Cynthia moved like a layer of dust along the ceiling, observing the scene below her. Observing the pictures spread on the table. The male at the head of the table patiently ask, “Which one?”
The man seated at the table studied the pictures. Two nasty looking men stood beside him. They tried to look relaxed, but Cynthia knew from their heart and respiration rates, they were anything but.
She ordered a stream of herself to jam shut the door behind the patient man, then sent separate streams down the wall behind the nasty men where they silently climbed up their clothing, and slipped into their lungs through their noses.
The seated man picked up a picture of her.
The patient man asked, “You sure this is the one?”
“Yes.”
The patient man nodded, and the nasty men drew guns from beneath their jackets, and pointed them at the seated man.
“What?” The seated man’s started sweating profusely, his pulse rate exploded, and Cynthia noticed he’d wet himself.
The nasty men fell over, unable to breathe. They twitched in agony before losing consciousness. The patient man leaped to his feet. “It’s here!” He yanked on the door behind himself but it wouldn’t open. He clutched his chest, “Arr!” He fell to the ground. Cynthia let his heart resume beating. She called all parts of herself back.
All that was left to do was figure out what to do about her male friend, Jerry, now that he’d figured out she wasn’t human.
250 words
@LurchMunster
I wrote this for Siobhan Muir‘s #ThursThreads, Week 111. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are good reading.
My Soul's Tears 