Turn Left on Rigel 7

Submission to the 7th Flash Fiction Battle

Late, lovesick and hungover; the back of the taxi cab reeks hot of sour cream and cigarettes as it jerks forward— and I still can't get my buckle in.

"Where to?" the cab driver says as he punches the turn signal up. Death Metal kick drums beat out of old side door speakers loud as my headache.

I meet his heterochromatic eyes through the rearview mirror before they dart back to the road. My job can now wait.

"Drive until I say stop," I click my buckle in.

The drums are hard on the cymbals as he turns left.

"Sir, please, a destination or I'll have to kindly ask you to get outta the cab."

His two-colored eyes avoid me, but on the tattered photo taped to his dashboard, old with grime, they look straight into me.

"In twenty goddamn years you never updated your photo, you afraid of cameras or somethin’?” and I tap the back of the headrest on his seat twice.

He pulls over, and I lurch forward at the too-quick stop.

"Get out," and the door’s lock pops up.

"I'll tell ICE,” I say.

Death metal beats fast as my heart. The lock comes back down. We stay on the curb.

"Why would you go and do something like that?" he’s gripping the steering wheel, but half smirks. "I'm just your normal everyday Earth Joe."

"No one talks like that! Stop talking like that!"

"You sound crazy," he hits the blinker. "Crazy and emotional."

"Drive," I say, my ass sweating on hot pleather. "Drive and stop the act."

The kickdrums go: Thuddadadathud dada!

"You found me," and he gasses the cab. "Good job, whaddya want?"

Drums beat fast as an AK unloads a clip.

"Proof," I pull out my phone and fumble for the camera app.

"They'll dissect me."

Dada Thuddaddathdu!

"I want my life back," and I put him in frame.

Something wells under his eyes— tears? But they're green.

"They'll dissect my Earth children," and the drums push out one last clip before he turns the radio off. "Please."

"Lost mine in the fucking divorce."

"If you tell on me," he faces me, "will you get them back?"

That his disguise got him this far is as unbelievable as a refugee from Ceti Alpha Five driving a taxi cab. Heterochromatic eyes, face rubber as a Stretch Armstrong sun-bleached and cracked. Tears aren't green, they’re turquoise, and I look at my phone.

My backseat life, empty of praise and family, it can change with a single photo. As will his.

“Take me to the liquor store," and I put my phone back into my pants pocket. "Sorry about the ICE thing," Space Oddity plays on the radio, and I let the man drive.

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This was my winning submission to the 7th Flash Fiction Battle.

The prompt was:

“20 years ago. In a taxi. The driver was telling you about aliens in his cab. back to today, same cab, same driver”

Thank you to all who made it out and voted in the chat. I seriously appreciate you.

You can read the entry from my honored combatant, Andy Futuro, here: Hunger Mountain Taxi. Make sure you subscribe to him. You don’t want to be left behind, because the man is going places.

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M.P. Fitzgerald writes darkly humorous sci-fi for dream criminals. He is unwell, but far away where you can’t hurt him.