So, This Is Why I Hate Stephen Hawking
By S. J. Gordon


“But Stephen Hawking said so,” Jake insisted.

At that moment, I felt I really hated Stephen Frippin’ Hawking. You could tell Jake had been saving this little nugget as his ultimate argument. He was bringing out the Big Guns. Shooting his wad. This was his Butch and Sundance Off the Cliff move. Worse, he was absolutely confident that unlike his heroes, he was jumping to victory.

“Stephen Hawking did not say aliens are using the old smokehouse,” I said. I kept my voice even, reasonable. “Stephen Hawking has never even heard of the existence of the smokehouse. Neither have any aliens.”

“Are you saying Doctor Hawking is lying?”

“No, I’m saying you’ve been huffing turpentine.”

“Fine. Go on back and see for yourself,” he said, chin out. “Go get yourself captured and probed by some green guy. Just don’t come running to me.”

“I promise.”

He disappeared upstairs and after a few moments, I heard his old wooden desk chair creak. He was back at his computer, logging onto one of his UFO hunter sites. I stood at the kitchen window, looking at the smokehouse in spite of myself. Jake was pretty nutty about all that alien stuff but he’d never been completely delusional before. I had to wonder, what had he seen back there to get him all worked up?

My own laptop was on the coffee table in the front room. Quickly, I skimmed the wiki site about Stephen Hawking.

Sonuva…

Technically, I was right. Doctor Hawking had never said anything about extraterrestrials building a base camp in our outbuildings. But he did say pretty plainly that he figured the math was in favor of the idea of the existence of other life. It was a far cry from green, beeping dudes in the shed but it would be enough for Jake. That left me with few options. I could pretend to believe Jake and make like I was going to steer way clear of the smokehouse until he gave me the all clear. I honestly didn’t think I could pull that one off without laughing. I could try ignoring him like he’d never said anything so stupid. Though, I’d tried that before when he said alien advance guards were putting extraterrestrial additives in the tanks on the crop dusters. Luckily, the pilots were good guys and didn’t press charges when Jake was caught trying to get samples from their planes. That left just one option. I’d have to go check out the smokehouse myself and prove to Jake that he’d finally gone round the bend.

I stuffed my camera into my jacket pocket and took off across the back garden. The kitchen screen door screeched as it swung back so Jake would, no doubt, be watching out his window. It was a measure of how worked up he was that he didn’t try to stop me. He didn’t even call out the window to me. As I stood outside the smokehouse door, the only sound to be heard was the faint buzz of what must have been the last cicada of the season. The door didn’t even creak as I pushed it open.

I’m not sure how long ago I opened the door. Turns out alien probes buzz some. At first, I was terrified but now I’m just sort of disgusted. When I get out of here, I’m gonna have to go back and apologize to Jake. And maybe to Stephen Hawking. God, that sucks.


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S. J. Gordon's has a background in biology, theology, and education. Currently, she is working on her first mystery novel. Her work has appeared in Wired Ruby Literary Zine.