Sometimes I think back on that day and wonder if there was anything I could have done to save her. Shame flows through me like a polluted river when I remember her dark eyes pleading for help.

But it was too late… at least that’s what I tell myself. She was beyond saving.

It started out like any other day in July. Mom was ironing her uniform, and I was scarfing down Frosted Flakes, daydreaming about my first car.

Mom had promised to match my savings, and I had saved three hundred dollars so far. I’d had my learner’s permit for six months now, and I could already envision myself tooling around town.

“What the hell?”

I almost choked on my cereal, hearing Mom swear. She’d set her iron down and was peering out the window. I could count on one hand the times she’d sworn in my presence.

I looked outside and blinked, absolutely stunned.

It was snowing. Big, fat flakes, spiraling down from the sky.

In July. In Nebraska.

I stared open-mouthed for a moment, then pushed my chair back and headed for the door. This can’t be real.

“Wait!” I heard her call, but I was already outside, squinting up at the blue sky.

It was true! The sky was filled with millions of tiny flakes. I stuck out my tongue like a little kid, trying to catch them.

Something wasn’t right.

The cold sensation was strangely piercing, with a metallic taste so foul that I retched immediately, turning to spit on the ground. The Frosted Flakes threatened to come back up.

I jogged back to the door where Mom stood.

“That’s not snow.” I brushed past her, hurrying to the sink, feeling like I was going to vomit. What the hell was that stuff? I gulped down a glass of water, but the bitter taste lingered.

“What do you mean, not snow?” Mom’s eyes widened. She rushed back to the window. “Do you think it’s… fallout?”

Before I could respond, she pointed outside with a trembling finger.

“Jordan…” Her voice was laced with fear.

The ground was coated with a thin layer of white, which was rapidly dissolving, blossoming red. Oozing crimson puddles moved lazily, like blood with a mind of its own. It reminded me of spilled mercury, the way the smaller puddles moved, seeking out larger ones and forming rivers.

“Damn,” I whispered, and Mom didn’t even scold me.

She grabbed her cellphone from the table, her face pale. “I’m calling 911.”

I watched, white-knuckled, gripping the windowsill, as skinny orange stalks began to rise from the red puddles. They grew so fast it was like watching a time lapse video. Six inches, then a foot tall, tendrils shooting out from the sides, doubling, tripling. Oddly shaped leaves with yellow spots swiveled and turned, eerily seeking… something.

Alarmed, I looked to Mom, who was watching, transfixed, the phone dead in her hand.

“There’s no signal,” she whispered.

Dread began to creep over me, raising the hairs on my arms, and chilling me to my core.

No way to call for help. No emergency services.

I looked across the street, recognizing the shadowed forms of neighbors huddled behind windows, no doubt as confused and terrified as we.

“What should we do?” I asked, my voice cracking.

She didn’t answer.

The vines began to move then, slithering in all directions. You could almost hear them, a faint whispering as the vegetation moved insidiously over our lawn, splitting off, heading right for our house.

I suddenly remembered.

“Mom! We need to shut the windows!”

I sprinted for the living room, my heart thumping painfully in my chest. In a sudden burst of clarity, I knew what the vines were seeking.

They were coming for us.

I could hear Mom shutting the kitchen windows and calling out to me as she raced down the hallway.

“Get the bedrooms, Jordan! I’ll close the laundry room!”

The vines reached the house more quickly than I would have imagined possible.

A stout orange shoot, as thick as my wrist, battered the window screen, tearing through. I hoisted an end table and smashed the vine, slamming the window shut and hoping the glass would hold.

My mother screamed.

The sound was full of anguish. I barreled down the hallway, praying I was wrong.

It had her.

Mom lay on the laundry room floor, with a monstrous vine coiled tightly around her body, constricting her like a snake. The vegetation pulsed, turning an angry red. Suddenly a new shoot emerged, its pod-like head equipped with wickedly sharp, needle-like teeth.

I bellowed with rage, grabbing a broom - the only weapon handy - and jabbed at the plant’s hungry mouth, crying and cursing.

“No! You can’t have her, damn you!”

My mother’s eyes rolled back in her head, and she stopped struggling.

An orange tendril snaked out, wrapping around my ankle, slithering upward.

Shrieking hysterically, I stomped the vine with my other foot, managing to wrench free, stumbling backward.

And then I left her.

I didn’t think. I just raced to the kitchen and grabbed the keys. Praying the garage hadn’t been breached, I opened the access door and sprinted for the car, barricading myself inside and cranking the engine with a trembling hand.

I shot out into the driveway like a rocket ship, flooring it until I’d gotten clear of town. The town was infested. Orange vines spilled through doors and windows, destroying everything in sight, but once I’d traveled for an hour, everything seemed weirdly normal. I hid out and waited, in a state of shock.

The government came in and quarantined the area. Everything was hushed up, but stories like mine leaked out. I know there’s only one explanation for what happened.

An invasion. An alien attack.

Why only our little town, you might ask? I’m afraid I know the answer.

It was a test.

They’ll be back, I have no doubt. And this time, I’ll be ready.

The Misfit

Shell St. James

The Final Rewind

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Snow

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Shell St. James