This Bird Has Fangs


This Bird Has Fangs

Sure enough, the eldritch beast showed us its true form. How such a small thing could hide something so big . . . We stood helpless, astounded by its sheer awesomeness, by its awful beauty. The monster reminded us of an angelic being; either this was the creature in the flesh, or a cruel mockery of it. It had ten monstrous wings; for a mouth its face split in half. Horizontally.

Four glowing eyes fell on me, and I felt as if the inside of me was being seared as it searched my soul.

Surely, this was not god.


Oh Joyous Bug

Oh Joyous Bug


It sat there, still and silent, watching them as they walked by. So many of them passed it, not a one pausing to look around. Never noticing it. So it sat there, undisturbed.

Watching. It liked to watch, sitting–sometimes clinging–to a tree. When it did move, it did so with careful, calculated moves. Movements were what usually gave it away to them, when they noticed . . . Once or twice this had happened so far, as far as it remembered. And it possessed a large memory for things.

There was a crunching noise coming from up ahead; it tensed at the sound, a familiar shuffling. One of them. The red one, to be exact; it always limped along, carrying a stick with it. It drew near, but then fell, its foot caught on a rock.

Quivering with excitement, it crawled down from its perch, all but racing to get to the red one. Oh, the months of watching had finally paid off. As it crawled over the screaming red one, it hastily stuck a long proboscis into its neck.

Oh, it was so happy to have a meal at last.