Saturday, October 29, 2005



There it is again. I can’t move my arms or legs. I feel as if there is a hag pressing hard on my chest. Sleep Paralysis runs in families I have been told. People of the same bloodline seem to experience it more. Strange that.

Hang on a bit. Think. Don’t panic. It doesn’t do any good to panic. Remember, it’ll snap off soon and there’ll be such a feeling of relief. Think about that.

I feel a dreadful menace in the room and the room is black. So black it seems to have no walls. Yet that blackness has flickers of movement in it, whizzing about. I can at least open my eyes and look but that’s all.

I try to call out, and even the word won’t come out. It is inside my head. I know if I can make the sound outside the paralysis will break and I’ll be okay again.

It’ll be over soon. Just a few more seconds and my body will catch up with my brain. But what if one day it never stops and I’ll be here in some sort of coma? I always feel terror when this comes to me.

What’s wrong? It hasn’t ended. This time is different.

I see a small pinpoint of piercing white light above me at roof level. Or where I think the roof should be. It grows and seems to dissolve the roof.
Am I having a stroke? Is this how I die?

A clammy leathery hand grasps my left wrist. I try to move my right arm to push it off hoping it will do what I tell it, when my right arm is pinned down by another hand, the same.

This is real Rosemary.

I am terrorized by that realisation

We float up. Lucky I wore my Tracky Dacs is the silly thought I have. Propriety is so ingrained in me at sixty-one it even kicks in in times of deadly danger, like this.

Through the roof. Up. Up in the beam of light. I can feel this light. Its full of sparkles and little bits yet they seem to whiz through me as if I’m no longer solid. And I am a pretty solid object these days. They feel cold and hot, like when you walk barefoot on hot tar in high summer.

What do they want with me? Not my old ovaries that’s for sure. My eggs are safe from their genetic engineering anyway. Menopause is over thank God.

Maybe they eat humans! Plenty to eat here. Maybe I’ll be too tough and gristly for them.

Maybe its my brain they’re after. They want to steal my memories, and use them to take over the suburbs. Nah! It’s a pretty ordinary brain. It was a bit better once, but nothing spectacular.

Maybe they’ll liquefy it and suck it all up through a straw. They don’t seem to have any teeth.

I can see them clearly now. They move sort of like robots, but more like overgrown insects in human form. I hear them clicking to each other like a room full of old typewriters all clacking away together. They all look the same to me, and just like the pictures of the grey aliens.

In my paralysed state I have time to think methodically. I feel sedated and more curious. I imagine that insects trapped in a spider’s cocoon waiting to be eaten would have time to think like this as they waited.

When will they come and rip me limb from limb? They are not friendly. They are cold and neutral.

Ahead of me is a figure. It is different. Tall. Eight feet at least and very stocky. Good looking even. Almost human. Stop it Rosie old girl, this is not the time…

It looks at me. Now I am really scared. Scared shitless! It’s eyes are like lizard eyes, and are yellow green. Its tongue flickers like a snake’s. It has ears like Spock on Star Trek.

It walks towards me. This is it. I think. It’ll take a lot of filling up and the way he’s looking at me, I think I am on the menu. Well at least an appetizer. It’d need a horse for the main course.

It leans over and touches my arm and I am released and can move. “Oh! Great, now I’ll be able to feel it when I am served up.”

A big bright blue tear falls from his eye. Strange I didn’t think reptiles could cry. I sit up and look at him…deciding finally that it is male. There is something familiar about him. He has thick blue black curly hair. All the men in our family have that.

That is bizarre.

He opens his mouth out comes that tongue and he hisses loudly. He wipes the tear away and opens his mouth again. He looks like he’s struggling to say something,
“Mummy!” he holds out his large arms. “Mummy!” he walks to me and hugs me.

I scream and scream yet hear no sound.

Behind him are hundreds of versions of him, male ands female coming across the large room.
“Mummy! Mummy!” they coo plaintively, all with arms outstretched.

I am carried to a large gold throne, which is covered in emeralds, lapis lazuli, rubies, amber and amethyst. A glass of the best ‘Cardonnay’ is placed in my hand.

Oh goodie. I am not the main course after all.

Before me they are all seated at a massive table laden with the best a girl like me could want.

They raise their glasses and call out,
“All Hail Mummy! Queen Rosemary. Queen of the Hive.”

So that’s where all my eggs got to. No bloody wonder I had so much trouble getting pregnant.

Therese Mackay October 2005

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