How Not to Date an Alien by Stephanie Burke

Chapter One
    One must always determine what type of alien one is trying to date. It would not bode well for you as a human if you chose a flesh-eating Scrimtat from Veta Belga. That would give a whole new meaning to the term “dinner date.” As these creatures are very dangerous, it is best to avoid them at all costs.
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    “You have antennas.”
    Kilana peered closely at the man who was resting rather comfortably beside her on her bed. Somehow, he made the huge California King feel like a college dorm twin.
    “And you do not,” he helpfully pointed out, with a black-lipped grin that made his spiky white teeth look all the more deadly.
    And, of all things, his long black hair was tied back into a braid that seemed to snake around his firm, pale body. His eyes were a solid black, too, and she was sure if she weren’t so hung over, she would probably be screaming bloody murder right about now.
    And the man was naked.
    There was only one explanation for this phenomenon. She was still drunk.
    “I’m going to close my eyes and count to ten,” she whispered, her head not willing to take even the shock of her own voice raised to a normal conversational tone.
    “And when I open them, you are not going to be here. Do you understand?”
    He nodded his head sadly, pouting a bit. But she hardened her heart. She didn’t have time for imaginary beings in her bed. She was a newly divorced woman, and she had things to do.
    Like maybe wake up sober and get her divorce papers framed and gilded.
    She peered at him again and had to blink fast and swallow hard. He had the biggest eyes she had ever seen. Those large, liquid eyes were solid black; there was no white at all.
    It appeared that all the white seemed to have leaked out into his pale skin. It was kind of a molten silver, rather uncommon but certainly not too abnormal for a figment.
    But his head nodding was making her dizzy.
    “Don’t nod.” She swallowed again, holding onto a moan with the persistence of a clinging vine of ivy. “You’re making me seasick. God, you’d think that my own figment wouldn’t be so monochromatic as to cause seasickness. I thought I had more imagination.”
    So she closed her eyes, inhaled softly, exhaled long, and started counting.
    “One figment two many. Three reasons to never drink again four any reason. Five senses going crazy, and six is the devil’s number to remind me to stick to seven, heaven’s number, unless it is the number of tequila shots. I should not have eight the worm thing last night and nine martinis are more than enough, especially at ten dollars a glass.”
    She opened her eyes, but the very pale and very monochromatic creature was still lying next to her in bed.
    “You’re still here,” she moaned, dropping her head back onto the pillows.
    “Yes, I am,” he replied, before reaching out with one finger — one finger with the longest black fingernail she had ever seen. “And I will be here for a while.”
    He tapped her on the nose, and she knew her eyes were crossing as she stared at his finger, but that was one awesomely sharp-looking talon.
    “Doing what?” she asked, wondering if it was insanity to talk to an obviously drug-induced creature from her boring imagination.
    Maybe someone had slipped her Special K. Ketamine was said to produce very believable hallucinations in users. Maybe someone had slipped her some and had their wicked way with her prone, helpless body.
    Then again, maybe not.
    She thought about it for a second, and none of her girl parts seemed particularly sore. Her va-jay-jay felt normal and unused as usual. No odd taste in her mouth, other than stale beer and regret —
    “I am hunting.”
    “Yeah.” She scrunched her nose and thought for a moment. “That makes sense.
    Hunting, in my bed, while totally naked. Yes, that makes perfect sense.”
    He remained silent and smiling, showing off that mouth filled with fangs.
    “Okay, no, it doesn’t.” She winced at the lancing pain in her