‘In the Yellow Ocean’, by Nova Warner

Two hours behind the till repeating the same lines in a voice that chipped away at my brain.

‘Next, please!’

‘Would you like a bag?’

The thought of saving some energy by playing a recording of my voice was initially tempting, but doing even less at work would only make my shift drag on longer. Only four more hours to go—a relatively short shift. It could’ve been worse, all things considered.

The customers provided some entertainment at least. Most notably, one man with a yellow stain on his jacket spent the entire transaction on his phone saying ‘No, pistachio’.

Some customers had the gift of mundane annoyance. A woman struggling to decide between two nearly identical chocolates by weighing them in her hands with care deserving of holy relics. Or the retail cowboys, sauntering up to the till only to, at the last second, mosey on down the alcohol aisle. If they switched out the tracksuits and baseball caps for assless chaps and cowboy hats they could’ve stepped straight out of a Western.

Then there were the friendly ones who’d have a bit of banter with you. They did make my day better—even if they were generally unremarkable and quickly forgotten about.

Yet as I stood there, a third of the way into a six hour shift, an unusual customer caught my attention: they only had one eye.

A living Cyclops.

Its pale-yellow iris consumed the entire front of its face while the back and sides were a milky white. Its body was resplendent in international orange.

No one else seemed to notice the creature. The customer whose change I had just returned shuffled away with their toilet roll, while the next had casually placed five family-sized crisp packets on the counter. As I scanned each one, the sound of the Cyclops’ heavy boots filled the shop, oscillating back and forth as it supposedly searched for whatever mythical item had stolen it from its Mediterranean paradise. Perhaps a thunderbolt to be gifted to a deserving deity, or a club fit to fight with?

A giddy smile leaked onto my face as the possibilities raced through my mind. The differing tales of the Cyclops I’d read about during an overenthusiastic mythology phase had long since melded together, but I still had a general idea of the creature. In my excitement at the appearance of the Cyclops, I welcomed a customer with enthusiasm for the first time that day: a university student with eyebags as large as her hooped earrings. While she showed me her driver’s licence for the vodka she was buying, I was distracted by a loud grunt from the aisle.

The Cyclops had found its treasure.

Moments later, I saw it appear behind the next customer queuing for the till. I tried to stay patient and managed to finish the transaction, but I was trembling with anticipation throughout at the prospect of meeting the creature. When the customer finally vacated the counter, I looked to the Cyclops in expectation.

With the chance to see it more clearly, its visor angled towards me, I realised I’d been wrong. It hadn’t been a Cyclops, but an astronaut. A space wanderer. One who reached for the stars.

I knew much less about astronauts.

‘Next, please!’

And its treasure, not to be brought back to the Mediterranean, but to the Moon?

An energy drink.

Clumsily, I went through the necessary motions, observing its orange suit as I did so. Patches of various hues and designs dotted the front, but it was the garish orange that held me.

I peered inside its yellow visor, and made out the face of a terrible creature.

‘Would you like a bag?’ I heard myself asking.

Its skin, tinged yellow with red blotches, looked as though it would melt if I held a candle up to it. Its eyes popped out of its face, like a frog, and its arms were twig-like, unnaturally long. I imagined it ripping through its suit and strangling my neck in a vice.

What a piteous thing, wallowing in joylessness, peering through a yellow visor: a wandering traveller of the cosmos, currently making a layby in Peterlee, County Durham.

After I’d waited for a reply, and none came, I wished it a good day. Then I added: ‘And safe travels.’

The astronaut muffled what I assumed was a word of thanks before snatching its energy drink off the counter and leaving. Outside, I saw another clunky white astronaut join it. Their rocket must have been close by.

I looked up at the clock.

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Nova Warner (she/her) is a recent graduate in the midst of a faltering job search. She has previously been published in Indie Bites, Syncopation Literary Journal, From the Lighthouse and The Drabble. Outside of writing she enjoys photography and collecting books. She can be found on Twitter and Instagram @novawarner01. Astronauts live in her head.