Lilian D. Vercauteren

Lunabella liberally applies sunscreen ⁠— from wild-foraged beeswax ⁠— when, jar still open in her palm, something appears, glinting in the sunlight speckling the forest floor.

Someone?

A bulbous head bobs atop an impossible long, rubbery body.

That’s a frigging alien. She doesn’t panic; she’s disappointed… Nobody’s gonna believe this.

Its eyes land on her, hold her.

She can’t look away. Her mind is drained like a sink.

Believe what again?

She looks down. The sunscreen drips from the jar. Her skin is bright red, even though the light has softened high into the treetops. She curses. She should’ve gotten the store-bought stuff.