Witness

James Patrick Kelly returns this month with a transporting tale of alien communication and the varieties of religious experience.

~ Julian and Fran, August 10, 2025

In August, Sunday Morning Transport authors Naomi Kanakia, Jim Kelly, Meg Elison, and Elizabeth Bear share stories from far and wide. As always, the first story of the month is free to read.

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Witness

by James Patrick Kelly

Jorah decided to show her love for Jesus and her church by taking her turn standing outside the Ylvel residence to witness. A rotating group of believers, some from congregations way out in the county, would hold signs and pray for the aliens every Sunday afternoon after services. Cars driving by usually honked in support. Jorah had made her own sign, taken from Acts 16:31.

Believe on the

Lord Jesus Christ,

and thou shalt be saved,

and thy house.

Her friend Leah, whom she had known since they were tweens in Bible camp, had wondered if the word on shouldn’t be in. Pastor Eleazar had supported Jorah, claiming that what was good for King James was good enough for him. Leah had teased her that Pastor Eleazar had only said that because he was family, but Jorah shrugged her off. He was only her second cousin once removed and she’d never even met him before he’d begun his ministry here a year ago. But she had noticed recently how often he seemed to look in her direction from the pulpit as if assessing her faith. She would always return his gaze forthrightly, confident in her devotion to God.

The church was three blocks down Broad Street from the Ylvel residence dome. Jorah was passing by from yet another fruitless Sunday vigil when she spotted the police car parked slantwise across the entrance of the church. A handful of people stood beside it, gawking at the closed doors. She walked, then jogged toward them.

“Hold up, girl.” A cop she didn’t recognize stepped forward to bar the way. “Just parishioners.”

“What’s going on?”

The cop put a hand on her shoulder. “They got a devil inside.”

“You mean a Ylvel?” Pastor Eleazar always said that only the ignorant called them devils.

“Alien, yup. Big one.”

“Jorah!” Leah hurried out of the church to join them. “It’s okay. She belongs to us.” She stared at her friend, as if seeing her for the first time. “They’re waiting for you.”

The cop let Jorah go.

“They?” Jorah saw something like awe in her friend’s eyes.

“Pastor Eleazar and . . .” Leah twisted to gaze back at the church. “They say their name is Veen.”

Or was it fear?

#

She caught herself in the doorway to the tiny office and stared in shock. Not at the alien, partially hidden behind the door, but at Pastor Eleazar. She had never seen him so distressed. His lips were tight, his face gray. He leaned his chair back hard against the wall, its front legs lifted off the floor. Both hands were flat on the desk, as if to assure himself that it stayed between him and the Ylvel. A folder was open in front of him.

“Yes, come in, Jorah.” He tried for a smile of encouragement that died before it reached his eyes. In that moment Jorah was worried less about the alien than about her pastor. He needed support, and just then only she was there to give it.

“Leah says you want to see . . . ,” she began. Then she shut the door and there was the alien. Jorah had never met a Ylvel and was unsure how to greet them. “Hello, I’m Jorah Sawyer.” She decided a nod was sufficient acknowledgment.

“Human Jorah, well met.” They replied in a growl that seemed to reverberate deep in their barrel-like chest cavity.

The Ylvel rarely left their sterile domed residences, and she was not surprised that this one wore a white cleansuit. Annoying, though, how the reflective breathing mask obscured their head and snout. The cop had been right, a big one. Not quite as tall as Jorah, they probably weighed several times her hundred and fourteen pounds. Veen stood wedged next to a bookcase since they were too wide for a chair.