Martin Ott Mission

The blow-up alien dolls, one blue, one green, were a joke to represent middle management. They stare out from the old temp’s workstation. Their eyes are the exact color and shape of despair. Without mouths, they observe the computer monitors and the creatures making love to them. The data is incomplete. The trash is carried away. The people wrappings are recycled. Offices hum in lights not unlike the distant sun cawing for them to slingshot home. The Chinese factory that “made them” was a ruse, deep cover. The aliens wheeze as the human breath inside leaks in the perambulations of routine. They learn that bagel Mondays do not fill the holes callously slathered and devoured. Movie trivia Fridays too often makes their own kind seem two-dimensional. At day’s end, the sun pours through their torsos and swathes the creatures in the essence of grass and sky. Two aliens, two metaphors. The joke is karmic, for future generations. Every day the aliens wait, like the humans, to be saved.

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