A slow progression of ants across the continent. The alien hive-mind has negotiated comfortably with Earth's multinationals, to purchase humanity's collected art.
"She doesn't *have* a first name, Dad! She's an alien!"
One pale chitinous worker wandered to his suburban house. Borderline pupal nutrients gave her desire lacking in her neuter fellows; a misfire of pheromones has led her off the track.
"I don't care. She loves me!"
Her mandibles empty, in this house empty of the art she was charged with collecting, she clutches him to her instead.
"I'm hanging up now, Dad."
Her jaws close.
Original content on this page © Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.