“He’s doin’ fine, Al, get on back to the grill.”
Mede, standing on the crate, his fur sopping with soapy water, thought nothing of the exchange; he was quite content to continue washing the plates. Yesterday he told stories for his dinner, a day’s walk East of here. Tomorrow: who knows?
Daisy asked, “You’re getting’ awful wet there, honey, want a towel?”
“No ma’am,” Mede answered politely, “On my planet it rains quite a lot. Getting wet doesn’t bother me much. You’re a peach to offer, though.”
The tree grows old, as trees do: old and brittle. Branches crack and fall, and with them thousands plummet to their deaths. When there is no rain we bring water to the roots to keep the tree healthy as long as possible, but we know we fight a losing battle; soon we will need a new home.
There are other trees. Some are not yet occupied, but all are claimed. Any move will mean war. We have few soldiers but many flyers, so if the issue is decided in the air we may have a chance. We have no choice.
They were so excited to see us. Everywhere I went I was asked what I was. They hadn’t heard of Earth yet. Not like we’re big news, anyhow. Spent a month telling stories all day. Most fun I ever had.
I want to say that I love you. I’ll always love you, even now that you’re gone. Especially now. Nothing can ever change what we mean to each other, no one can take that away from us.
But I really need you to stop scaring the shit out of my new girlfriend. She doesn’t deserve that. She’s a nice girl. You know that, you were friends. Remember when my mother was haunting you? All that nonsense with the bloody walls and the flies? Remember how that made you feel? Is that really the kind of ghost you want to be?