The Israelites ain’t God’s chosen people after all.  An’ trust me, that’s fine with me.  But I sure as hell ain’t gonna believe God’s chosen people are outer space aliens, no matter what the newspapers says. 
     I’m a good Christian for Chrissakes!
     When those damn aliens showed up, spoutin’ all their cosmic, brotherly-love-bullshit, we’d been plannin’ on bombin’ Allah’s chosen people—any Arabs, really—for ’bout a year.  Took us a while to think it up, an’ even longer to plan.  But today’s the big day.  We’re gonna hit the ground runnin’.
     Mosque?  Boom.
     Community center?  Boom. 
     A couple condos?
     Boom.  Boom.
     Take that, Osama.
     Mostly the targets are all down here on Michigan’s Lower Peninsula.  Hell, Dearborn’s the Muslim capitol of the United States!  Seemed like a good place to start.  We got lots of suicide bombin’s to make up for—eye for an eye an’ all.  Be doin’ a helluva lot more, too, but it’s hard to find good Christians willin’ to blow themself up.
     Me?  I don’t mind goin’ to Hell.  Not if I can take a few of ’em along.
     They took my daughter. It’s only right—
     “Sir, if you’d like a coffee or a tea while you wait, we’ll be around taking orders for the café.”
     I look at the chipper little bookseller, not much younger than my Lilly was, sellin’ crap-a-ccinos an’ la-dee-da-ttes to the line of waitin’ folk.  Café Leev-rah they call this place.  One of them fancy-pants bookstores that sells more coffee than books.  Right smack dab in the middle of a nice, rich, Muslim neighborhood.  Well, I ain’t here for overpriced Arabica beans.  “Got any beer?” I says, just to make her go away.
     Girl stares at me like I got two extra heads.  “Sir, we don’t sell alcoholic beverages.”     
     “No beer, huh?” I says, play-actin’ surprised.  “Then why don’t you go dust a dust-jacket or somethin’?”
     She keeps starin’ a minute, moves on to the next person in line.  There’s ’bout fifty or so of ’em in front of me, mostly Arabs.  Woman whose back I’m lookin’ at has her little daughter all bundled up in black so you can barely even see her.  Looks like Michael Jackson’s kid, Price Blanket Jr. or whatever.  Kid even has an Oppressed Female Barbie®, all wrapped in black, danglin’ by her side.  She turns ’round and looks me in the eye, no fear, gives me a little smile—kind of crooked in a sweet way.  Like my daughter’s.
     Lilly?  She was a beautiful girl.  Beautiful.  An’ I ain’t just sayin’ that ’cuz she was mine, neither.  No way I’d cover her in some sheet, hide her from the world.  That girl loved every livin’ thing on God’s green Earth, an’ everybody ever seen her loved her too.  Can’t tell ya how many times I seen ’em lookin’ back an’ forth between her an’ me, wonderin’ how I could possibly be her Daddy. 
     I wondered sometimes too.
     She was an Army nurse.  Over there, spendin’ her days stitchin’ up our boys—an’ any Iraqis who cared to bleed on her doorstep.  Then one day one of ’em shows up on that doorstep with an IED—Improvised Explosive Device, the news people call it—an’ shreds her little body with rusty nails an’ ball-bearings.  Mixes his dirty blood with hers.
     Oh, Lilly.  My little Snowflake…
     I miss yo—
     “Sir, do you have your copy of the book?”  Another bubbly little bookseller girl, up in my face.  Knocks me right out of my thoughts with her squeaky little sales-pitch.  Wearin’ one of them Muslim kerchiefs, like the little girl in front of me.  Wavin’ a copy of that damn book.
     “Um…no,” I says.  “I must of put it down somewhere.”  She hands me a thin, little paperback from a basket an’ scampers away like an Islamic Easter Bunny.  I look at the book, cringe at the photo of the author.  Hard to believe I’ll be meetin’ him in a few minutes.  He’s a way for the Martyrs to make two points today.  A bonus.
     Whatever floats their boat.
     For me, today’s all ’bout her.  ’Bout makin’ them bastards pay for what they done to her.  That’s why I’m standin’ here sweatin’ my ass off in this wool huntin’ jacket.  Maybe the Arabs are used to bundlin’ up when it’s warm, but I can feel prickly heat an’ sweat on my back.
     I just hope it don’t mess up my IED.
     Anyways.  The author of that book I’m holdin’?  The reason I’m here an’ not at the Mosque down the street?  Well, he’s the most famous alien of all. 
     See, one day it’s on the news them space-freaks ain’t just been sittin’ up behind the moon like we thought.  They been talkin’ to Presidents, Kings, Dolly Llamas an’ whatnot all over the world for months.  An’ the head honchos finally decided to let us in on their little secret.  Didn’t have no choice, ya see.  The aliens were sick of talkin’ to them big shots, an’ wanted to spread their message to the little people of Earth.
     So, we finally gets to see one, an’ Muhammad Chang’s the one.  Nice name, huh?  Paper says it’s the world’s most common first an’ last name together, to give him more appeal—never mind the fact they don’t mix.  I hear to the aliens Chang’s like Dr. Phil, Brad Pitt an’ the Pope all rolled in one.  He’s the one that’s gonna come down an’ make us all love them—an’ each other.  But, when the door of his ship opens, an’ we gets our first glimpse of him—at any alien—what do we see?  An angel?  A god?
     Nope.
     An eight-foot tall dog-pecker.
     An’ he looks real goddam familiar.
     Now, I ain’t a smart man.  I been workin’ at the plant, buildin’ car doors since I was sixteen.  Ain’t got no education.  Not like my Lilly with her college diploma.  So ’scuse me if I don’t get this right.
     Seems at the bottom of the deepest part of the ocean, there’s these tiny volcanoes an’ vents, constantly spittin’ up the Earth’s innards.  Little cracks in Hell’s roof.  Black smokers, they’re called.  An’ down by these cracks the water’s real hot—worse than when somebody flushes while you’re in the shower.  But, there’s things livin’ down there, where no things should live, eatin’ sulfur an’ whatnot—freaky little shrimps an’ bacteria. 
     An’ tubeworms.
     Yeah.  I know.  I didn’t know what the hell tubeworms was neither.  Turns out they looks like big, skinny lipsticks—or dog-peckers, dependin’ on what kind of mind you got.  Ain’t got no eyes, no mouth, just a…tube.  An’ a little red head that pokes out every now an’ then.  Sit down there by them black smokers in the pitch black their whole life.
     Real excitin’ stuff.
     Anyways.  These aliens—big, skinny worms from outer space—look just like the ones we got at the bottom of our ocean here on Earth.  How the hell can that be? we says.  Makes us a little uncomfortable.  Well, Chang’s job’s to help explain what the hell they are—so we don’t nuke ’em, I guess.  He does TV interviews, radio shows, even wrote hisself a book.
     The Art of Peace.
     I look at the book again—number one best-seller—an’ flip through a couple pages.  Supposed to be ’bout how we should love aliens like our brothers, an’ how maybe that’ll get us to love each other.  Why should we listen to them?  Well, I read on some magazine cover, in line at the Kroger’s, that their D an’ A is the same as the D an’ A in them black smoker suckers I was tellin’ ya ’bout.  To lots of people, the fact God made ’em on two planets means he likes ’em a whole lot.  To me, it just means God likes makin’em, an’ not much more than that. 
     Hell, they look a lot easier to make then people.  But, who’m I to say?  I ain’t no genius.  Only ever read one book in my life.  Keep it in my glovebox.  It’s a Good Book, if you knowadimsayin’.  But the author don’t do no book signin’s. 
     Too busy makin’ tubeworms, I guess.
     Chang’s here to sign his book today, an’ tell stories about the humans he’s met.  Here to help us understand each other.  Makes me wonder, how the hell does he know anything ’bout us?  An’ how the hell’s he sign books with no hands?  Makes me wonder somethin’ else, too.  Is it a little funny that this here alien wrote a book about brotherly love an’ harmony, an’ I’m gonna blow him to bits?  I don’t know the answer, an’ I really don’t have much time left to think about it.  The Spaceworms didn’t kill my daughter, sure, but if the Christian Martyrs want to give me an IED vest to kill this Worm while he just so happens to be in John Q. Arab’s favorite bookstore, I’m more than happy to oblige.
     An’, no problems so far.  Security’s a joke.  There ain’t none.  Chang don’t like security.  Says he shouldn’t feel uncomfortable ’round his brothers an’ sisters.  Which is everyone.
     Dumb-ass Worm.  Maybe his genius pals’ll rethink that after today.
     I’m ’bout half way to the front now.  I can see Chang’s big fish tank, can just make out the top of his bright red head.  There’re people chatterin’ all ’round me in Arab, hockin’ up lugees, probably ’bout how excited they are to meet such a famous dog-pecker.
     “Sir,” somebody says—in good ol’ American—over the crowd.  I don’t think nuthin’ of it.  Not many people call me sir.
     “Sir?  In the bright orange hunting jacket?”
      I look ’round at a sea of black veils an’ drab clothes.  Shit.  Guess that’s me.
     “Muhhamad Chang requests you come to the front of the line.  He’d very much like to speak with you.”
     My mouth must be hangin’ open right now.  Didn’t expect this.  Guess I got two choices.  I can turn an’ run like hell, or I can go up an’ talk to the Worm.  Way I figure, that’s where I was headed, an’ I wasn’t plannin’ on comin’ back anyways.
     I push my way through the rest of the line—catchin’ lots of throaty insults from the crowd—makin’ my way up to the ten-foot tall fish tank.  It’s full of cloudy, yellow water, but I can make out Chang in there.  His red, faceless face is pokin’ out of his tube, aimed right at me.
     “John,” the thin, pale man next to him says.  That’s my name.  “Why are you doing this thing?” he asks.
     “What’re you talkin’ ‘bout, buddy?” I says.  I know I ain’t talkin’ my way out of this one, though.  My hand creeps up under the thick flannel of my jacket an’ grabs hold of the switch.
     “John.  It’s me talking.  Muhammad Chang.”
     I look back an’ forth between the pasty man with his Sharpie marker—Chang’s hands—an’ the silent Worm in the bubblin’ water.  “Sure it is, Muhammad,” I says, realizin’ this is probably as good a time as any to do the deed—before Chang’s fans start realizin’ what’s happenin’.  My thumb starts pressin’ ever so slightly on the button.
     “These people didn’t kill Lilly, John,” Pasty says.  “The man who did that faced judgment long ago.”
     My thumb freezes.  “What in Hell did you just say?”  I can feel a tickle in the middle of my brain, like somebody’s rummagin’ through the sock drawers in my skull, lookin’ for somethin’.
     Small comfort.  They ain’t gonna find much.
     Pasty keeps signin’ his books, but his expression gets all misty.  “Oh, John,” he says.  “She was beautiful, your Lilly.  Such a smile.  Such a heart.  I can see why you hurt so badly—why you want so badly to hurt others.”
     I relax my thumb real slow an’ let go of the switch.  I don’t know whether to look at the Worm or his talkin’ dummy when I growl, “Don’t you ever say her name!” 
     Pasty winces.
     I’m ready to nut up on the little twerp when Chang’s red lipstick head jerks back into its tube like I slapped him.  We’re all stunned into silence for a while, Pasty even lookin’ down at the books he’s been signin’ for once.  I just shuffle my feet an’ adjust my huntin’ jacket, not sure what to do next, wonderin’ how they could know ’bout Lilly.
     But the people in line are startin’ to chatter louder, an’ it ain’t gonna be long before they hightail it out of here.  I grab the trigger again, an’ somethin’ else weird happens.  That tickle in my brain gets rougher.  It ain’t a tickle no more.  Feels like a squirrel in a cardboard box who don’t wanna be somebody’s dinner, bashin’ against the sides, clawin’ an’ gnawin’, tryin’ to dig its way out.
     “Get the hell out of my head!” I scream.
     Pasty ignores me, stares into space.  Just keeps signin’ his books.  Peace be with us, Muhammad Chang.  Over an’ over.
     Chang’s head is back out of his tube and aimed at me again, like he’s starin’ me down.
     The customers in the store have the same look of horror on their faces—the ones not hidden under veils, anyways—that I probably do.  Chang’s in their heads too, like a pit-bull sniffin’ your privates, touchin’ us all now.  We look like a bunch of school kids playin’ freeze tag.  An I’m startin’ to smell the strangest thing.  Fear.  It’s floatin’ all around me like a stink cloud, and even if I stop breathin’, I can’t stop smellin’ it.  There’s tears leakin’ outta my eyes an’ I'm startin’ to choke.  I’m startin’ to feel other stuff too.  I can pinpoint members of the crowd an’ read their feelin’s like billboards.
     I remember what I heard on the news about the Spaceworms.  They’re mind-readers, mind-talkers.  Their world is pitch black water, an’ they use their powers to help the other aliens there communicate an’ be peaceful.  Helped make their world some kind of living Heaven.
     Or so they says.
     There’s a little lady a ways behind me, her hand on the shoulder of her little girl.  The girl with the doll.  That lady’s fear smells strongest.  An’ it ain’t fear of dyin’.  It’s fear of losin’ her little Sholeh, just like I lost Lilly.  Fear of me takin’ her.  But, there’s just fear, no hate in her heart.  Bouncin’ from brain to brain, I can see only a couple of people have any real hate in their hearts.  An not one of ’em would of done what got done to Lilly.  They ain’t got much blood on their hands at all.  Not like the blood that’s ’bout to stain my eternal soul.
     They’re all better than me.
     What would my girl think?
     I let the trigger drop, zero in on Sholeh, the little girl.  She’s real scared.  Scared for herself, sure, but she’s extra scared that wherever she’s goin’, her momma might not be comin’ with her.  An’ her daddy ain’t here.  She sure as hell wishes he was, though.  ’Cuz if he was, he wouldn’t let me hurt her.  An’ now she might never see him again.
     “It’s too much,” I whisper.  Just how Lilly must of felt everyday, seein’ all that hate an’ death.  I turn to Chang, his red face leanin’ ever so slightly toward me.  “Why’re you doin’ this?” I ask.
     Chang’s water bubbles for a while.  He’s thinkin’ that one over, an’ from the feel of it he’s lookin’ through all the unmentionables in my head to get his answer.  Pasty’s eyes are clearin’, his Sharpie grindin’ to a halt.  The crowd’s comin’ back to life, lotsa chatterin’ in Arab, people wonderin’ finally what the hell’s goin’ on. 
     I don’t know what the hell to do.
     “Did you ever  want to kill these people?” Chang interrupts out of Pasty’s mouth—at high volume.  I want to tell him to shut the mouth he don’t have before I punch him in his faceless face, ’cuz I don’t feel like bein’ the first white man to get lynched in Muslim Michigan.  “Think about it, John,” the Worm says.  “You weren’t there to save your Snowflake.  As far as you’re concerned, you let her die.”
     I kick over the table full of The Art of Peace an’ grab Pasty by the shirt, throwin’ a big roundhouse, knockin’ him out cold on the pile of books.  Now I’m starin’ up into the face of his boss, nose almost touchin’ the glass.  “Say it again, Worm,” I says, “an’ see if I ain’t afraid to push the button.”
      The store’s emptyin’ out pretty fast.  Seems I might be usin’ my IED after all, but the Martyrs ain’t gonna be too happy.  Only one of two targets hit. 
     They can go to hell.  I’ll save ’em seats.
     People whip past me, but I’m frozen in time.  I need to settle things with this dog-pecker.  I turn around just in time to see little Sholeh framed in the entrance doorway, an’ then she’s gone. 
     I smile.
     She was a sweet girl, John.  So earnest in her work when I met her in the heart of war, three years ago, Chang says in my mind.  It pains me, what happened to her.  He’s quiet for a minute, lettin’ what he said sink in.  I remember her well, John.  She would tell you not to punish yourself with that bomb.
     That’s when that alien freak shakes the knick-knack shelf in my brain an’ knocks off all the feelings I been hidin’ from everyone, includin’ myself, for two long years.  The bastard replays every single image of Lilly’s death I ever invented, along with every fantasy I ever had of me bustin’ onto the scene, gunnin’ down the dirty bastard that killed her or, even more often, jumpin’ in front of her an’ takin’ the blast myself.  In all of those dreams, the pain always feels so sweet. 
     ’Cuz it’s me that dies.
     My little Snowflake gets to live.
     For Chrissakes, God, why the hell couldn’t you have taken me?  Was she so damn beautiful that you had to have her all to yourself?  Are you usin’ her smile to light the halls of Heaven? 
      An’ how dare you leave me behind in the dark?
     “You’re right, Chang.”  The bomb’s always been for me.  “What do I do now?”
     There is nothing you can do but live a life Lilly would be proud of.  Put down your jacket.  It’s a burden that was never yours.
     My head’s startin’ to swim.  Do I really wanna do what he’s sayin’, or is he pushin’ buttons in my head?  His red face presses down against the glass.  My forehead presses back against the warm surface.  I can tell it ain’t glass, an’ I realize Chang was never dyin’ today.  Put down your burden and run, John.  I will keep your story with me.  It will help me spread the peace.
     My fingers are unsnappin’ my huntin’ jacket as I hear the sirens get closer.  He’s right.  It ain’t too late to meet my Lilly again in a better place.
     Feelin’ woozy, I let the jacket slip off my shoulders.
     Wait, John! Chang screams, like a bomb blast inside my head.
     I let the burden pass.  Somethin’ on my jacket snags as it’s slippin’ off an’ there’s a click, then the roar of a cleansin’ wind.  It swells under me, sweepin’ away my guilt an’ carryin’ me up, like a snowflake on the wind.
 
 
     There ain’t no pain.
     In the pitch black, I hear a voice, open my eyes, an’ see a little girl.  “Sholeh?” I says.
     “It’s me, Daddy.”
     I rub my sore eyes, an’ she ain’t a little girl no more.  She’s an angel with white gold for hair.  My angel. 
     My Snowflake.
     Her crooked little smile breaks like dawn an’ light floods in.  My heart leaps.  “Is this Heaven?” I ask.  She smiles again an’ shakes her head.
     My heart sinks.  How in God’s name did my Lilly end up here?
     “No, Daddy,” she says.  I can tell she’s readin’ my face.  “It’s not Hell.”
    I’m confused.  “Then where?”
    She crouches by my side, cradles my head in her arms like she must of done for so many dyin’ soldiers—tellin’em sweet lies ’bout seein’ their families again.  Does she got a sweet lie for me, I wonder?
     “We’re in his mind, Daddy.”
     “God’s mind?”
     “No,” she says.  “Chang’s.”
     I feel woozy.  He said he’d keep my story with him.
     “There are millions of us,” she whispers.
     I’m gettin’ tired, but I can’t help starin’ at her glowin’ face, smellin’ her clean smell for the first time in ages.
     “Will you stay with us?” she says.  “Will you help him understand us, to spread the peace?”
     I smile.  “Course I will, Snowflake.”  Whatever it takes to be by her side.  I let myself relax in her embrace and feel carefree for the first time in years.  I, Disciple of a Spaceworm, figment of a dog-pecker’s imagination, close my eyes.
     I’ve found peace.

Brian Salyards
...I wrote the story as an agnostic who has a hard time dealing with and understanding religious zealotry, both in this country and abroad.  I thought that the current Iraq war was a good framework for this, and tried to reverse the roles the public usually sees by including a Christian suicide bomber.  It was difficult to write the story from his point of view, but I think I learned something by writing it.

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