IDENTIFYING THE ALIEN
“He’s a little shit, but I wish he would walk through that door now,” said Thomas Manfred. They had not seen Jamie Riddle for two days. Usually, he was as compliant as a well-trained dog, returning home at least twice a day for medication and dinner.
Luna’s intuition spoke, shattering the glass of red wine she held in her hand. She flicked her hand in the air and liquid flew from her tawny brown skin, splashing the floor like paint on a blank canvass. Thomas jolted out of his seat and attempted to tend Luna’s wounds. “Save yourself first, then, maybe you can think about saving me,” scoffed Luna.
A pair of killer heels and a leather cat-suit called to her from her wardrobe. She replied, leaving home twenty minutes later, four inches taller and slightly moist; a symbol of fornication and absolute womanhood.
I am big…
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