Their raspy kisses brand our jam tart necks, their treacherous miasma clasps our herbal thighs. Motherlessly we surrender, too many fathers we have, we, your daughters of joy.
We didn’t think anything of it at the time, but we saw several of the bodies of the crew, space pirates all, with what looked like necklaces of garlic around their necks. There was salt strewn on the...
