like everyday people. Jonno would have liked them. Glad those government folks are too stupid to know which door to use. She wondered where the aliens had come from, even though she hadn’t asked the whole night. It wasn’t any good to ask come-from-aways too many questions. No point in getting involved with people always on their way to somewhere else. But now it would be kind of nice to know which star they were from so she could remember them on clear nights.
Edna took a long time to fall asleep. When she did sleep, she dreamed she and Glasses were dancing in the middle of the sky to Jonno’s fiddle playing. George was juggling codcakes and Auntie Simmons was knitting a huge peach blanket that swirled around her ankles but didn’t trip her up. She could hear Jonno’s laugh.
The following month, the Chiladans , from a small planet in a minor solar system humans hadn’t yet identified, landed in New York City. Their graceful craft was unnoticed by all the very expensive equipment maintained for just such an event, and suddenly appeared hovering over Times Square. The Chiladans , well-skilled in diplomacy, immediately declared their peaceful intent and invited the Secretary General of the United Nations and the leaders of the G-7 to dinner aboard the ship as a sign of their good will towards Earth. After a shared meal, the humans could inspect the ship for weapons. After an intense forty-eight hours of crisis conferences, the leaders of Earth agreed.
Each dignitary was flanked by two security guards as they made their way aboard the sleek grey ship. The aliens in the reception hall were a little surprised by the extra guests, and sent someone to check with the chef.
Glasses shrugged. Edna had taught them to make plenty. He told the aide not to worry, and sent George for extra plates and utensils. The aliens ushered the leaders of Earth into a large and airy room filled with orange and red plants that appeared to be growing out of metal walls. The chairs and couches, in cool sandstone and clay colours, were low to the ground, and flanked by shelves filled with more brightly coloured and flowering plants. In the centre of the room, beside a large oval table, stood Glasses, the best Chilad chef of off-world cuisine, and Auntie Simmons, the dessert chef. Spread with a large orange and white gingham cloth, the table displayed a feast of potato salad, two kinds of Jell-O salad, pickles and white sliced bread. In the centre was a steaming vision of Edna’s tuna casserole.
Originally published in On Spec Spring 1997 Vol 9 No 1 #28
Fiona Heath is now a Unitarian Universalist minister who she speaks, writes and teaches about the intersection between science and spirit. Casserole Diplomacy was her first published story. She lives in Waterloo, Ontario with her partner and son.
Jubilee
Steven Mills
I’m a Presbyterian Church minister, for what that’s worth. Not a lot these days. Not since the noises in the church basement.
“Mice,” Mr. Berkowitz said, and bought some traps. He laid them in the corners, and near the back of the fridge in the mint-green kitchen. Mrs. Miller stepped on one, broke two arthritic toes in the snap, and, popping nitro pills like Pez candies, had to be rushed to the hospital.
Mr. Berkowitz caught no mice, but the noises persisted. The Board of Managers agreed to have a work bee on the Saturday next, the twenty-fifth, to tear the paneling from the basement walls so they could expose those “wretched vermin” to the light of day. And smite them.
That Sunday worship sported a typically low July attendance, about sixty-five parishioners and a handful of visitors. Unfortunately, my sermon on the Water-to-Wine story in John 2 was a little flat: I could hear the crinkling of candy wrappers begin at the four-minute mark. Usually I can hold the sweet-tooths off for nine or ten minutes, but with this muggy July
Edna took a long time to fall asleep. When she did sleep, she dreamed she and Glasses were dancing in the middle of the sky to Jonno’s fiddle playing. George was juggling codcakes and Auntie Simmons was knitting a huge peach blanket that swirled around her ankles but didn’t trip her up. She could hear Jonno’s laugh.
The following month, the Chiladans , from a small planet in a minor solar system humans hadn’t yet identified, landed in New York City. Their graceful craft was unnoticed by all the very expensive equipment maintained for just such an event, and suddenly appeared hovering over Times Square. The Chiladans , well-skilled in diplomacy, immediately declared their peaceful intent and invited the Secretary General of the United Nations and the leaders of the G-7 to dinner aboard the ship as a sign of their good will towards Earth. After a shared meal, the humans could inspect the ship for weapons. After an intense forty-eight hours of crisis conferences, the leaders of Earth agreed.
Each dignitary was flanked by two security guards as they made their way aboard the sleek grey ship. The aliens in the reception hall were a little surprised by the extra guests, and sent someone to check with the chef.
Glasses shrugged. Edna had taught them to make plenty. He told the aide not to worry, and sent George for extra plates and utensils. The aliens ushered the leaders of Earth into a large and airy room filled with orange and red plants that appeared to be growing out of metal walls. The chairs and couches, in cool sandstone and clay colours, were low to the ground, and flanked by shelves filled with more brightly coloured and flowering plants. In the centre of the room, beside a large oval table, stood Glasses, the best Chilad chef of off-world cuisine, and Auntie Simmons, the dessert chef. Spread with a large orange and white gingham cloth, the table displayed a feast of potato salad, two kinds of Jell-O salad, pickles and white sliced bread. In the centre was a steaming vision of Edna’s tuna casserole.
Originally published in On Spec Spring 1997 Vol 9 No 1 #28
Fiona Heath is now a Unitarian Universalist minister who she speaks, writes and teaches about the intersection between science and spirit. Casserole Diplomacy was her first published story. She lives in Waterloo, Ontario with her partner and son.
Jubilee
Steven Mills
I’m a Presbyterian Church minister, for what that’s worth. Not a lot these days. Not since the noises in the church basement.
“Mice,” Mr. Berkowitz said, and bought some traps. He laid them in the corners, and near the back of the fridge in the mint-green kitchen. Mrs. Miller stepped on one, broke two arthritic toes in the snap, and, popping nitro pills like Pez candies, had to be rushed to the hospital.
Mr. Berkowitz caught no mice, but the noises persisted. The Board of Managers agreed to have a work bee on the Saturday next, the twenty-fifth, to tear the paneling from the basement walls so they could expose those “wretched vermin” to the light of day. And smite them.
That Sunday worship sported a typically low July attendance, about sixty-five parishioners and a handful of visitors. Unfortunately, my sermon on the Water-to-Wine story in John 2 was a little flat: I could hear the crinkling of candy wrappers begin at the four-minute mark. Usually I can hold the sweet-tooths off for nine or ten minutes, but with this muggy July
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