by Cheryl Lynn

“You find a match?” the martian asked.

The ambassador fiddled with her hair.  ”Yes.  It’s me.  I have the genetic marker.”  She laughed nervously.  ”I’m your royal blood.”

Which meant humans had every legal right to remain on Earth.

“Thank you,” the martian said with a disdainful smile.  And promptly shot her through the head.

Microfiction in 55 Words