Hope

Dark, tenebrous things burst forth from the cracked ground.

She drew her twin pistols, Regret and Recompense, and began firing.

She had unleashed these dread things that would devour the Earth, this was her fault. And this was not a war she could win, she was under no illusions, but she could show humanity that a stand could be made. She could give mankind a fighting chance.

Her guns ran dry and she threw them aside.

She drew her knife.

“I name you, Hope,” she said, kissing the blade.

And thus did Pandora die. And thus was her legend born.

Thief

Clouds drift over the moon.

Ellen feels the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed to the back of her head.

Her heart stops and the chill spreads. Ice runs through her veins.

Her eyes widen, moisten. Fear climbs from her tight chest to her throat; it forces a choked sob from her dry mouth.

A breath like silk on her neck elicits tiny tremors. She can smell vodka and sour sweat.

“You are nothing, to the universe.” Male, low, soft.

The trigger clicks.

The moon re-emerges.

And she is alone, her heart beating wildly, warm piss soaking her jeans.





(Originally written for Lily Child's Friday Prediction)

Tower

I am here, against intergalactic law, because important, anonymous people grew tired of waiting. So the galaxies turn.

The Darkling’s tower is impenetrable to our technology, and thus, invaluable. Scientists observing the structure from the legal sanctity of space have learnt nothing. And so impatience has brought me to this planet, to my death.

It has been called their Tower of Babel, though nobody knows if they even have a God. They have a devil. I have seen it. I have seen the pit beneath the tower, and the indescribable thing within.

Are they imprisoning it? Or setting it free?






(Originally written for Lily Child's Friday Prediction)

Extinction

He admired his engineered body. He was success, perfection; he was to be the template for the new breed.

Humanity had lost its way, stepped outside of evolution. The weak were allowed to thrive; the meek had already inherited the Earth. That would no longer be tolerated.

He flexed his weaponry, watching sharpness shift beneath his inky, black skin. Spikes of bone clawed at him from the inside, thirsty for freedom, for the fight, for a bite of human flesh.

He was just the first.

War was coming. To the victor go the spoils.

To the victor go the planet.






(Originally written for Lily Child's Friday Prediction)

Cattle

“Ah ha! Found it!”

Doc Carmine brandished the template with blue-stained fingers.

He returned to his workbench and pressed his head to the girl’s bare chest, listening. Lingering a little too long.

Still alive, good. They always overdid the spike... it just wasn’t good business to spoil the merchandise.

He hauled her onto her front and held the template against the pale skin of her hip, spreading his fingers to keep it in place, grabbing more flesh than was perhaps necessary.

The spray paint would only stain for a week or two. By then she’d be someone else’s property anyway.




(Originally written for Lily Child's Friday Prediction)