Halloween! My birthday! Birthday? Hardly. That’s a paradigm that doesn’t really apply to me, nor to my family nor my community. For us there was no conception, no mammal gestation, no birth as you know it.
Nonetheless, we look like you, talk like you. We mix with you. We teach your children, prescribe them medicine, offer them the sacred sacraments. You can’t tell we are different, that we are hatchlings, not human. You haven’t a clue.
For us, our eggs were planted a long time ago, thousands of years ago. Planted and programmed. Programmed to hatch at intervals so as not to alarm homo sapiens. Programmed so every year there are hatchings, will be hatchings – until there are enough of us. And then? Use your imagination.
For you, Halloween is the time of remembering the dead. For us, it is the time when new hatchings make their way through the primaeval slime of the ancient forests of the north to join us, the time when we celebrate our own emergence from the soft shell. Life!
We emerge, programmed for the next stage. Ready.
Soon there’ll be enough of us.
In the interim, we knock on doors, tricking and treating. Harmless.