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Sandra Jane Douglas

nataliewood03

"Love makes room for fault."

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Sandra Jane Douglas flipped her blond ponytail, her big teeth in gleaming rictus. She bounced toward them.

“Hope I wasn’t interrupting,” with perky aspersion, “invasion plans or whatever.”

She grabbed Marie. “You get that plex about Carol Webster? In-cu-bating!”

A noise, the sound of distaff thunder:

“SANDRA JANE”

Marie stopped; Sandra Jane nudged her to “keep moving.”

The front door opened and Sandra Jane’s mother, or rather her arm, came out. Allison Douglas had once been a showroom model, for the short-lived Chevy Fissionaire, and so it was an elegant arm, with a delicate wrist and long tapered fingers about the size and shape of a dancer’s legs.

Sandra Jane radiated high levels of odium as her mother’s arm crossed the yard to her.

Mrs. Douglas’s three-foot fingers unfolded. In her palm was an amazingly small man holding a capsule in both hands.

“You forgot your pill, sweetheart.”

Without a word, Sandra Jane plucked the pill from her father and turned to escape.

“Hey, how about a kiss from my little girl?”

Sandra Jane huffed, and ducked down furtively, pecking her miniature parent hard on the eyes and knocking him down.

From "Go Mutants," p. 25

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