(Cosmic Communications) By: Triston Horton 7/28/12-7/30/12

Chapter 1 Like Any Day

The rhythmic patterns of nature took hold of the night and enveloped the heavens in glistening crimson sun. It was just like any other day on planet Earth. The date was May 14th, 2013 and I emerged from my sedated slumber like clock-work. A familar texture of unforgiving ground beneath me invoked a feeling of shame that cannot be equated. The night prior I had thrown together a shack that resembled something out of 1930's Hooverville shanty town. I was awake but lacked the slightest parsel of motivation to split my eyelids; why lay my eyes on a world that had only forsaken me? If it weren't for a conglomeration of helicopters beating the air into submission above, I might have layed there until withdrawl had taken the reigns. Already awake, I knew I should head downtown before noon to avoid any further punishment to my frail frame. I had set up shop beneath a highway merging bridge just on the perimeter of Atlanta. Besides the barriage of military helicopters, the fact that I wasn't able to hear the familiar vibrations of tires dropping and rebounding in the cracks above struck me as odd. Nevertheless, I payed it no attention and proceeded along the semi-rural trail I had carved out of the landscape with my own two. The path served few purposes. Either I was headed to the package store to drown my thoughts, or to Turner Field on game day to feed on the underbelly of society as your typical beggar. On any given day my thoughts would revolve on the task at hand, however mundane or simplistic. But on this day, the bitter sweet aroma

of Bradford Pear pollen pierced my soul like it had no other man before or after me. For a majority of the stroll, I managed to remain numb, assisted by the alcohol flooding my abused veins. As I became sickly sober, the despair I had been drowning with malt liquor resurfaced in waves of vivid memories, all of which were inclusive of my pride and joy. Memories so intense and gut wrenching, that I fell to my knees and began dry heaving. Nearly five years ago, my pregnant wife, Caron, and my seventeen year old daughter, Samantha, had been severed from my heart in a horrific high speed car collision. They were on their way to an ultrasound I was scheduled to attend. The haunting odor brought me back the first time I felt true hapiness. I was inching back and forth on my rocking chair placed upon the front porch of our suburban home in April of 91'. Two mature Bradford Pears dotted the front landscape of my ranch style home. What imprinted that day in my mind was the majestic sight of my two beautiful queens playing in the yard. Caron's hair streched down, nearing her back side. Her golden amber locks tossed in the wind as if god was bobbing them himself. Samantha, who was eight at that time cuffed her little palms around her mommy's ears and poorly executed what you might refer to as telling a secret. After Caron was assured a second or third time, the girls rotated on a key towards me and in an amplified tone sung, "We love you daddy!" Those words resonated like a symphony in my ears, and for the first time in my life I was content being responsible for something. They had told me they loved me before, but unable to process love's true meaning, I simply performed what was expected of me as a father. Before then life seemed so uncertain. I had no aspirations for the future. But just the way the light refracted off my little girl's soft blue eyes, made time come to a halt. In that moment, everything was so clear to me; I knew what my life's purpose was. I was put here to protect my gems from the darkness of the world. From then on, I devoted myself to being a malleable husband and father to give my girls everything I could possibly muster. In the end, I failed them. On January 16th, 2008 I saw Sam off to school like any other day. Every morning I would reiterate the magnitude of my love of her just to ensure there's no underlying doubt. As she navigated the new Mercedes

down the steep incline known as our driveway, she loosely waved while checking both mirrors and called out to me, "Love you Daddy!" I regressed through the walnut door, completely oblivious that was the last time i'd ever see my daughter. As I was leaving for my daily office excursion, I nearly passed our bed room door without checking on Caron. Luckily her divine beauty caught my eye as it always had. I stood in the doorway watching her dream for the last time, while straightning my neck tie. I then departed our home as if it was another routine day, under the impression we would carpool home after her ultrasound. Caron was ripped from me like a babe from its mother only hours later; I would never see her again. The work day was coming to a halt and I was contemplating whether or not to come home early and suprise Caron with flowers. Not purchasing those roses is by far my most mind numbing regret to date. Minutes ticked by at the office; my eyes were glued to my spread sheets. Entirely too focused, I was clueless as to what oblivion awaited me; ignorance truly is bliss. I attempeted to call both Caron and Sam; Each call went directly to voicemail. Around this time, I began to develop a sense of nervousness. I couldn't jump to conclusions, but a decent amount of father's intuition took hold, and I could only assume the worse. Nearly thirty minutes had passed our original meeting time, all of which spent gazing out my office window at the black sea of parking lots beneath me. I focused my interest on a specific parking spot my wife choose more often than others. This continued until the chime of my office phone's drew me away from the window. The caller ID read, "Gwinnett County Police Department." That phone call altered the course of my history. Hands shaking like the limbs of a newborn fawn, I grasped the phone and slowly but surely neared it to my ear. Semi-aware of the nature of the call, I could barely squeak, "He-he-llo," voice cracking like an adolescent inbetween syllables. A voice that was familiar with delivery of such news, questioned, "Is this Mr. Sage?" "Yes," I replied, "This is Mr. Sage"

Almost immediately pursuing my response, the office remarked, "This is Sheriff Kidwell; There's been a terrible accident, and I need you to come down to the station." Silence was a sufficent milestone for him to proceed to his next statement and he followed, "Your wife and daughter were involved in a seven car pile up I-85." The last words I remember notioning were,"They were killed upon impact." When he mustered those spine chilling sounds, everything went black. I came to hours later. As I was rendered unconscious, my head struck the the corner of my magnolian desk. My face was aligned with a collection of my own blood pooling up on the floor. If it weren't for the street light flooding through my window, I might have forgotten what happened. I stumbled down the flight of stairs and made my way to the car, emptying my stomach along the railing and once more in the bushed outside. The bile burnt my throat with an acidity similar to lemon juice. I choose not to even bother with visting the police department; the situation was already detrimental enough for the evening. Once at my place of residence, I nearly took out my mailbox, and I parked nearly sideways in my front lawn. I slammed the front door behind me, fell to the hardwood floor, and began to ball. I emerged from my dreamless coma around lunchtime the next day. I called nobody; After filling a suitcase with some clothes and our pictures albums, I deserted my home and life. I would never return again. Being a recovering functioning alcoholic, the only thing on my clouded mind was a fifth of vodka. After obtaining a reasonable amount of devil's nectar, I found the bridge I woukd sulk beneath until our day of reckoning, May 14th, 2013. The flashback grinded to a halt, which allowed me to regain my footing and resume my routine trip. As the forest canopy became less concentrated, the mouth of the trail widened just at the hindquaters of Jamin's Wine & Spirits. I made my way to the principal door for entering, only to find the doors barred with a poorly written sticky note that read, "We're not alone." Trembling from the shakes of withdrawl, I had no time to invest any thought to what exactly that meant.

I headed to a more urban realm of the city in hopes of finding liquor. In an attempt to mask my face from society, I domed my scalp with my hood. Only navigating by peering at my feet, I was completely unaware how desolate Peachtree Street had become. I would have remained clueless if it weren't for the reserved chattering of a crowd. I lifted my head to find myself at the edge of an ever curious crowd awaiting an video announcement upon a stage in the town square. Not too long after my arrival the bright stage lights dimmed and the President of the United States at the time, Barrack Obama faded into view. He appeared to be in the white house, but god knows where he was in reality. The crowd became eeriely silent, and what seemed to be an eternity passed before our leader spoke. He spent no time beating around the bush, and in a strengthened tone announced, "My fellow Americans, two weeks ago today our SETI extraterrestrial detection organization made first contact with another civilization, located in our closest stellar neigboring star sy.." The crowd roared.