by Samantha Henderson



Dan’s old felt fedora

still grows from the hatstand

where he left it three years ago.  “I’m off,”

he said, as he left

with his huge bundle of keys

and a sappy smile.  “I’m off

to get a cake for Pete’s birthday

and a couple of six-packs, I guess.”  I nodded,

once.  I was pissed off, mildly so,

for no good reason I can remember.  All they found

was a concentric series of circular

burn marks.  And one sneaker,

                                                            Carefully untied.

                                                            There was no foot in it.

                                                            I made certain to ask.

                                                            I suppose they might have lied.

I still get calls

from the Ufologists, the New Atlanteans,

the Rosicrucians and the occasional



Hard Copy offered money, Nasa offered nada,

but was unexpectedly sympathetic.

                                                            (“Happens more often

                                                            than you might think,”

                                                            said one grizzled G-man.)

What bothers me most

is what happened to all those keys

and who has them

and what they unlock.


 This poem first appeared in Weird Tales in Spring of 2000.

Copyright © Samantha Henderson 2000

Photo Copyright © Eric Marin 2004

About the Author:

Samantha Henderson lives in Southern California with her family and Bogie, the Corgi-Who-Wasn't-There.  Her other online work can be seen at Strange Horizons, The Fortean Bureau, Ideomancer, Neverary, Abyss and Apex, and The Eggplant Library.


Lone Star Stories * Speculative Fiction and Poetry with a Texas Twist * Copyright © 2003-2004


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