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Thursday, October 21, 2004 3876 A.D.Soot-black skies. Grunge-grey landscape. Charred remains. Bent steel, melted glass. A silhouette descends, held awkwardly aloft by two pairs of thickly-veined wings not made for long-distance flights, landing on the kilometric feast that lie before him. Other Homo blattodeaus have dined here before, his senses tell him. A small tribe maybe. Nevermind that. After all, roach-kind is nomadic. Moving from one patch of fermenting pasture to the next. As he digs his mandibles on the carbon-rich filth, he raises his antennas, suddenly alarmed. Tasting the air for both familiar and vague pheromones, he soon realizes that the last of his kind to visit this decaying, oxidizing field never really moved on. Too late. He feels a sharp prick sting his thick carapace hide. Then, in an instant, all six of his limbs go limp, paralyzed. His body drops to the ground. Immobilized. Burning. His vision blurs. Fading slowly to black. The natural act of breathing becomes laborious, even painfull, as his brain gets anesthetized, cut off. From a short distance, a lone Homo scorpionae emerges from his burrow, claws spread out, retracting his long, venom-loaded sting. "About time.", he thought. It's been a while since he had a real decent meal. ---------- There's a roach in my mug. Die, bastard, die!
posted by Alexis at 8:30 PM |
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