Below are the two winners for the February 2025 flash fiction contest. The call was for an alien on earth on Groundhog Day or Valentines Day. They are presented is strictly the order received, and all rights remain with the authors. Published here with their permission.
Bleak Results – By Susan Johnson
Supreme Marshall,
Reporting as willed regarding human tradition of Groundhog Day. Many humans gathered before dawn on February 2 in anticipation of the groundhog’s weather prediction. The purpose was to determine if they should expect a longer Winter
season or an early Spring. At 7:25 that morning, the small, hairy prognosticator popped out from it’s lair to much delight and cheering. If it spies it’s shadow, there will be 6 weeks more of Winter. If no shadow is seen, then Spring
will unfold early. This year, a longer Winter was predicted, which seemed to rile up the crowd. There arose an odd “booing” noise, which I have come to learn is a sound they make when faced with bleak results. This in turn upset
the groundhog, which promptly bit it’s human handler.
Upon further research, I have concluded that these “predictions” are only accurate about 40% of the time. With this low percentage, I do not understand why the humans continue to follow this creature’s obvious lack of forecasting
ability. At the least, it should be stripped of it’s title as divine oracle. In truth, it should be devoured. It looks quite delicious.
Speaking of delicious, I look forward to sending you my report of the human tradition of Valentine’s Day. Though I have as yet witnessed this spectacle, I have heard it said that humans give their hearts to another human they hold
dear. This is the ultimate in sacrificing oneself for love. Imagine the delight of the receiver of such a gift. I drool at the thought. Alas, as I am not human, I cannot take part in this feast. I have been much disappointed in what
passes for nutrients on this world. I endeavored to partake of something the humans call a “hot dog.” Never have I tasted such a vile morsel. I’ve seen their tasty looking dogs and was highly disappointed to learn the item did not
contain any dog meat. I “booed” afterwards and felt rather pleased, though not satisfied with the meal.
Ever your loyal servant,
Qalor, clan Kaldros
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Space Aliens Land in… Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania?*
By Marica Bernstein
“What are they?” Woody, a young whistlepig with two gleaming white buck teeth asked.
“I don’t know,” Chuck replied. “Let’s look.”
The two lumbered quietly down a drift, slid under the snow-fence, and hid behind a
hemlock.
“They have no fur—not even on their heads,” Woody said.
“Shh. They’ll hear us,” Chuck whispered.
A gust of wind swirled violently behind them, creating a snow-spout that sucked them
into the air and then dropped them at the creatures’ feet.
“Who are you?” they asked.
“Space aliens from Niflheim.”
“What do you want?”
“Take me to your leader,” commanded the head alien.
“Leader?” Woody shrugged his shoulders.
“I suppose that would be Uncle Phil,” Chuck said.
“Man from U.N.C.L.E is your leader?”
“Huh?” Woody and Chuck asked.
“How do you know about that?”
“Have studied your culture. Know your icons.” the alien replied. “Especially admire
work of Bill Murray. ‘What if there’s no tomorrow’ is poignant platitude on Niflheim.”
“Uncle Phil’s from Gobbler’s Knob,” said Woody.
“No matter,” said the alien. “Take me to him.”
Off they went, Woody and Chuck scampering through the snow, and the alien hovering
above. Along the way Chuck whispered to Woody, “What are we going to do? Uncle Phil’s still
be asleep.” Chuck only shrugged in reply.
They entered Phil’s burrow through the back door. “Wait here,” Woody said. “I’ll wake
Uncle Phil.”
After some time, Woody and Phil—grumbling and still in his nightshirt and stocking-cap
—entered.
“What makes you leader?” asked the alien.
“I control the onset of Spring,” boomed Phil. “The renewal of light and life.”
“As we hoped,” the alien replied. “We need your powers. Seasons have not changed in
generations. We live in eternal darkness and cold. Will you return to Niflheim and save us?”
Phil looked at Woody and Chuck. He reflected on what he would miss and lose, perhaps
forever—family, friends, fame, joy rides in Chevy pickups. But his overwhelming concern was
for the spring-less aliens.
“Make it so,” he agreed.
*With apologizes to Mojo Nixon, “Take me to your leader,” Gadzooks, 1997.