1978 Lucy and Her Alien

1978 Lucy and Her Alien

$15

This painting is a nolstalgic reflection of the year 1978 as I remember it.

In the sweltering summer of 1978, in rural Ely, Nevada, there lived a little girl named Lucy. She was a liminal friend of mine and this is the tale she tells of one moonlit night. Her favorite possession was a faded 7up 

t-shirt, the logo peeling at the edges. It was her armor against the world—a reminder that magic existed beyond the cornfields.

Every evening, Lucy would escape her chores and venture into the vast expanse of a nearby cornfeild. The stalks towered over her, whispering secrets in the wind. She’d kick off her sneakers, feeling the earth beneath her toes, and twirl in circles, pretending she could fly.

One moonlit night, as crickets serenaded the stars, Lucy noticed a peculiar light flickering at the edge of the field. It danced like a firefly but brighter, more otherworldly. Her heart raced as she followed it deeper into the corn.

And there, amidst the rustling leaves, stood an alien—a creature straight out of the movies. Its skin shimmered like polished silver. The creature was unlike anything Lucy had seen. Its skin shimmered like moonlight on water, and its eyes were as large as saucers. It wore a silvery suit that seemed to blend seamlessly with the cornstalks. Lucy’s breath caught in her throat—it was an alien.

“Hello,” Lucy said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “I’m Lucy.”

The alien tilted its head, studying her with curiosity. Its mouth moved, forming words that echoed in Lucy’s mind. “Greetings, Lucy. I am–well you couldn't pronounce it–just call me Kessler, a traveler from the distant star system.”

Lucy grinned. “A different star system? That sounds far away.”

Kessler nodded. “Indeed. I crash-landed here, seeking refuge. Your planet’s cornfields provide excellent camouflage.��

Lucy pointed at her 7UP t-shirt. “I like your suit. It’s kinda like my shirt.”

Kessler examined the faded logo. “Ah, the 7UP insignia. A symbol of earthly refreshment, I presume?”

Lucy giggled. “Yeah, it’s just soda. But it’s my favorite.”

And so, in that sun-kissed cornfield, Lucy and kessler became unlikely friends. They shared stories—the vastness of space, the taste of fresh raw corn, and the joy of chasing jack rabbits at dusk. Kessler taught Lucy constellations that didn’t exist on Earth, and Lucy taught Kessler how to make daisy chains.

As summer waned, Lucy’s parents grew worried. Their daughter spent hours in the cornfield, talking to the air. They thought she’d conjured an imaginary friend. But Lucy knew better. Kessler was real, and their bond transcended galaxies.

One night, under a sky ablaze with stars, Kessler revealed his purpose. “Lucy, my ship is repaired. I must return home.”

Lucy’s heart sank, "Will I ever see you again?”

Kessler touched her cheek. “Perhaps. The universe is vast, and sometimes, it conspires to reunite kindred spirits.”

And so, with a promise etched in stardust, Kessler stepped into his shimmering spacecraft that was disquised all along a satellite dish being stored in a nearby salvage yard. Lucy watched as it soared into the night, leaving behind a trail of cosmic dust.

Years passed, and Lucy grew older. She wore her 7UP t-shirt until it was threadbare. People dismissed her tales of aliens and cornfield friendships, but Lucy never forgot.

One warm evening, as she sat on her porch, sipping a cold soda, a shooting star streaked across the sky. Lucy closed her eyes and whispered, “Kessler, wherever you are, I hope you’re still exploring.”

And in the rustling of the corn, she imagined a faint reply—a cosmic echo of friendship that spanned time and space.