sure my book will help you?” he teases.

She nods, still in shock.

“Bestseller that it is, we can talk about it later. My name isn’t actually Seymour, which I’m sure you were going to ask, sooner or later. Neither is the guy who wanted the manuscript. My name is Albin, and I am twenty one years old. Now you.”

“M-marissa,” she manages to stammer out.

“Well, Marissa,” he smirks a bit, “want to go and win a case?”