Cy woke from a fitful sleep with a shudder. The sun had gone down hours ago, but sweat poured off of him in the still oppressive heat. From his open bedroom window, no breeze stirred the gauzy curtains.
Bone tired he’d laid motionless in one spot to let his body cool down from the one-hundred-degree-plus temperatures before he could fall asleep. Now he was reluctant to crawl out of bed to see what was disturbing his dogs. Their vocal pyrotechnics went on and on with no sign of abating.
Cy groaned as the dogs continued to howl. He padded across the warm floorboards and yelled out the window for the hounds to stop their yammering. The terrified canines quieted down to a nervous whimper that continued long after their master had gone back to sleep.
The small humanoid creatures who waited nearby hung their heads, disappointed. They’d expected to see a porch light come on and would give a friendly greeting to whomever came out looking for a fox in the henhouse. The little guys even had a bulletproof shield ready in case the homeowner was armed with a shotgun.
The night visitors reluctantly climbed back into their scout vehicle and started an engine that just happened to whine on the same frequency as dog whistles.
The travelers had better luck at the next house down the road. The family there slept in the yard and it was easy to get their attention.
In exchange for a bucket full of gold nuggets, the farmer provided the unexpected callers several dozen mason jars filled with moonshine; more than enough high-octane fuel to get them, and their flying saucer, back to their home planet.
AUTHOR BIO: John H. Dromey was born in northeast Missouri. In the past he contributed humor to Reader’s Digest, Grit, the Wall Street Journal, and other publications. His short fiction has appeared in Woman’s World (a mini-mystery) and online at Flashshot, Liquid Imagination (Issue 10), three minute plastic, and elsewhere.