I was out on a date and this guy asked me if I had any kids. “None that I know of,” I say, half in jest ‘cause I’ve always wanted to say that to a guy.

He left his drink on the counter, hightailed it outta there. That was seriously rude, wasn’t it? I mean guys could have millions a kids out there and not even know it, right? But us women, we know.

So, I finished my drink, got to thinkin’ ‘bout whether we do know after all. Seriously. I mean, the last time I was abducted by aliens, I could have sworn they done stole my eggs. Every last one. Haven’t bled since then. Got me a real nice playpen now case you’re interested. But seriously. Alien babies. I think they call ‘em hybrids or somethin’. Star children. Sounds kinda pretty, don’t it? Then again, just imagine millions of them alien babies all cryin’ out for their momma at once.

Maybe that’s why my boobs is so sore and all full up with milk—’cause all my alien babies a screamin’ for their momma’s titties out there in space.


# # #

Your Mama Can Hear You Screamin’ by Terrie Leigh Relf
originally published June 16, 2010



Terrie Leigh Relf lives in Ocean Beach, which is in San Diego, CA. She is on staff at Sam's Dot Publishing, where she edits Hungur Magazine and The Drabble. Recent releases include Blood Journey, a vampire novel co-authored with Henry Lewis Sanders; The Poet's Workshop--And Beyond; and two poetry collections, Jupiter's Eye and My Friend, The Poet, and Other Poems About People She Thinks She Knows.

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visit her Big Pulp author page


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