His Own Kind

Lovers by Harry Hollard, 1982

His Own Kind

There weren’t any of his kind left. No, they’d died off centuries before leaving Drom the only humanoid in a world of beings thousands of years his senior. His only solace in this speciary loneliness was the company of a Vermilingua from the planet Venus. While her face held the classic conical features of her race, it was easily covered by her coarse hair. The prize was her mammalian chest, which bore two solid mountains of flesh, much like the Appalachian range back home. Drom’s favorite galactic voyage was to visit her sandy sanctuary.

After pleasantries and a few kisses that felt like sticking his tongue into a tackle box, he would swoop her hair down over her snout, leaving just the view of her two tanned circles, the warmth of Earth’s sun beaming into each palm. He suckled her in remembrance of his own kind. 

Solace, a permanent place between her bosom. As often as he could, he’d press his head in the holler of her chest and it was as if he were spelunking deep in the limestone caves of Virginia.  Darkness, slight dampness on his face, and a mystical, musky smell. If only he could stay there, eyes pressed into flesh and wait for the extinction of his race.


  1. Oh,man, I remember that feeling!
    Serious question. Two years on, do you notice a difference in your writing? I think I do. The language here sounds very much what you’d use in a haibun, rather than a flash. It is very poetic, moreso than a flash would be.


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