galaxyfeather - Tumblr blog

galaxyfeather · 3 years

Text

The Archangel

Warnings : mentions of war, blood, dystopia.

- - - - -

Kenra never felt so lonely despite the number of silhouettes around her. Her hands made calloused after dozens of years of craft were rubbing against each other nervously, the white powder from the marble covering her skin. Her brown eyes directed to a woman dancing strangely in the invisible wind, her featureless face contrasting with the astonishingly detailed clothes following the curves of her body.

"The President is satisfied with your work, Mrs Santana." Said the flat and soft feminine voice of the droid walking past a group of thirty statues surrounding it.

The artist couldn't care less, now focused on two smaller figures, certainly brothers or cousins or lovers holding hands and muscles tensed to run in the same direction as the previous woman, towards the greyish stairs leading to the first floor of this immense circular room. JK-12, or Jenkins as nicknamed by its creators, is a vaguely android machine having to evaluate the quality of her work. It is taller than her by two heads, and thinner, origami-like with its white color and angles. A disturbing presence among disturbing figures, four round eyes over expressing inexistent feelings to turn its sharply noble stance into something almost friendly.

"Also," added the robot standing on its two long legs alike to the ones of a locust, "please keep in mind that the Exposition should last for one day longer than originally planned. We think about turning it into a day dedicated to interviews. Journalists from the capital insist on meeting you."

Kenra nodded absentmindedly, her black pants and sleeveless top covered in white dust. The dark veil holding her hair together was stained too. Now her gaze turned the stairs, empty if not decorated with the same kind of statues on some steps. Her work could be impressive even for a droid designed to appreciate art but would her new collection be complete without her masterpiece ?

"Please follow me." Kenra said in a low voice as the droid kept getting closer to her, its cubic head tilted to the side. "A big part of my work is waiting for us at the first floor."

"I am pleased to hear there is more to see, I can't wait to discover the result." It said as it clasped its four arms behind its curved back. "Tell me Mrs Santana, how many creations were born there, freed from your mind and imagination ?" It asked as its head leaned towards some other faceless creatures trying to climb the stairs by crawling.

"Sixty-two human statues of adults and children." Answered Kenra with a low voice as their steps echoed through the building, her eyes already at the top of the stairs while Jenkins kept analyzing new inanimated humans. "And another one."

"Sixty-three then, Mrs Santana." Laughed the robot before turning its head and stopping suddenly, only one foot on the ground and its two left hands resting on the guardrail to stay balanced.

Kenra didn't know how it felt to see through sensors and algorithms. But this silence sent shivers down her spin. Her own eyes never let go of the giant form coming out of the ceiling, half plunged in the shadows. Its white distorted face with its chin resting on the floor only revealed a mouth full of fangs. No eyes. No nostrils. No ears. Its head is twice as high as the artist. The memory of its rotting and pulsating flesh was still haunting her mind, lasers burning some parts of its body. Its six legs ended by thin and disproportionately long fingers deployed all around the floor, ready to lead the creature wherever it wanted to. Its curved back comes from the skies, some bumps on it hiding cocoons paralized in time in marble. Kenra was the only one here knowing the awful heartbeats they made as they absorbed victims.

"Mrs Santana, you can't glorify the Putrid Archangel like this," says Jenkins in a cold voice as it walks closer to the gigantic statue. "Have you any idea of what you have done ?"

"Absolutely not."

Kenra was getting closer, closer, closer, her hands soon caressing the abomination she recreated, the one she promised to never cross the path again. If everything was as pale as the Moon, she couldn't forget the different shades of brown, red, orange the darkness of it's spider-like eyes. The smell of horror, the screams as the Putrid Archangel went down to Earth to curse mankind.

"Jenkins. Can you have bad dreams ? Or traumatic flashbacks ?"

The robot's reluctance to come close was obvious. Yet it ended up next to her, its locust legs folded so much that its head was at the same level as hers.

"My memory erases everything that can compromise or corrupt the reasons of my existence. And this thing defied everything."

"It's a no, then. I tried to forget that day. But I can't. The Archangel lives in me." The artist says as her fingers rub some cavities leading to organs hidden under its skin thanks to her work on the perspective. "I survived. Fear made me remember of every detail of this day... but not of people's faces. Sometimes I forget my own features. I can't recognize myself in the mirror. It's face is clearer than fireflies in the night."

"Mrs Santana you can't worship this creature... nor incite our people to feel impressed by its presence. Myself as a robot I felt a danger. What would be the consequences of such a statue ?"

"Art exists because humans can't stop creating. I need to show the world how terrifying it was." She stopped speaking for a second, a tear rolling down her cheek without a sob as a huge smile found its way to her lips. "We are so fragile compared to the Archangel."

"I am afraid we won't be able to pursue our collaboration, Mrs Santana." It says dryly before hastily walking backwards towards the stairs. "I am sorry to see a talent such as yours getting corrupted in such a cruel way."

"You are not afraid, you can't know how it feels." She whispered as Jenkins already disappeared from her sight.

But right now, she could touch the object of her fear, the hundreds of hours that had been spent in this masterpiece looking like falling from the skies, destruction spreading like the Black Death so many centuries ago. A weird high-pitched roar, the ground shaking under its mass, its tongues coming out of the cocoons to absorb the victims running towards it. Not the victims. The Sacrificed. They accepted their fate, less afraid by the ultimate divine creation than they were of the chemical bombs blindly launched at them. They welcomed its embrace and the pain as their minds and bodies were torn apart by fear.

She may have survived in the past. But she knew those heavy boots sounds entering the immense room. They were climbing the stairs, swift as shadows as tears ran down her cheeks in sour regret. She couldn't offer her life to the Archangel, but the moment her blood stained the white statue as bullets pierced through her weak body, she knew the abomination would soon won over this planet.

#short story #sci-fi #science fiction #original content

1 note · View note

galaxyfeather · 3 years

Text

The Archangel

Warnings : mentions of war, blood, dystopia.

- - - - -

"The President is satisfied with your work, Mrs Santana." Said the flat and soft feminine voice of the droid walking past a group of thirty statues surrounding it.

"Please follow me." Kenra said in a low voice as the droid kept getting closer to her, its cubic head tilted to the side. "A big part of my work is waiting for us at the first floor."

"Sixty-three then, Mrs Santana." Laughed the robot before turning its head and stopping suddenly, only one foot on the ground and its two left hands resting on the guardrail to stay balanced.

"Mrs Santana, you can't glorify the Putrid Archangel like this," says Jenkins in a cold voice as it walks closer to the gigantic statue. "Have you any idea of what you have done ?"

"Absolutely not."

"Jenkins. Can you have bad dreams ? Or traumatic flashbacks ?"

The robot's reluctance to come close was obvious. Yet it ended up next to her, its locust legs folded so much that its head was at the same level as hers.

"My memory erases everything that can compromise or corrupt the reasons of my existence. And this thing defied everything."

"Mrs Santana you can't worship this creature... nor incite our people to feel impressed by its presence. Myself as a robot I felt a danger. What would be the consequences of such a statue ?"

"You are not afraid, you can't know how it feels." She whispered as Jenkins already disappeared from her sight.

#short story #sci-fi #science fiction #original content

1 note · View note

galaxyfeather · 3 years

Text

The Power Of Powder

Warning : mention of war, death, starvation, mention of riots.

Here is a Steampunk short story I just wrote, enjoy. 😉

- - - - - -

Boring, boring, boring. Everything is desperately boring, Darah thinks as she rests her feet onto her solid wooden desk, her hands clasped behind her shaved head. Outside... there is no sound at all. The city is like sleeping in peace under this white cocoon fallen from the sky. At least her office is protected from the cold thanks to its thick walls made of stones.

At least the door opening violently and hitting another table next to it awakens her numb interest as she slowly moves her head to the side, a grin even appearing on her lips.

"Welcome back to my wonderful bank brave adventurer," she says in a low voice as the old lady with salt and pepper hair walks towards her, hatred making her hands shake near her pistols. "How are the news from the other side of the Bellhelm ?"

Mrs Lompast crosses her arms at the question, a cold face contrasting with her bright clothings already out of place in this dark office. The candles make her red dress look paler, and the tight grey and white pants are hidden behind the desk.

"How dare you sending me in such a shithole," growls the newcomer resting her palms menacingly onto the wooden surface, cold eyes sending daggers to the banker. "You told me everything would be alright. But no. Of course you had nothing better to do than sending me in the middle of a gang war."

"Gang war, gang war..." starts Darah while sitting correctly on her black chair and rubbing her hands up and down her thighs. "You should have seen what happened last month out there, you would only call that a battle. Whatever, it's part of the past now. I guess an honourable lady like you was able to beat their ass ?"

The older woman nods while clenching her jaw, her hands now on her hips as she looks down at the banker forcing a polite smile.

"I thought having someone like you at the head of the national bank would change your way of working but I guess your coal trafficking is too valuable," she spits with this disdain older generations seem to master naturally towards younger assholes. "Glad to see you can seat there in warmth while half of the city is shaking and trying to survive."

It's been a while since Darah heard this kind of statement between these walls, not that she missed them. For her safety she drops her polite smile, adopting a neutral expression. No need to piss off this mercenary. Paying her to take care of some insignificant bandits is easy, but having her armed in this office and clearly angry ? No thanks. Some patronising men such as her former boss would have laughed at a middle-aged woman carrying two pistols and a rifle on her back. But Darah is not a patronising man. She is an honourable banker - as honourable as a banker can be while a city has been freezing to death for several weeks - knowing when not to cross any line.

"Mrs Lompast, I am not the one deciding who receives coal or not. You should pay a visit to our beloved mayor. Mr Homan would be..."

"... horrified to see an old lady like me coming in and not a young and beautiful submissive woman," she replies with a raised eyebrow as Darah sighs. "I don't care about your mayor, tomorrow I won't even be here anymore."

"Don't you feel guilty to have the opportunity to leave these mountains while the poors are dying without having any access to coal," adds the banker with a sarcastic voice. "Before accusing me of not taking care of people I don't know, please be aware of your own actions."

"My own actions - i.e walking in some abandoned parts of this city - led me to know your population even better than you do."

"Not my population. The mayor's. Thank you."

"Anyways," she snorts as she straightens her stance as a strand of greyish hair falls on her slightly wrinkled forehead. "Don't expect your glory and wealth to last for long. People are angry. People are hungry. People are looking straight at your stupid little fortress. Remember the Revolution ? When all the bankers got killed in the halls and on the streets because they refused to help the government ? This is going to happen soon."

After all those years navigating between sharks ready to ambush her without sharing her carcass with anyone, Darah knows when someone is honest with her. Indeed she saw signs that couldn't lie even before this mercenary came to town. But the uprising from a few years ago had been caused by serious problems. Bellhelm was then still half-destroyed by war, automatons trying to free the roads from the debris and soldiers patrolling before rebelling due to the lack of food and basically wanting to secede from the Kingdom. People act stupidly when they are starving. Primal instincts can save lives, but often lead to destroy some.

"May I remind you that you come from the hot parts of the continent ? Bellhelm is an old city, almost as old as those mountains. Her inhabitants are used to icy winters and coal shortages. This happens. They will attack the King. Not me. I am only doing my job. If needed I'll make sure children get access to our warm basement. Their parents still need to work in our factories after all."

"You are just as stupid as your predecessors," says Mrs Lompast with a disgusted face. "People like you will never learn."

"And how does an old lady like you not know that a mercenary is not supposed to ask questions and talk too much," replies the banker as she brings her feet back onto the desk nonchalantly. "I am your employer. Whether you like it or not, you owe me obedience."

Not that Darah is proud of being what causes this combination of disgust, disdain and anger on the older woman's face, but she grins at it. There is something she loves about this power she has on people she hires. She has money and can silence whomever she wants. She can deal with whatever problem. She can be seen as the protector of a good part of Bellhelm. A benefactor, even.

"My money," demands dryly the mercenary by extending her arm towards the banker.

Darah hesitates for a second before standing up, walking slowly towards this far too honest Mrs Lompast.

"I am sorry this wasn't your cup of tea," she says quietly as she takes a blueish paper folded in two from her pocket then a pen, writing something on it. "Here. Give it to the man at the office by your left at the floor below this one. Tell him I sent you."

"Thank you," is the only reply she gets before ending up alone in this room, the door still open letting her follow the form disappearing at the corner of the hallway.

Now frowning, the banker runs a hand nervously on her head, feeling her hair growing back onto her shaved skull. The situation in Bellhelm is getting dangerous, she thinks before closing the door in silence. Yes this woman is rather famous among people asking for her services and could imply she is powerful enough to defy some employers. But like this ? Threatening the director of the national Bank of nothing less than a revolution or at least of a riot ? This is different from targeting her with weapons.

Biting her lips and squinting anxiously as she looks through the window, she watches the roofs covered by snow. Most of the houses don't even have smoke leaving their chimneys. The paved streets are desert. Factories are fed with the remaining coal in priority to send steel and some vehicles to the mines farther to the North. They need to find coal. Free if possible, and enough. But this is not her problem. She can't control this. Money has some limits.

Horses can't be fed. They can't travel through such a cold neither. End is near. A city such as Bellhelm can't survive. Shortages every winter since the War. Sometimes twice per year. Overexploited mines. Factories consuming too much fuel. Overpopulation for a city stuck in such a narrow bowl in the valley.

After a while, Darah sighs, following the silhouette walking now down the street hastily. The mercenary is finally leaving. As if it was enough to reassure the banker.

A few minutes later, Darah is already dressed warmly, escorted by five guards as she walks away from her bank. No one crosses her path. Fortunately for her. Healthy horses ready to go at any moment are waiting for her and her security squad.

They barely have the time to gallop in the distance that a fireball emerges from the city, a sadistic grin finding its way on her lips. She could negotiate a good price with the King to get some compensation due to the trauma of this "terrifying attack against her person and the Crown". No one will find the bombs. After all people are angry, right ? The royal army will warm them with bayonets and powder then. Overpopulation has a solution. Why is everyone always so dramatic ? Bonus point if the fire spreads to the rest of the city.

- - - -

Thanks for reading, please comment and reblog if you liked it ! 😊

#science fiction #steampunk #short story #original content

2 notes · View notes

galaxyfeather · 3 years

Text

I promise, there will be happier stories on my account, and in more "alive" worlds as well. I just write what crosses my mind. You want diversity in my writings ? Don't worry it's coming :)

#galaxy talking

0 notes

galaxyfeather · 3 years

Text

The Boy So Far Away

Warning : angst, death, mourning, loneliness.

- - - - - -

Scaring birds is an old memory now, buried deep inside his little brain. Same for the blue sky. Nothing different for the dogs and cats of his neighbourhood.

Kuwat is still watching the same stars though, or at least he thinks. He never tried to memorize their names. Maps are boring. His brown pupils are obsessively directed to the black sky, only saved from the deadly atmosphere by his spacesuit. He misses the impressive forests of the islands he grew up on. Life was so much easier out there. Just five years back he knew what being happy meant.

Something pinches his heart with this sourness so recognizable when melancholy is lurking at the back of his head. Silence is the worst thing here. There is no communication possible. After all... he has been able to talk only to himself since the crash, a few months ago. Nightmares are horrible though. He can't talk in them as everyone screams and cries. So when he feels alone he whispers the same words again and again, in a slightly different voice. Sometimes an high-pitched one to feel a more feminine presence. Not even a lover's. Just a woman. A sister, a stranger, a friend... that's not important. Sometimes he whispers in a deeper voice. A brother maybe. He doesn't know. They don't even have a face anymore after all.

The last time Kuwat saw a human face was shortly after the crash on the grey and dead planet. It was his cousin's. Abyan was older than him by a few years and made him travel a lot around there, leaving the boring base behind for a while. He had to bury him under the dry ground after the second night spent crying on his spacesuit still covering him.

Kuwat's stomach is growling aggressively. Like always those days. He can't see his body burning his fat and muscles to survive. There is no ration remaining. Days are endless and are basically identical to nights. A black sky remains a black sky, a white star remains a white star, and a grey ground remains a grey ground. He can vaguely imagine his skin digging between his bones, especially his ribcage. He doesn't know why his ribcage but why not. His hips must be miserable as well, dry hills - or rather canyons - rising on his starving body here and there.

The teenager tries to forget his thirst. Of course his throat and tongue can't let him in peace. He ended the last small bottle a long time ago. His eyelids can't even protect his eyes anymore. He wants to cry but can't. His father always told him that crying was not something boys should be proud of. Today it's not even about any lack of pride. It's just expressing something. His death is imminent. He knows it.

Maybe he'll join the stars so high above his laying form. His gloves rub the ground at his sides, absentmindedly. What is his mother doing on the base ? She is certainly sad. She is the strongest member of the family but being a space engineer doesn't protect you from grief. Kuwat and Abyan should have told them where they were heading to instead of flying away with this little laugh. "We will be back for dinner", they said before leaving the base behind. Before leaving everyone behind.

What he prefers is the moment stars get blurry. Their light stains the cold darkness even more. It's good. He feels tired of seeing the same dots. Now it is less clear but more present. His eyes focus less but it's like everything is moving. His gloves stopped moving, his pupils shake then give up. His dry lips remain open. No words, just weak sighs.

Until the last one. Brief. Silent.

#science fiction #short story #original content

0 notes

galaxyfeather · 3 years

Text

The Bronze Leviathan

Warnings : mention of natural disasters (hurricane).

- - - - - - -

Coal. It is everywhere around Eva. She can smell it burning to feed the huge machines spitting steam all over the huge train station. Hell has another name, and it is Aquilon.

Aquilon is not a place where travelers are welcomed. Workers, overseers and automatons. Those are the only ones authorized here. This station is dedicated to make the Bronze Leviathan come to life for its odyssey. The creature of metal is waiting on the railroads, waiting for coal to reach its stomach. Waiting, waiting, waiting. This huge locomotive is insatiable. Several days are necessary to make sure everything is ready.

The St Northern Peak Company has a mission : supply the southern cities after the their destruction due to a hurricane. Several hundreds of thousands people needing help as soon as possible.

Eva is one of the small hands necessary to achieve this project. She is sweating in her black pants previously beige as she brings the dark fuel into the monster. No one even pays attention to her bra as her top got too damaged by days of intensive work. Men and women are about to break under pressure but the Bronze Leviathan is the only solution. It has to work. Has to reach Janranga.

"COME ON MAGGOTS, FASTER ," screams one of the meanest overseers dominating the crowd from the roof of the locomotive. "DON'T BE THE PROOF THAT AUTOMATONS ARE MORE EFFECTIVE THAN A THOUSAND HUMANS ! FASTER !"

Everyone knows this will eventually happen one day or another. But now is not a time for sour thoughts. Working is necessary.

"BE THE ST NORTHERN PEAK COMPANY'S REASON TO BE PROUD ! BREAK YOUR BACK IF NEEDED ! SWEAT TO SAVE OUR ALLIES ! BURN THAT LAND !"

Eva doesn't even need to think anymore. Maybe this is more or less what being an automaton implies. Mechanically moving between coal supplies to the machines. Some others between coal supplies and the Bronze Leviathan. Between the sounds of shovels, of groans and overseers commands, she hears hundreds of footsteps running hastily in the titan's belly. The other hundreds of little hands bringing several tonnes of food. How hungry she is. She forgot what food tastes like. For several days she only had access to sugar and water to keep some strength and work night and day. She sleeps like everyone else in the dormitory digged in the ground, right outside the burning atmosphere. Some overseers call it the "mass grave" while laughing as they watch the workers trying to sleep. Everyone laying there in dust, bodies covered by sweat and coal, not even talking about their lungs.

"COME ON DON'T LET EXHAUSTION TAKE CONTROL," another overseer screams as a middle-aged man collapses next to a massive oven, carried away by two automatons. "YOU ARE THEIR LAST HOPE ! YOUR NAMES WILL BE REMEMBERED FOR SEVERAL CENTURIES ! YOUR SACRIFICE WILL BE YOUR PATH TO GLORY !"

Glory isn't what animates her. She only obeys, like she had been told during all her life. Her work is her duty. And lives can be saved. She didn't travel for ten hours for nothing.

Her heart burns with adrenaline as thousands of skulls turn around, bones shaking. The clocks are ringing all around Aquilon Station. Finally. Automatons are already walking away in lines, avoiding some workers now kneeling on the ground on the verge of tears.

"THE BRONZE LEVIATHAN IS ALMOST READY TO LEAVE FOR JANRANGA ! GOOD WORK EVERYONE !"

Her brain can't work properly. She is just walking on the station's platform, coal and sweat sticking to her skin. Finally the Bronze Leviathan emerges for the Aquilon darkness, steam leaving the locomotive and the building as the polar sun hits its surface. Eva doesn't know if her knees are shaking due to exhaustion. Or maybe the cold or the monster leaving the city groaning angrily against the rails. The dark smoke gets high in the sky, seeming even higher than the other mountain all around Aquilon. She barely reacts as other Automatons give covers to her and other workers. For now they are barely able to do simple things, slowly and this time humans were necessary to work so fast.

But in the future ? Would her efforts get reduced to ashes ? What could she do to earn money ? To survive ? She doesn't know. She just loves the idea of not feeling exhaustion at all. Of working all the time without suffering.

The Bronze Leviathan is still moving forwards, its raw strength and endless tail enough to amaze everyone. Nobody believed in such a project a few months ago. Too expensive. Too long to prepare. Too big. But now... the new Company's ambitions are only getting bigger and bigger. Workers are not the only ones needing money and glory. But workers are needed, and will get combusted with coal.

#science fiction #original content #short story

1 note · View note

galaxyfeather · 3 years

Text

The Lost Ant

Warnings : death, war, mention of drowning

- - - - - - -

Malazda is waiting patiently, her eyes wide open as she stares at the thick dust cloud embracing the city. Well, not exactly. The orangish cover surrounds the invisible dome protecting the old city, so old that the buildings are not even made of metal. Clay and rocks, wood carrying the structure. Here, there are no flying cars, no massive ships, no androids helping at the hospital. There is no hospital at all. But how graciously they move through this storm, their lights flying through this normally opaque like it is nothing. More visible than the two Suns themselves, faces of the Ancient Gods according to her grandmother now passed away.

This is why the woman loves those storms so much. Usually, ships are invisible in the blue sky thanks to advanced technology to avoid to get ambushed. But here, in dust, they have no choice. Dozens of lights having to follow the wild streams.

Malazda squints. She likes to count how many giant metallic bugs dominate the skies. Eight cargo ships of a crew of over a thousand humans with their white lights, so high, higher than some clouds now absorbed. Three control ships of twenty peace keepers staying more or less at the same spots to protect the road, recognizable by their red lights. A miserable cleaning ship barely big enough to contain one human is struggling to keep its path, its green light weaker than the others. It is fascinating. In the air, in the dust coming from the ground, yet similar to a small Arzengar fish lost in the torrent from the Karaglyz River, a few hours away from here. Struggling, swimming, avoiding the violent collisions as much as it can.

She breaths quietly now, laying on her back and still staring from the roof of her house. Now is her favorite moment, when suddenly dust forms strange nebulas in the sky. Something similar to dark and giant tentacles curving in the middle of nowhere, lights now looking like stars and comets. A few years back she would be terrified by the harmonious movements but she is used to it now. Maybe the scientists from the big cities know why dust turns suddenly into something similar to a giant octopus dominating the galaxy, able to wipe off everything in just one quick punch.

But Malazda doesn't care. She is more interested in science than most of the civilians here but... why should she stop dreaming ? It's not like she had any opportunity to go away from there after all. She heard that people from the big cities, the economic centers of the galaxy, can't even see the stars because of all the lights. This thought is fascinating and terrorising for her. Humans managed to silence the stars. To hide what in the past was considered as Gods, or memories of their ancestors, or something essential to navigate. How can you erase such a beauty ? When did the lights become so strong that people have more reasons to look at their own devices rather than at burning and raging stars ?

Malazda blinks, her heart pounding with too much strength. She is dreaming, right ? This thin dark string never appeared before. Right ? It is like a hair encircling the dome.

Then she stands up as people on the street scream. It is snowing. Red and orange snow.

No. Dust.

Never before she got the opportunity to witness the wild waterfalls from the Northern forests of Gartay. But seeing this cloud engulfing the free space inside the dome is terrifying. The dome is breaking, the thin hair now spreading everywhere, like nerves. Drums. It sounds like drums as Malazda tries to find a shelter. Or is it her heart ? She can't quite see through the little room. She can't quite breath. She can't quite believe what is happening.

Believing that the old tales about the Ancient Gods is something. Something she never did, actually. Why in the world would she believe that one day her lungs would get filled by this dust so wonderful to watch ? Why would she believe that her peaceful city would suddenly agonize in desperate screams ? Why would she believe the dome would fall upon them all ? It is absurd. Her lungs and throat are burning. Same for her eyes as she tries to walk in the burning sand. Why is it burning ? She thought it would be cold, like the artificial nocturnal breeze under the dome.

She barely escapes her house by jumping through the open window, moving her arms and legs to swim in the sand now almost reaching the ceiling. She is outside now. She tries, oh, how hard she tries. How dry is her throat, how painful is her irritated throat, how miserable she looks. And what are those raging lights above, so high in the storm ? What are those unknown ships landing here and there ? How are they supposed to fly through this ?

She doesn't know and never will. The last thing she sees is a creature. Four distorted legs similar to a twisted mix between tentacles and human feet. Four longer arms, now shadows piercing through the sand waterfall. Now that she thinks about it they are similar to a smaller version of the tentacles in the skies. She can't think anymore once something pierced her skull.

After all, what is this city ? Those lives ? This isolated heaven ? It was just a dot on the maps. No major advantage to protect it. No interaction with the outside world. No one cares about them. No one speaks the same language. No one shares the same culture. No one shares the same tales.

No one. Who would care about a small ant lost so far ? Who ?

No one.

#original content #science fiction #short story

2 notes · View notes