Crude Oil

They came to Earth seeking a bride for their dying king. Bottles of moisturizer were sent to Earth’s women so we could beautify ourselves for the choosing ceremony. On use, the strangers’ ship received a signal that translated roughly to: this flesh is complicit. Behind on the news, not having watched television or listened to the radio that day, I was excited to find free cosmetics on my doorstep. In moments, as if my fingertips had become cosmic erasers, I was removed from my own life. The king’s human disguise was pleasing enough, but he needed to transform into his natural state in order to consummate our union. I found myself standing before a tiny old man, nestled gently in a sort of protective wheelbarrow, suspended in green slime with an elephant trunk draped down the length of his body. I placed a hand to my cheek. My skin had never felt so smooth.

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Isobel O’Hare is an MFA candidate at Vermont College of Fine Arts. She spent her early twenties running around Ireland, where she co-founded the now-defunct literary magazine dreamvirus. These days she is a freelance writer, editor, and proofreader based in Baltimore, where she lives with three black cats and a spooky human.

Lead image: “Alien” (via Flickr user Angel Ortega)