Alien Girlfriend Goldie (special preview)

I barely remember my dream from the night, those three glowing orbs outside my window. I just remember this odd, itching feeling at the back of my neck, like I was being watched. I lay in bed a while longer, wishing I had telekinetic powers and could make myself a cup of coffee with bourbon without moving.

I then hear something above me. It’s skitters and rustles, sounding like it’s coming from my attic. I groan. “Fucking squirrels again.”

I then hear a beam groan and my eyes snap to attention to the roof. “Raccoons?” I groan nervously. “Very, very, fat raccoons.”

I huff and rub my face. Just outside, I hear laughter and I sit up. Not far off my property, I see a bunch of kids with filming equipment. One comes running out the woods, screaming and crying as if they had seen something. A few moments later one of Mr. Johnson’s chickens comes blasting from the brush and attacking the kids.

“Good chicken,” I grumble as I get up.

I go into the kitchen, blessing that I have two days off in a row. Taking on that extra shift didn’t seem so bad now that it was in the past. I get the coffee pot ready, adding in the water. As i start to scoop the grounds into the filter I hear the groaning in my attic again, like something heavy is walking across the beams.

“Fuck,” I groan.

I had planned on doing absolutely nothing these two days. This included never picking up the phone to call and exterminator to rid the fat ass raccoon who thinks it can now live in my attic. So, once it gets quiet, I decide I can ignore it again.

I know this sounds odd, but even if I have slaved over grills and irons making bacon and the sort, I still love breakfast food. By now, most of the cooks on the line have said they no longer eat pancakes, waffles, and the life. If anything, working the line has made me love waffles more. I’ve even bought one of the waffle makers we use at work because I know how to handle it properly to get my waffles just right.

As my coffee percolates, I start on the waffle batter. I use my grandmother’s recipe which is still leagues better than any waffle I’ve ever had. Once the griddle heats up, sizzling as I flick some water on the surface, I hear the groaning of the beams again and something moving in the attic.

“Fuck,” I huff. I grab my broom and strike it against the ceiling. “Go away!” I snap at it, whatever is living up there.