Sandra Jane Douglas
"Love makes room for fault."
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:
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