Disaster Day

Cassidy Liston

It was one of those ink-shifting picto-sets. You know, that special thick cardstock that
contains some sort of special nanobot ink that allows whatever it‟s printed on to
change color or move text. They are mostly for simple adverts on the sides of busses
or sometimes an expensive textbook cover. Nothing too fancy like a real portable
flexible screen like what my Dad has for his netbook. This kind was for young kids,
and displayed a pre-programmed set of images. Just a stiff, 11 by 17-inch white card.
This one was titled Golden Age American Muscle Cars, and once unwrapped showed
off cars from a time where my great grandpa might have been around. It‟s hard to say.
My dad said that the oldest car his dad ever drove was a 1985 Volkswagen. I‟ve
certainly never seen any of these cars around in my neighborhood. I recognize a couple
of them from a Museum of American Industry we went to in a class field trip.

It was really sunny at the lakeside park and the familiar smoky scent of BBQs hung in
the air. My family dragged me here to celebrate Disaster Day with neighbors and such.
I guess it‟s called Disaster Day to honor people who have died or been hurt by various
disasters that happened in September. My teachers throw around the term nine-eleven,
but my absent-minded grandpa always grumbles about it being called Labor Day.
Whatever. To me, they are both named after bad things I don‟t want to be in.

My mom said she found this picto-set on sale at the WalMart and had picked it up
thinking of me since I like cars. Maybe she got it because she knew I didn‟t like
swimming in cold dirty lake water with my brother Chet and my older sister Karly.
From the wooden picnic table I sat and watched them. Karly was pretending to be a
grown up and was tanning on a towel laid out in the sand, along with one of the older
neighbor boys. Chet was rough-housing in the lake with the other kids and a found-
there volleyball. I‟m getting a bit old for these picto-sets but it wasn‟t like I had
anything else better to do. On the bright side, a picto, or any ink-shifting nanobots
really, can be plainly seen in direct sunlight. My dad always has to look for shade when
he checks something on his phone.

They weren‟t even photos, although a picto could show photos with okay quality, they
were illustrations. The first image was something called a 1966 Pontiac GTO. Not bad
looking, I guess, but right off the bat there was something about this ink that was
different. Maybe it was the quality of the illustration, but the images themselves
looked really good. The colors were sharp and bright, and the details were very tight.
The next image faded in, and it was a 1957 Rambler Rebel. The only way I was able to
identify the car was because the name of the car would show up in black bold letters at
the bottom right corner of the picto. While I wasn‟t crazy about how the car looked, I
could tell not a single speck of ink was wasted. All of the cars hung in a white space
vacuum, and were as spotless as the day they rolled into the showroom. This image
was so clean that I could even read the cursive logo and emblem on the side of the car.
Neato, but still kind of boring. I found myself hoping that I would recognize the next
car.

What luck! The next car was a 1964 Mustang convertible, which I readily recognized,
but what delighted and confounded me more was the tone the illustration had decided
to take. A strong, statuesque woman straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting was
also in the picture. She had one hand on the wheel, arm straight out, and was looking
straight at me. The passenger door was open, too, so there was some ambiguity behind
the look she was giving the viewer. Was it an invitational look, or was she telling me to
back off? Because the passenger door was open you could see what she was wearing,
too. It was a sleeveless blue dress with white polka-dots that hugged her form the
whole way, and although the view was slightly skewed because of the side-perspective,
you could tell the dress was pushing her breasts up. She was also wearing those panty-
hose that clipped to… well I wasn‟t really sure where those straps went since they
disappeared under the dress at mid-thigh. I couldn‟t see her shoes.

She was lovely, with rosy-cheeks and full burnt-auburn hair behind a bandana. I
grabbed the stickered original packaging that was slathered in various children‟s
marketing-babble but saw no indications that the pictures contained herein would also
sport buxom pinups. I looked around to see where my parents were. They were mixed
in with a large ring of grownups sitting on various lawn chairs, foldable chairs, or park
tables. Dad stood over the BBQ impatiently watching the meat turn safely edible, and
my mom would periodically shoo him away. Safely distracted, I concluded. I didn‟t care
so much about what car would show up next, but in the back of my mind I was hoping
for two girls this time.

Okay, what the hell. The next car that faded in this time was a 1965 Corvette Sting Ray
Roadster C2 which I also recognized mostly, but there were indeed two girls this time.
The car was pointed slightly towards the viewer with an angle that was higher up in
the air, and the first girl was a blonde laying against the hood of the car. Her hair was
golden-straw colored curls that fanned outwards towards the windshield like perfect
shiny tendrils, and her back was arched just slightly while she held a red lollipop to
her devilish smirk. The driver was red haired with pointy sunglasses, and other than
some sort of bonnet she was wearing and a lipstick-red smile there wasn‟t much else
information I could glean about her. Her arm on the wheel blocked her cleavage. The
blonde on the hood was wearing a red and white plaid-patterned shirt that was tied at
the front, and a denim skirt. Her creamy white legs were half bent L-shapes with her
bare feet pointing downwards. Oh, and the leather interior of the car, how could I
forget? The upholstery looked so plump, and the sharp highlights were so strong, I felt
I knew exactly how my hand would feel pressing against it. A sudden warmth that‟s
never too hot. I wished to myself, I hope the next car has two girls kissing.

That image faded to white and the next image faded in. It was a 1970 Dodge Charger B
custom convertible. The paint job had the sweet allure and color of caramel, and the
car seemed to hide its headlights behind the grill, which made it look strange. I
couldn‟t decide if it was cool or made the car look like a giant electric razor. I utterly
lost control of my facial composure when my eyes looked towards the interior. There
was another woman driving, just as the ones before, beautiful and assertive, but what
was that in the back seats? It was two other woman kissing! And I‟m not just talking
about that dinky secret kiss I got from Susie Calahan in the 4th grade. These girls were
going at it full on, like two colliding forces of nature. Their arms were either around
each other, wrapped in each other‟s hair, or their hands ended up in places not seen by
the viewer—unfortunately—but were implied. I was seriously torn on whether or not I
should show my parents.

“Sam, it‟s time to eat.” My mom announced from their circle.

“ „kay mom.” I said, and I carried the picto-set under my arm towards the adults.

“Can you go tell your brother and sister to come up?” my mom asked. I nodded and
turned for the beach.

My mom added, “You can leave that here on the table, sweetie.” And she bent down
and took the picto from under my arm.

“But m-mom…” I warbled. Sometimes my voice would give out.

“What is it, sweetie?” She asked. My eyes followed the picto, which was set face down
on the picnic table. My grandpa was sitting there, with an expression in between being
lost in lost and not thinking at all.

“Um, nevermind.” I said, and turned towards the beach. Behind my back, without me
knowing, my grandpa had grabbed the picto to look at it.

The walk to the beach only took thirty seconds and already I was miserable from the
sun. I don‟t know how Karly could stand it let alone bathe in this oppressive
omnipresent glow. My eyes squinted from the refracted light coming from the bright
colors of the sands.

“Mom says come get food.” I told her.

“Okay butt spawn.” She said, unmoving, with those big clunky stupid sunglasses on.

As I walked past her towards the water, I let a foot kick a little sand her way. She let
out an exasperated or frustrated sigh. When I got to the water, I had to cup my mouth
and shout several times before I could get Chet‟s attention from those other kids.
“Whut?” He asked. His “ah” sounds sound more like “uh” when he talks. The signs of a
douche bag in the making if I ever knew any.

“Dinner.” I informed, and then hurried back to the adults.

My heart dropped into my stomach when I was halfway there, seeing Grandpa gazing
into the picto-set. He was my dad‟s dad, the one I mentioned before. He was tall,
skinny, and bald but had short gray hairs on the side. He seemed pretty quiet and
reflectful most of the time, but if you sat next to him long enough he would start
talking to you. Sometimes he was funny, but most of the time his jokes fell flat. I just
didn‟t get them, although I don‟t think it was because of my age, though; mom and dad
never laughed at his jokes, either. Nervously, I walked up to him.

“Hi grandpa.” I said.

He smiled, still looking at the picto, “Did you see the one with the Mustang?”

I nodded glumly, “Yeah.”

“She‟s a bee-yoot, ain‟t she?” he said, and he held the picture up to me.

The girl was gone! It was still the same car, complete with a wide open passenger door,
but the viewing angle was slightly different too. Was the original image still there
somewhere in the playlist?

“Can I see that for a second?” I asked my grandpa and took it from him before he
could reply. I held the picto in front of me with a troubled expression on my face.

Just then the image faded to the next car, which was the Corvette as before, but no
sight of the lollipop girl or her driver anywhere. The angle was the same this time,
however.

“There were girls here!” I said as I smacked the picto with the back of my hand.

My grandpa wasn‟t sure of what I said, “…did you say „girls‟?”

“Yes!” I said, with eyebrows furrowed.

“You sure?” he asked after a while. I left him unanswered. Of course I am sure.

I walked back to my table in the shade where I originally sat. I eyed the picto-set
suspiciously. Alright, I know you’re in there, I thought to myself whimsically, come out!

My own inner dialog replied involuntarily, Welp, you found us! and with that, a symbol
faded from the whiteness that I hadn‟t seen before:
I dropped the picto on the table and stood up. What just happened? Did my own
thoughts just come back at me?

Yes, they did. My inner dialog thought.

I bent forward, half-scared, and thought, What are you? What is this?

My thoughts--or something that “sounded” like them--came back to me, saying We’re a
race of aliens that exists solely as a form of interstellar communication for a different
host race. We are pure energy unintentionally trapped by your picto-set. We weren’t
meant to be captured here, as our destination lies somewhere far beyond this planet. We
read whichever thoughts come clearest to us and reflect them back, depending upon the
receiver. Hence, the attractive girls you wanted to see.

My heart was racing. This was incredible! I had to show someone!

Unfortunately, we’re extremely sensitive to cosmic radiation while captured. In about ten
seconds, our collective-intelligence will collapse. However, in just a short time a following
packet will arrive at your location. This packet is important, and should be taken to your
President. Also, after we expire your picto will stop working, sorry.

Whether it was the influence of the… pictorians or not, my mind accelerated my sense
of panic and imagined a countdown. I looked around hurriedly for some place I could
stash the picto-set away from the evil sun. Apparently even the shade wasn‟t safe! At
the last imagined second, on sheer random inspiration, I licked the symbol on the picto.
The ink rubbed off onto my tongue. The taste was bitter and terrible, it reminded me
of the time I licked dandelion milk from the stem out of curiosity. I used my fingers to
scrape off the ink and blot them back onto the center of the picto-set. The ink mixed
with my saliva was just a lifeless smear, like brown and purple water-colors mixed
together. I stared at the picto for a while willing it as hard as I could for it to come
back, but it stayed blank. My mom called me over to eat dinner with the rest of the
family. Karly and Chet were already chomping on messy hotdogs.

I dejectedly grabbed the now-inert picto and walked to the dumbass family
munchdown. The icky taste of ink still lingered in my mouth, and the only thing I
could think of that wouldn‟t be totally ruined by such a bitter aftertaste was potato
salad. I scooped some store-made potato salad onto a paper plate and sullenly sat
down by myself on the ground near a tree.

“Everything alright, sweetie?” my mom asked casually as she helped other family and
friends get hotdogs or hamburgers.

“Yeah fine, mom.” I said while I poked my potato salad with a white plastic spoon. My
mom probably didn‟t believe me but she left it at that. I found myself thinking about
what the pictorians said before they died. Strange that they died on an apologetic tone.
That would be like a shotgun-suicide writing down the words on a note: pardon the
mess.

I also couldn‟t help but doubt myself. Was it real? Did I imagine the whole thing?

A sound from the sky approached the entire beach. The low whir of a classic cargo
plane flying along the beach line.

“Aw, yes! Yes!” My brother shouted and took off running towards the beach. Some
other kids got up and followed after him. I stood up and looked out.

It was traditional during Disaster Day at this park for an airplane to fly low over the
beach and airdrop a few hundred fireworks. In some sick illogical twist of American
schadenfreude, they were effigies of various commercial airplanes. Each one gently
glided down to the beach front with little colored paper parachutes. It drove the kids
nuts as they all ran to-and-fro across the beach trying to guess where each one would
land. Some even wildly swimming out, racing each other to catch the ones that end up
in the ocean before they touch water. I walked to a point halfway between the family
camp and the beach, and just watched my brother madly vie for his own firework
against other boys.

As luck would have it, an outlier of a firework floated gently my way. It was far enough
away from the clusters of other fireworks that none of the other kids noticed. I picked
it up from the grass once it landed. It was slightly different than a normal commercial
plane, the wing was more integrated. It reminded me of a plane called the Concorde
that my grandpa told me about once. Upon closer examination I noticed that the print
also ink-shifted across the fuselage. The gist of the text was something celebratory and
gushingly patriotic. Could this be more pictorians that I had been warned about?

Affirmative, the thought came to me, but just then the plane had been snatched right
from my hands.

“Schweet!” Chet exclaimed and took off running with it to the family camp. “Dad! I got
one! I got one!” I ran after that spoiled-rotten bastard! He was considerably faster than
me, though.

I got to the camp seconds after him and he was already shouting and pleading to dad
to allow him to set it off. It was still in Chet‟s hands, and his expression was wild with
excitement.

“No!” I screamed, “You can’t do it!”

Everyone looked at me with a mixture of puzzlement and shock.

“Aw, Sam come on! Don‟t be a poor sport.” Chet said condescendingly.
“I‟m not being a poor sport!” I huffed. I had caught up to the rest of them and stood
between Chet and Dad. Other people took interest in the issue and were standing
around us, including grandpa.

“What‟s this about?” My dad asked, “What‟s wrong, Sam?”

Before I could speak up Chet shot out, “Sam found it and I brought it here.” Note how
he sugar-coated it. If by “brought” he means outright “stealing” then sure, he brought
it over. We both shot each other hateful glances.

“Oh, I see.” My dad said.

“No!” I blurted, “It‟s because there are aliens on that plane! We have to take that to the
President!”

My dad and my grandpa exchanged looks. My dad looked at the bottom side of the
plane and saw the art print illustrations of tacky green-colored martians, bulge-eyed
like the classic roswell image--those aliens weren‟t there before!

They chuckled, “Take me to your leader!” my grandpa said in a cheesy voice with his
hand pointed like a gun.

“You‟re funny, Sam.” My dad said and rubbed the top of my head, “We should probably
wait „till dark though, right?”

My mom, who was in the middle of talking to someone else, was somehow
simultaneously listening in. She shook her head and interjected, “Nah-ah. I don‟t want
to be here past nine-o‟clock.”

“Oh,” my dad said, “Hm.”

I decided to change my tactic, “Please just let me keep it, dad. I found it fair and
square.”

Mom nearly choked on a piece of chicken, “I‟m not having a firework in my house. Just
light it.”

Chet ran with that sentiment, “Yeah, c‟mon dad let‟s just set it off. Jesus!”

Dad looked at the both of us, and then at the firework, and then back to us before
saying,

“Alright, I don‟t want any fighting. Sam, you‟re going to light the fuse and Chet‟s going
to throw it.” and he pulled a lighter out of his pants pocket and gave it to me. He
handed the airplane to Chet.

“Naoo! I don’t want to light it!” I cried.

My dad scratched the back of his head, “Well I‟m sorry kid, you‟re too young to launch
one of these on your own. Maybe next year.”

Chet didn‟t bother to wait, he just grabbed the lighter out of my hand and started
walking away with both the airplane and the lighter. I followed after him with my
hands balled into fists, and hit him as hard as I could on his back.

There were concerned shouts of disapproval ringing in the air as my dad grabbed me
and pulled me back from Chet. Chet seemed impassive. He didn‟t react or even look
back, he simply marched forward as if driven by divine unthinking purpose. After the
fuse was lit, my family stood in a haphazard line behind me. My dad always felt
uncomfortable and awkward when I got upset, and he shifted positions with mom so
he could stand further away from me. In that moment, I hated my family so much I
wanted them all to die in a fire.

With the solemn grace of a falconer, Chet threw the plane into the air as the fuse
neared its end. The plane flew unaided for only a moment, and then suddenly shot off
into the sky when the rocket ignited. It arced upwards into an endless canvas of blue,
and exploded into an array of greens and reds. A travesty blooming in the full light of
day. I covered my face in my hands and wept.

The explosion was gone nearly as fast as it appeared, and my family cooed in near-cult-
like unison,

“Happy Disaster Day!”