Imagine an aliens notice in a letter that our time is up. We would assume, of course, that letters are a human tool and hardly necessary for those who can speak with the power of their mind alone. Would they talk in a manner we could understand or just deal with us in the way we handle cattle? This is a dark  effort , a guess at what they might say.

Your probably wondering why were addressing you, now, in this manner. Who I am, what I am?    Those details are inconsequential. They have little  bearing on the days before you. All that really matters is I am  here. We are here, I and myriad of races, species different but all the same, very much like me, in our contempt for you.  It is startling to us, just how much we can at times be like you. Even though we excel you in ages of different manners of growth,  still, each race, each species, involved in this quest for control of your world is involved in a very real competition as well. Just as your spiders ants and maggots compete for that which is soon to be the carrion on the forest floor.

We are with you constantly, more completely attentive to your actions than any mother of her child.  You know less than the sheep, the Shepard over you. We are that thing most lost in the shadow, always beyond the notice of your eyes, among the  bushes or the tree, or clinging to a perch so close above you we could chill you with our breath on your neck.   We are the sand men of your fairy tales that have stolen consciousness from untold  billions, only to place our instruments within you, ones that will never allow you to be lost to us again.

Your bodies are our mines. We harvest those elements in you that will be the makings of a better more durable form of life.   With each visit, just as the torturer creates a bond with the victim, there one tie to reality. We condition you as well, draining your resolve , your will to resist. When we have had you for whatever the purpose of the day, we leave your mind  blank, no dream ever answered, nor  the questions of your fears or doubt.  No memory will threaten the success of our next visit. When we wish we live between the seconds of your clock, and you move with the speed of drying tree sap.

How could we not rule your world?  Only the need for caution, Only the need to study the actions of others with a similar claim, keeps us at the doors of our achievement, slows the inevitable.  You cannot resist the urge to sabotage your own efforts.  Your own intentions languish on the drawing boards or in the almost forgotten files of your great men.  You cannot see the forest for the trees,  neither can you see what prowls among them.

Some of your authors are suprisingly adept at capturing facts, while others are lost in the financial addiction that is the monkey on all your backs.  I could berate you for days.  Your apathy is just one more certainty of your willingness to allow us to someday dictate what you will be, and if you will be allowed to exist at all.

We have been, for centuries, all the creatures of your myth,  and just as these notions remain myths to you. Your disbelief remains our most powerful tool.    You think you  have mastered the outer surface of your world and in that pride of thinking yourselves  master over the beasts of your field, You reject our possibility. You cannot allow the idea of another life form possibly your superior, something you may, after all these ages of growth, still be ill equipped to deal with.

It is pride more than fear that separates you from the truth.  It is that same curse of character that will allow us to claim you for our needs, before your species is lost, replaced and forgotten. You will be our test tubes, and your legacy will be as elements that fuel our new race, and feed our armies.

Like a bursting tick you will die bearing children never meant for your womb.  The window of time  in which you might have altered this fate, you lost in indecision, in inner conflicts over ideas and the neccessity of their implimentation.   You lost your world, lost it  in a drama in which you had to be  the stars, and the competition for these small glories  made you blind to immediacy of your problem.

Why have I come to you now? Because there’s no longer any reason not to.

NOTE: This is not a picture of an Alien. It is a picture of Richard last Halloween.