Floyd Kelly

A bright flash, and the world expanded in an odd shape and snapped back into place with a boing and bounce. The quiet, humid air of the Texas park was gone, replaced by something thin, dry, and electric. The van settled with a soft bounce, not on damp grass, but on reddish-brown dust. They had arrived.

Rumpelstiltskin opened his eyes. The dense grove of oak and pecan trees had been replaced by twisted, sculptural juniper trees and the towering, majestic red rock formations of Sedona, Arizona. The sky above was a deep, impossible blue, and the sun felt clean and hot. 

“Where in the heck is this? he muttered, squinting at a weathered wooden sign by the side of what looked like a highway. “Welcome to Sedona,” it read, “Home of Vortex Energy.” “Vortex energy? Oh boy.”

“Well, buddy,” he said to Beebers, who was sniffing the strange new air with intense interest, “close enough I guess.”

He reached for his phone on the dashboard. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, it flickered to life, the screen illuminating with the familiar welcome logo. A moment later, it began to vibrate uncontrollably, a furious buzz of notifications from a world he’d been absent from. He saw a message from Uncle Skidmark a few weeks ago.

“Dude,” it read. “Got a new business idea. It’s gonna be huge!”

Rumpelstiltskin, still basking in the glow of being back in the correct century, typed back a quick reply. “I’m back in the land of the living! Hit me with it.”

The three dots appeared almost instantly. “Skidmarks Well Used Clothing,” Skidmark wrote. “It’s gonna be a second-hand store. Real vintage stuff.”

“That’s awesome, man!” Rumpelstiltskin typed. “Where are you getting the stuff to sell?”

“My apartment mostly,” came the reply. “Got a big pile of old socks and skivvies. Some good jeans with grease stains. Real authentic.”

Rumpelstiltskin stared at the message, a slow, magnificent grin spreading across his face. Of course. He shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. He closed the chat and opened a new one, his fingers flying across the screen to write, “Aunt Jezzie! I’m on my way! I’m in Arizona.”

He waited. And waited. An hour passed. Then two. Beebers grew restless, nudging his hand for a walk. The sun began to dip below the red rocks, painting the sky in fiery shades of orange and purple. Still no reply. That wasn’t like Aunt Jezzie. She lived on her phone.

He became concerned. “Alright, buddy,” he said, starting the van. “We’ll head south. See if we can’t track her down the old-fashioned way.”

He drove south toward Phoenix, the red rocks giving way to the sprawling, saguaro-dotted landscape of the Sonoran Desert. He stopped for gas and went into the station’s walk-in store for some snacks. As he was grabbing a bag of chips, he heard a commotion at the counter. A loud, obnoxious man was arguing with the young cashier.

“I gave you a twenty!” the man insisted, his voice booming. “You only gave me change for a ten! I want my other five bucks!”

The cashier, a kid who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, looked terrified. “Sir, I… I’m pretty sure it was a ten.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” the man snarled.

Rumpelstiltskin let out a quiet sigh. He reached into his blazer and grabbed the cool and familiar Jar of Frozen Moments. He popped the lid.

“Eyes be seen, eyes be closed,” he whispered.

The world stopped. The obnoxious man froze mid-snarl. The cashier’s fearful expression was locked in place.

Rumpelstiltskin strolled to the counter, whistling softly. He walked behind the cashier’s area, plucked the five-dollar bill from the customer’s outstretched hand, and gently placed it in the cashier’s open palm. He then walked back to the snack aisle, sealed the jar, and the world went back into motion.

“…and if you don’t give it to me, I’m gonna…” the man trailed off, looking at his now-empty hand in confusion. The cashier looked down at his own hand, a five-dollar bill suddenly clutched within it. The man and the cashier were utterly baffled by the looks on their faces. The customer grumbled and stormed out.

Rumpelstiltskin walked to the counter. The cashier looked at him, then at the five-dollar bill, then back at him. A slow snicker started which led to a chuckle. “You’re that Rumpelstiltskin dude, aren’t you?” he asked, his fear replaced by awe.

Rumpelstiltskin just offered a small smile, paid for his things, and exited the store with a bow and a wave. He got back in the van and pulled onto Route 17, heading south. 

He found a Motel 6 on the outskirts of Phoenix. The next morning, as he was packing up the van, his phone buzzed. It was a message from Aunt Jezzie.

“Just saw your message, sweetie!” she had written. “The community theater had a late-night rehearsal. Big drama! I’m here. Come on down!”

Relieved, Rumpelstiltskin sent a quick reply that he was on his way. He got himself all gussied-up in his favorite blazer, fed Beebers, and hit the road, a fresh sense of purpose propelling him toward the tiny dot on the map that was Winkelman.

He was about thirty miles out, the landscape a vast, empty stretch of desert highway, when he saw it. At first, just a glint on the horizon. A flash of silver against the pale blue sky. But it grew with impossible speed, resolving itself into a perfect, massive, circular shape. 

“OK, Beebers. Get ready for a ride.  It’s Big Eyes.”

The ship zoomed toward him and stopped directly above his van, blotting out the sun. A column of brilliant, white light erupted from the bottom of the ship, engulfing the Aerostar completely. The engine died. He felt the familiar weightless sensation as Beebers began to howl. The entire van was pulled smoothly and silently off the ground.

The whiteout was instantaneous. A golden kaleidoscope appeared for about 10 seconds and then was replaced by a large white space.

“OK, this is a bit different.  You okay Beebers?”, as he gave him a big strong neck rub. They were in the van, but the van was… nowhere. It was floating in a vast, white void. There was no floor, no ceiling, no walls. Just an endless, silent emptiness. Directly in front of the windshield, three massive, black viewing screens materialized and hummed to life, their dark surfaces reflecting the van’s interior.  Slowly, a facade of blue tiles began to unfold what appeared to be a room.  

Then, on the center screen, an image flickered to life. It was Big Eyes.

Rumpelstiltskin just sighed, a sound of profound, weary annoyance. He spoke to the dashboard as if the alien were a backseat driver. “Yep. You again.”

He rolled down his window and leaned out, and shouted at Big Eyes.

“You already know how this is gonna go down, right?”

Big Eyes stared back, unblinking. A moment later, the scratchy, synthesized translator voice crackled through an unseen speaker. “You… freak?”

“Cookie,” Big Eyes’s voice demanded, skipping all pleasantries. “You have my cookie!”

Rumpelstiltskin leaned back in his seat with a theatrical sigh. “Alright, fine. You want the cookie? You got it. Just put us down. Gently.”

A moment of silence. Then, “No Trickery”

“Why sir, I haven’t the faintest idea what you may be referring to.  I wish you a good day.” Rumpelstiltskin said, rolling his eyes. The white void outside the van shimmered, then resolved into a solid white floor in a brilliantly lit, sterile room. The van settled with a gentle thump.

“Okay, Beebers,” Rumpelstiltskin said, his voice low and secretive. “You ready to go for a nice walk?”

“I WANT MY COOKIE!” Big Eye’s voice boomed, now demanding.

Rumpelstiltskin reached into his burlap sack, his fingers closing around the familiar, cool glassy Jar of Frozen Moments. “Woe is me!,” he said, and with a wink at Big Eyes and a smirk, popped the lid.

“Eyes be seen, eyes be closed.”

The world stopped. The faint hum of the ship died. The image of Big Eyes on the screen froze mid-blink.

Rumpelstiltskin let out a satisfied breath. He grabbed Beebers’ leash, then hesitated. “Oh, what am I doing?” he said with a giggle, tossing it onto the passenger seat. “You don’t need a leash in here.”

He hopped out of the van, did a few quick stretches.  He decided this would be a good time to trim his toenails, so he opened the side door of the van, sat and clipped away, taking his sweet ol’ time.  He put on some clean socks, his Interceptors and adjusted his blazer in the reflection of the driver’s side mirror. Beebers was off to sniff every strange corner of the room.

They strolled out into the silent corridors of the ship. As they walked, Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t help himself, randomly pressing glowing glyphs and buttons on the walls just to see what would happen, then looking around with a mischievous grin to see if anything changed. He knew the way.

He found the corridor with the canister room and stood before the massive, shimmering bar of pure gold. He pressed his hands and then his whole body against the cool, smooth surface, a look of profound, emotional longing on his face. Then, even closer, he pressed his face smushed against the glass creating a big blurby. “One day,” he whispered to the gold.

He heard the soft click-click-click of Beebers’ nails on the floor behind him. He turned to see Beebers circling a spot on the pristine floor, Beebers in a body posture seen many times, there he goes, squatting and pooping. Rumpelstiltskin, who prides himself as a responsible pet owner, instinctively reached into his jeans pocket for a doggie bag, but found only glittery gold lint. He looked at the poop. He looked down the empty corridor. He shrugged, and they continued on their way.

They found the planetarium, a breathtaking room where miniature galaxies swirled in the dark. “Aha!”, he found the command center. He took a moment to take it all in—the strange, small chairs, the sweeping viewscreen, the countless glowing panels. On the main star map, a blinking dot showed their current location. He becomes confused trying to decipher the lines, the glitches, the twinkling lights and with a wild eyed surprise realizes the spaceship is near Roswell, New Mexico.

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “Aunt Jezzie, you magnificent weirdo,” he whispered. “You were right.” As he scanned the consoles, his eyes landed on small, digital photo frames off to the side. And his blood ran cold. It was a photo of Uncle Skidmark, grinning his goofy grin, giving a thumbs-up next to a waving alien on a roadside. There were other images of Bob Marley, Cleopatra and a photo he had to stop on and stare at for a spell “Who is that?” He wandered through his memory, then he hit on it. “Haha! How weird! That’s Marty Feldman, Igor in Young Frankenstein.” He laughed a great laugh!

He moved on, still giggling, and launched himself at the controls, pressing any and all buttons he could find, smashing some with the heel of his hand just to see what would happen, at one point acting like he playing the piano on the controls to see if he hits on something on the star map before him. “There’s got to be a way to get to that gold.”, he thought as he slumped into the commander’s chair, which was so comically small he could barely squeeze into it.

Suddenly, he heard it. A frantic, high-pitched Squeak. Squeak-squeak. A pause and then several more squeaks.

He looked over. Beebers was in the corner, locked in combat with a small, plush neon green and black alien toy that looked exactly like a miniature Big Eyes. He had it pinned to the floor with his front paws, his head shaking from side to side with his violent, primal fury. With a satisfying RRRIP, he tore a seam open.

“Oh, you found a toy!” Rumpelstiltskin laughed. “Get ‘im, buddy! Show that alien who’s the boss!”

Beebers paused, gave him a sigh and an internal encouraging cry, and went to work with surgical precision. He began pulling out the green, cottony guts, tossing his head to send fluffy clouds of stuffing drifting across the sterile floor. He snorted, digging his snout deep into the toy’s carcass, searching for his prize. After a moment of frantic digging, he emerged victorious, a small, squeaker held triumphantly in his mouth. He trotted over to Rumpelstiltskin, his tail wagging, and dropped the slobber-covered trophy at his feet.

“Good boy!” Rumpelstiltskin said, beaming with pride as he looked at the poor toy and the drift of stuffing. “You have saved us from the squeaky menace of society! The galaxy is in your debt.”

Rumpelstiltskin went back to the controls and started pressing the luminescent glyphs again, this time harder, with more purpose. “Oops!”. He felt a deep, shuddering rumble from somewhere deep within the ship. “Oh crap, that might be an explosion.”

“Okay, buddy,” he said, his voice suddenly urgent. “Time to bail.”

He and Beebers sprinted back to the van. Put his seatbelt buckle on, got Beebers comfy and reached for the lid and the jar and closed the Jar of Frozen Moments.  

Big Eyes came to life with a very loud squeal, and “YOU FREAK! WHAT DID YOU DO?”

He grabbed the Sphere of Precise Magic, not bothering with a destination, just focusing on one single, desperate thought: GET US OUT OF HERE.

The world flashed white. The van landed hard on a dusty road. He looked up through the windshield just in time to see the massive UFO, trailing smoke, and then zoomed away out of the sky.

He took some time to get his bearings and checked his phone to realize he is in Roswell, New Mexico.  Not bothered by it, he and Beebers simply carried on.

He found a funky, wonderfully weird motel on the outskirts of Roswell, the kind with a giant plaster alien waving from the roof. He checked in, got Beebers settled with a bowl of water, and flopped onto the bed.

He turned on the big screen TV in the motel room which is rare.  

Rumpelstiltskin does not watch TV much.  The local news segment is showing a LIVE broadcast about a UFO trailing smoke in the sky and it disappeared.  He saw it and had another really great laugh.

His stomach grumbled, and a wave of laziness washed over him. “What to do?” he wondered. “Aha!”, he fumbled through his burlap sack to find the blue lottery coin.  He sat on the edge of the bed and concentrated on the coin that was lying flat in his palm. After a few practice runs of an incantation in silence, he finally whispered, “Mama mia, pizzeria!” – instantaneously, a pizza delivery driver drives up and knocks on his motel room door with a large supreme pizza already paid for including a $100 tip as shown on the receipt.

A few days later, after laying low and enjoying the local attractions, he decided it was time. He opened Facebook and started a video call. After a few rings, she popped onto the screen. Aunt Jezzie. She was a whirlwind of color, wearing a bright pink, lint-catching sweater and what looked like a lace glove on one hand. Her hair was proper, and her sharp eyes darted around as if she were monitoring a dozen different conversations at once.

“Rumpel, sweetie!” she said, her voice a dramatic, raspy whirlwind. “I was just telling the folks at the theater about my latest cooking disaster! I tried to make a Jell-O mold with melted gummy bears, and it just… refused to set! A total liquid tragedy! And then I tried to spread my triple deep fried ice cream blob recipe but nobody was having it. Anyway, where are you? Are you close?”

“Closer than you think,” he said, a grin on his face. “I’m in Roswell.”

“Roswell! Oh, that’s wonderful!” she giggled. “It’s a good thing too. Things are about to get very exciting around here. The whole town is buzzing!”

“What do you mean?” he asked, though the photo of Skidmark and the cow flashed in his mind.

“Well,” she leaned in, “I sent Uncle Skidmark a picture of that cute wooden alien billboard on the highway. And wouldn’t you know it, the sweet boy is on his way! He says he’s going to make first contact!”

Rumpelstiltskin’s brain screeched to a halt. “First contact? What are you talking about?”

“He knows the preferred greeting, of course!” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Five chocolate chip cookies. And he’s not bathing beforehand to make sure his smell is authentic. It’s all very scientific. He says the aliens would prefer him over someone wearing perfumes.  The folks at the theater are just beside themselves with excitement!”

Rumpelstiltskin stared at the screen, the entire, absurd, chaotic puzzle snapping into place. He dropped his phone onto the bed, a slow, magnificent grin spreading across his face. This was going to be the best family reunion ever.