The BackyardKayla Whittle
1900 words Something crashed in the backyard and Penelope’s television shuddered and died. She learned then that in emergency situations, instead of fight or flight, she chose to freeze, rooted to her sofa as she waited for a follow-up explosion or the far-off wail of sirens. Instead, a fierce crackle tickled her ears as green light washed over her living room walls. The space brightened around her, like a rogue, sickly sun had broken through the night. In Penelope’s blank corpse of a television screen, her reflection stared back at her. She lived alone; there was no one to consult about what to do next. Half-suffocated by nerves, Penelope stood, wiping her hands on her plaid pajama pants. Her heart fell back somewhere onto her couch, leaving behind enough blank numbness to keep her from panicking. Accompanied only by the screen door’s rusted shrieks, Penelope eased into the backyard. A few dozen steps from the porch, someone lay sprawled on her lawn. Farther beyond that sat a spaceship. That was the best word for it, though Penelope’s eyes burned if she looked at it directly. The green light, stronger out here, hummed through her teeth. She tried to focus on the figure, but it hurt to perceive them, too—until they made a noise that sounded painful in any language. Penelope blinked, and it felt like her vision cleared, or some link had been severed that’d connected her eyesight to her brain. The sound burrowed into the folds of her occipital lobe, and through it, somehow, she knew the figure was alone, too. They were pale and small and shone like starlight. They had two hands, two legs, and a mouth that was shut tight in an anxious frown. Every tense line of their body spoke of hurt, enough to make Penelope’s heart settle right back into her chest so she could start thinking of how to help. The dark was quiet around them as she moved closer; her pants dampened with early morning dew when she knelt. “I’m not here to hurt you,” Penelope said, reaching forward. Her fingers twitched back a time or two when the stranger shifted. The movement might have been breathing, but it looked more like they were turning their head, tasting the air. Their hands darted toward hers; a flicker of fear fought through the calm the noise had instilled in her. Their grip was soft like lamb’s wool, and their frown smoothed into something serene. Their lips parted and another sound emerged, a rumble like drumbeats and the whistle of a broken flute. Their jaw tensed, muscle rippling as if sorting out the solution to a new problem. When their lips moved again, they spoke. “Your music is beautiful,” they told Penelope, and then they fell asleep. 
Penelope considered phoning the police, or the National Guard, or maybe her sister, who could at the very least stop by to confirm she could also see the alien. But the phone had died the same sudden death as her T.V., and her home sat alone, a few miles outside of town. No one had arrived to investigate the disturbance; she was on her own. As she had most other times when she’d come to that conclusion over the past few years, Penelope sighed and pretended she wasn’t bothered by it at all. She rubbed her sternum, that hesitant place that’d calmed due to her unexpectant visitor. Although her head remained clear, Penelope was still capable of worrying about the possibility of hallucinations, and the inevitability of extraterrestrial life, and the stillness of the figure on her lawn. She didn’t know what they’d meant about the music, but that didn’t matter much, because she realized she couldn’t stand the thought of leaving someone without help when they were alone, too. It was easy to take them inside. She’d been worried about straining her back, but their body was light as the air they’d come hurtling through. Penelope put the stranger up on her sofa, tucking a blanket around them. Poured them a glass of water, mostly to make herself feel useful. She didn’t know how best to host an alien. Night ticked into dawn, and she considered going to see if her car would start, when the visitor stirred. “It’s so quiet here,” they said. Their frown had returned. When they held out their hands, Penelope took them. She’d come too far to hesitate over that contact now. Something about the connection relaxed the alien, which she hoped would either keep both of them calm, or soothe Penelope into waking from this dream. 
Penelope startled upright with a crick in her neck, the rest of her body protesting that she’d slept half-hunched over the couch. The stranger watched her, their pinched expression looking as sore as she felt. “I’m sorry for any damage caused by my ship,” they said. “It’s my fault. It went so quiet up there. I don’t think there are many of you around here.” Penelope was silent for a moment, thinking about how this was not in fact a dream, and she didn’t care about the state of her property at all, and the alien still held her hands. They squeezed, gently, and Penelope heard chimes. “Why are you here?” Penelope asked. “My love is gone,” they said, the music between them souring, discordant. “I’ve traveled far, searching for a way back to her. Somewhere, I will find the doorway that leads to her. Not on this planet, I think. Everything is too muted here.” Penelope knew little of loss but much of loneliness. This stranger had crossed galaxies, solo, in pursuit of something beautiful. Sympathy eased her worry, but something uglier lurked beneath that felt like the acid sting of jealousy. Penelope went to pour them another glass of water, though they hadn’t touched the first one. 
After brief consideration, mostly concerning the lack of space in her home, Penelope decided to let the alien stay. Once they could stand and move again, they helped tidy the house, wandering about with her blanket tucked around their shoulders. She liked giving extended company a chance, as unexpected as they’d been, and the two fell into a routine as easily as the alien had fallen from the sky. The stranger never attempted any ship repairs until at least half an hour after Penelope had her first cup of coffee. Penelope fired up her computer and worked remotely all day, as usual, while dully methodic thuds echoed from outside. There were no neighbors to be bothered by the noise. Every few hours, around the time Penelope should have given herself a break but was more often than not trapped within her inbox, a rolling crescendo would peep through her screen door. She would stand, crack her neck, and go out to greet her alien. They would hold onto each other for the briefest moments, only long enough to stave off some of the stillness the visitor hated so much. At night, they sat together in front of the new television Penelope had hauled in from town after she’d jumpstarted her car with her generator. The alien never ate, but they held her hand gently and slumped down into the music that emerged wherever their skin connected. It was beautifully incomprehensible, just like the stories they told her. Places like Earth that ran so quiet they sent the alien into something close to shock—though, they admitted, this was the first time they hadn’t been able to gather themselves together in time to prevent an unplanned, violent landing. There were planets filled with so much sound no one could hear anyone else. Galaxies overpopulated and others emptied. Doorways found and stepped through, with no one waiting for her visitor on the other side. Not yet. Penelope told them about her life, too. The good parts, the family members living on the other side of the state and the friends who’d message her during the week. Her perpetually busy sister, unable to schedule much but ready to drop everything for an emergency. She showed them how sunsets looked from her back porch and described, in meticulous detail, the excellent deal she’d gotten on her cable package. She worried her stories held no weight in comparison to her visitors’. An unfounded worry, maybe, because they always listened with the highest reverence, eyes closed as if her words held a hidden melody perceivable only by the alien. One evening, Penelope reached for their hand first. After a day of straining her eyes against blue light, she wanted to hear the chiming clash of notes only her stranger could emit. They held onto her, tighter than before. “Penelope,” they said. “I wouldn’t mind having a friend by my side while I search. Perhaps there is a doorway out there for you, too.” Penelope had never boarded an airplane before. She thought of the shining, impossible ship sitting in her yard and the kind, impossible friend sitting in her living room. The alien crossed galaxies for love; Penelope wondered what it would be, the thing waiting on the other side of a doorway that might fix everything for her. If she didn’t know before she searched, she wasn’t sure she’d recognize the right doorway even if she found it. “I couldn’t,” Penelope admitted. “The offer, though. I appreciate it.” They tilted toward one another, and the music swelled as the television switched to a commercial break. 
“It’s complete,” they said. “As complete as it will be, here.” Parts of the spaceship had dulled, scarred by the harsh landing. The stranger remained certain it would hold together well enough to fly to another planet, another doorway, at least. One more step in their interminable path. This time, when their hands met, the notes between them sounded jumbled. Complicated, like Penelope’s emotions. Her happiness seeped through, knowing her friend could be seen off safely. Her nerves lingered as she inched back toward what life had been for her before a spaceship tore through her yard. “Good luck,” Penelope said. “If you need me again, I’ll be here.” “Thank you for your help,” her friend said. “But I will not return.” They chimed, and rang, and finally, pulled away. Penelope stood behind her screen door, watching until the crackle of the ship’s engines faded. When she retreated to the living room, Penelope discovered her television had died again. 
Afterward, in the quiet, Penelope tried making it less obvious something had crashed on her property. She planted a garden where the ship had once rested. She dug a hole to bury a few damaged parts left behind. She purchased a new television, left it inside the box, and then hammered a sign into her front yard. A month later, Penelope had a bag packed and the rest of her things in a storage facility. Her sister had a copy of the key. She’d keep an eye on Penelope’s things, she’d promised. For as long as was needed. Loneliness left a lot of time for thinking. Penelope had decided she wanted to become the sort of person who knew exactly what doorway they needed to search for. Penelope left, chimes ringing in her ears. 
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Kayla Whittle
Kayla Whittle has previously had short stories published in Uncharted Magazine and The Colored Lens. She also has stories in the anthologies Beyond the Veil (Ghost Orchid Press), and Of Fate & Fury (Silver Wheel Press), as well as Dangerous Waters, Daughter of Sarpedon, and Seers and Sibyls, all out with Brigids Gate Press. Her work has been featured on Flash Fiction Podcast. Most often she can be found on Instagram @caughtbetweenthepages or on Twitter @kaylawhitwrites.
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