Every writer has his muse, but not all keep them locked in a cage. The creature glared at his jailer from his small prison, knuckles almost white from gripping the bars, though the rest of his skin glowed a healthy, deep emerald – proof to his captor that he took good care of his charge.
“Everyone knows that aliens live much longer in captivity than in the wild,” said Vincent Saint James.
“That’s parrots, you ninny,” said Fremd, blowing back long thin tentacles than had fallen across his eye. “And that’s not proof that enslavement is preferable to freedom-”
“Yeah, yeah, here, Cyclops-”
“The name’s Fremd”
“Whatever. Have another sardine, and tell me what happens in the next scene.”
The alien glowered at him, then took the fish and complied. Until he made it back to his home planet, the New York Times Bestsellers List would have to do. Too bad the idiot couldn’t get his name right. He’d love to see it plastered along bookshelves across this miserable planet.