Drabble #24

Padre Tundle prayed aloud for the soldiers’ victory. “Swift is our justice.”

Quietly, watching them assemble on the launch deck, he prayed their souls should rest after battle. 

“Your god must be pleased with all his new soldiers,” some admiral said behind him. It could only be an admiral this high in the citadel.

“I am merely guiding them back to their father,” Tundle said. He turned, spilling out his velvet robes behind him. “I am merely a servant of the lord.”

The admiral paused, then sent the order, feeding his soldiers into the war machine. “Swift is our justice.”

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Drabble #23

The overhead speaker shrieked. “The escape pods are not to be used for entertainment,” came the ship steward’s voice. Ensigns Danver and Fold watched the speaker and waited. A low whistle and a sharp click told them the message was over.

Fold turned. “What did you do?”

Danver shrugged. “Well, when those newbies docked last week, I showed this young pilot around…”

Ford clapped, a conversation-ending sound when you have webbed fingers. “I don’t want to know. Just,” the amphibiod shook their head, “be more discreet.”

Danver slid a finger over Fold’s smooth, bluish shoulder, “hmm, I have an idea.”

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Drabble #22

The last eagle perched on a sign, watching the town. Food was scarce and the humans stayed inside. Scraps were hard to come by. She had no eaglettes to feed, but the hunger was her own and deep. Her eyes followed something crawling in the dirt below.

Tiny, but human-shaped, it creeped forward toward the base of her perch. She could see the dust and blood matted on the back of its skull. It would be a most satisfying meal.

As she dropped, it rolled over, meeting her descent with rows of sharpened teeth and a deepness of its own.

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Drabble #21

We found a box of books labeled “science fiction” in the back of the shelter. We settled in to read, waiting out the storms above. The symbolism was tricky, most written generations ago, but Sal and I muddled through for three days and nights, immersed.

We enjoyed the stories, mostly. They could only imagine a future of devastation or discovery. Sal summed it up, dropping the last book. “They never imagined it’d be so dull, did they?”

“Stories about heroes are more exciting.”

“Heroes didn’t save us.”

“Are we saved?”

Sal paused. “We persist?”

We locked the shelter behind us.

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Drabble #20

Space is filled with all sorts of sounds, zips and zings, passing just behind your head, just under your feet. In the drift, you start to hear a hum, a bright buzz in the back of your brain that you assume is your own biological symphony.

It tightens into a razor-thin scream.

But you left your biology behind long ago, returning it to the dust of a dusty world. The sound broadens and softens, no longer passing the place where you once held your ears, but envelops and caresses where you once held your mind.

The cosmos welcomes you home.

Art created using Dream by WOMBO