Reasonable Hand-drawn Facsimile

I heard a tapping on the window, like the sound of a tree branch in the wind hitting the glass. At first, I thought I was dreaming, but I slowly opened my tired eyes, rolled over, and listened again.

TAP … TAP

I wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep no matter what it was, so I got up and walked out to the living room. As I stood in the center of the darkened room, barely breathing, I heard it again, coming from the sliding patio door.

TAP … TAP

Slowly, I moved toward the curtain and slid it aside. There, on the patio, was a figure, my height, holding a cup. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. It raised a hand slightly in a gesture that I took to be a greeting.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Can I borrow a cup of sugar?” he asked in a gentle but firm voice. He held out the cup.

“Umm, it’s kinda late, and who are you?” I inquired. I didn’t feel threatened; I felt curious.

I saw in his hand, where the cup used to be, a jerry can. “I meant, can I borrow some fuel for my shi — um, my vehicle,” he said.

As I reached for the light, thinking I should have done so earlier, I said, “I’m going to turn on the light.”

“OK.”

It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the brightness and a few more to adjust to what I was seeing. He was grayish in color, skinny, with large, dark eyes. It looked like he was wearing something, but I couldn’t tell what, as it was somewhat form-fitting and only a slightly different color than his skin. I don’t know what compelled me, but I opened the sliding door.

“Thank you. It was getting cold out there,” he said as he came inside.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” I asked.

“Well, not here, but not far, if that’s what you mean,” he answered. I didn’t know what I meant.

“I mean, you look different. Not human,” I said.

I could see concern in his eyes. “You mean I don’t look like you?”

“Nope.”

He gestured to the kitchen table. “Can we sit?” he asked.

“Sure, can I get you something to drink?”

“Scotch, if you have it,” he replied. It just so happened that I did.

As he took a seat at the table, I grabbed a couple of glasses and the scotch and brought them to the table. Pouring a couple of ounces in each, I slid one toward him. He reached out and with his spindly fingers picked up the glass.

“You know, we can’t really tell you apart from one another.” He took a sip and placed the glass in front of him. “We thought this,” he motioned to himself, “was pretty good.”

I looked at him and said, “It’s generally close. You have the right amount of everything.”

He looked dejected. “We have been practicing a long time. We made a bunch of paintings on some caves, scratched figures in a desert, made some big heads. One time we tried, and it looked like an animal. It’s frustrating.”

“It’s like this,” I got a pad of paper and a pencil from the kitchen and started to draw. “I have a heck of a time trying to draw people, too. It always comes out close, but not quite good enough.” I finished my sketch and turned it to face him. “See, you can tell it’s a person.” His eyes lit up and he looked at me.

“Can I keep this?” he asked as he reached toward it.

My alarm must have been going on for ten minutes before I woke up. I put on my robe and went to make coffee. On the table was an empty bottle of scotch and two glasses.

So, if you see a guy who looks like this:

Don’t let him in. He’ll just drink all your booze.

Leon Stevens is a multi-genre author, composer, guitarist, and artist, with a Bachelor of Music and Education. He published his first book of poetry in 2020, followed by a book of original classical guitar compositions and a short story collection of science fiction/post-apocalyptic tales. His newest publications are the sci-fi trilogy, The View from Here, and a new collection of poetry titled, A Wonder of Words