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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Some Things Are Universal” Down in the Dirt v208 (6/23)  Order the paperback book: 
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Some Things Are Universal
Donald Reed Greenwood
There it was. Again. That same distant noise; a repeating, slow humming. Or was it more of a punctuated tempo? Four distinct sounds, a pause, then repeating. Some form of muted pounding, perhaps? He wasn’t certain. Something had to be happening, far off in another neighborhood. It could be after-hours roadwork, or possibly the city public works department, nocturnally peeling up pavement to repair a broken water main.
Whatever the source, Norm had endured this persistent, obnoxious bedtime noise for the past week. Only a week? The torture of it made the time expand. He’d checked nextdoor.com on his iPad but curiously, not a peep of complaint. Shoot, people whine about everything on the local forum, posting gripes as petty as criticizing the cutting height of their neighbor’s lawn.
The timing of the audible sensation appeared as precise as fine Swiss watch. Once he brushed his teeth, Listerine’d his mouth, changed into his night outfit of briefs and his favorite “Visit Tatooine” tee shirt, pulled back the covers, settled himself into his favorite nocturnal position, and with the pillow properly scrunched up under his head, there it was, his personal, irritating ear worm.
His wife Gail always retired before he did, and once into a deep sleep, she never exhibited so much as the flex of a finger, just the perfect imitation of a dead fish. Perhaps placing live firecrackers next to each ear would do the trick, but he couldn’t be sure, and would never, ever perform that kind of absurd, sadistic experiment on his wife anyway. So, it was a useless exercise to convince her that the barest shred of evidence existed for even the slightest hint of commotion. Norm figured he was the sole person tortured by the constant annoyance of that faint, repetitive rhythm. Was he imagining it? Or was it merely his tinnitus acting up again?
Irregardless, as soon as customer service hours commenced the following morning, he’d be on his iPhone, dogged as usual, pestering the county utility and transportation departments, exploding into an ad nauseam blather. Their answers were as predictable as his persistence.
Of course, there had never been reports of any past, current or future night work in the vicinity of his otherwise comfortable home, a typical, cookie-cutter suburban house in an unremarkable neighborhood. He sensed by the tone of the so-called customer service responders that their internal grapevines had stamped him as the official, neighborhood crank. Or, to crown their low opinion of him; the man who was “non compos mentis”. Absolutely certifiable.
That night, as he was on the cusp of blessed slumber, that same infuriating, monotonous resonation made its sonic appearance. This time however, something was different. The sound was louder, almost musically rhythmic, like a song with an endlessly recurring melody. So it had to be close; in fact, backyard-close. The rear bedroom window resonated, the glass panes vibrating in the frame.
Norm glanced at his wife. As he expected; a rock, given sufficient geological time, exhibits more activity. She’d fallen into her firecracker-proof REM sleep.
He slowly eased himself out from under the covers, his emotions swirling with an excited anticipation, tempered with a tinge of fear.
Suppressing his uncertainty, and with his ire approaching critical mass, Norm decided that he was finally fed up, ready to confront whatever it was, even if he felt unnerved by the unknowable consequences of confronting this bizarre interaction.
Norm tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen, and turned on the overhead lights. Cautiously peering through the back door, he experienced the strangest sight of his life. A soft, pulsing glow illuminated the lawn. Set within that glow was an unidentifiable, amorphous object. The form of it, assuming it was some kind of celestial ship, was constantly evolving, emanating an illumination, in synchronicity with that rhythmic hum, waxing and waning in a shifting shape. Why weren’t any of his neighbors witnessing this? His kitchen light was an orphan in its residential radiance. What was the intent? Who or what was in control? It defied his ability to decipher the vision created by the input his eyes transmitted to his brain, This was no pink elephant. Norm imbibed sparingly, if at all.
Slowly and fluidly, entities materialized out of the light. Two beings, possibly corporal, perhaps protoplasmic, pulsating in synchronization with the glow, their forms undulating, appeared from the puzzling phenomenon.
The beings approached the back door. Approached? That’s not how the vision could be accurately described. Floating, drifting or somehow suspended was a more fitting explanation.
Oddly, now without a snippet of fear, Norm felt no hesitation, and opened the kitchen door. On the contrary, he felt engulfed by an involuntary, cordial sense of welcoming. Now, where in the heck did that come from?
In the midst of this paranormal encounter, Norm’s brain fixated on his unbridled, passionate compulsion to stealthily savor an ample bowl of ice cream before going upstairs and initiating his pre-slumber routine. Yet, Norm had no illusions. It was a bogus effort to conceal it from Gail. She was the grocery shopper, so he knew that she knew. It was just a silly pretension. When she made the usual pilgrimage to the Piggly Wiggly, Gail consistently made an allowance for his before-bed ritual. He sincerely appreciated her understanding. She never uttered one hint of disapproval, or criticized his indulgence. In fact, she always kept the freezer provisioned with a stock of dairy delights, especially his favorite treat, the penultimate temptation.
What a tolerant, kindhearted wife.
Wait. What did an immaterial musing have to do with an otherworldly intervention? It wasn’t until this weird, supernatural encounter concluded that he recognized he’d been wandering in a fog of confusion, a mist of manipulation.
In that mist, his sense of time became distorted, and thoughts temporarily scrambled. Not once during the encounter had he been in possession of willful self-determination. Norm had felt adrift in the experience, knowing only after the encounter that he had been the recipient of extra-terrestrial dominion by otherworldly beings that he had, for some incomprehensible reason, eagerly welcomed into his domestic sanctuary. Was that the result, not of malice, but of a kinship, perhaps a shared commonality?
Other than the fixated thought of his indulgence, His sole recollection was that of a snap-of-the-finger, instantaneous alien departure. He found himself standing by the now-shut kitchen door, the knob firmly gripped in his hand, all alone, with the night finally hushed. Their pulsating forms and the illuminated, mysterious transporter, the cycle of the glow, the recurrent cycling pulsation; all of it had vanished.
Only the normalcy of the darkness, with a new moon and the sparkling stars in the sky, all of them indifferent to his experience, remained. Whatever it was the beings wanted remained a enigma. What had occurred during the encounter must have burrowed itself somewhere deep in the confines of his subconscious. With resigned flicks of the finger, he flipped off the light switches, darkening his porch, kitchen and stairwell, retracing his steps back to the comfort of the covers.
Except...once back in the embrace of his bed, when he lowered his head onto the pillow, a spark lit inside his brain, igniting a gleam of remembrance. Perhaps their departure finally allowed him that privilege.
Now he knew. That he had experienced an alien encounter was indisputable. That these creatures had sought him out, without another person knowing, was also beyond question. And he understood why.
No one would ever believe him, nor would he speak of it. Not ever. But, there was one person who would be very, very curious.
Once Gail opened the freezer, she’d know something was abnormal. Norm was certain of it. She knew, that regardless of his gastronomical gratification, he never over-indulged. He’d have no choice but to lie to his wife, but Gail would be skeptical, irrespective of whatever feeble fabrication he fed to her.
Nevertheless, she would discover the final truth of his encounter. Whatever those beings are, and wherever they originate, one of their habits is conspicuously obvious.
They have an insatiable, gluttonous craving for “Chunky Monkey”.
Norm’s eyelids gradually closed, surrendering to the first sweet silence he’d experienced in a week, as he whispered to himself, in that unforgettable repetition: “Chunk-kee, Monk-kee....Chunk-kee, Monk-kee....Chunk-kee, Monk-kee............”
