Posts Tagged ‘monster’

Birth by Angela4 on DeviantArt.com

Her face contorted.

Her husband encouraged, “Breathe! The doctor, “Push!”

She howled. Blood sprayed the doctor.

A nurse shrieked, “It’s coming out hands first … not hands… what are those?!”

Her husband fainted.

She felt calm. She hadn’t dreamed it, that night when that skinless horde tore their way inside her.

Blood pooled beneath her as their spawn tore its way out.

She reached between her legs, grabbing skinless claws, and yanked.

It snarled, snapping at her face.

“My child,” she cooed.

She bit through her baby’s throat, bleeding out with the coppery closure, sweet as nectar, on her tongue.

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Monster Breakfast by The Despot

“Don’t play with your food, honey,” Lrglphmp gurgled.

“But it’s more fun when I gotta catch’em.” Hrglphx gave the scrabbling bipeds a poke. They scattered, clambering up the walls of his bowl.

“Hm, a bit underdone.” Lrglphmp leaned over and delivered a glob of corrosive mucus to her son’s meal. “Better let them ferment.”

“Boooorrring,” Hrglphx groaned as his playthings grew lethargic. “They’re better raw.”

Lrglphmp thrust a tentacle behind the salt shaker, snatching an escaped morsel. It screamed as she tossed it into her gaping maw. “You’re right, humans do taste better raw.”

Monster by Disse86 on DeviantArt.com

I hate artificial gravity. Blood tastes best in zero-g. I love watching the wet globs twirl in the air; I love slurping the hot crimson beads as they float by. The thought of it makes my stomachs growl.

I can smell them now. They reek of sweat, and I wonder if they have showers on this freighter. They come into view, three pink fleshy dinners, and without warning my son leaps past me.

I curse his foolishness. He’s undisciplined. Still, my heart swells with parental pride as he slashes them open. Wasted blood paints the decks; I hate artificial gravity.

Tentacles in Space by fightbeast on DeviantArt.com

Life support is down.
The corridor is dark and slick.
I raise my gun.
Artificial gravity quits as a tentacle latches onto my suit.
A Squeegee’s three-eyed mouth sticks to my faceplate.
I fire upward toward its brain. My arm is forced backward and there’s a clang and the cracking of bone.
The Squeegee floats, ripped to shreds by the bullet that now schrings as it ricochets.
Gravity’s back.  I’m slammed to the floor.
“Crap,” I mutter. My faceplate explodes and the air is pulled from my lungs.
Life support returns. I can take a breath and smell dead Squeegee.