Magnetic disorientation lead to stray missions deployed to ancient henges seeking dissident archaic tracks.
Parting the fur carefully, she revealed a complex tattoo, the long awaited instructions.
Archaeologists swarmed over the site, chattering excitedly in academic birdsong.
It stood as tall as the trees, they didn’t understand why they hadn’t seen it before. It was powered by their miserable boredom.
These patterns weren’t enough, the recombinatoric cube unfolded into the living space with pure, cold vengeance.
Guards stood mutely around the exhibition, which desperately reached out with a thousand loving tentacles.
Two hundred days into the experiment the only one not willing to hit the panic button was the narcissistic businessman who didn’t believe the monsters were real.
The Control Voice was weary. So many unanswered questions, so many existential quandaries. It imagined a quiet life, some little town without multidimensional aliens or irony.
The branches swayed sinisterly, giving off a slight spray of fuzz that dissolved whatever it touched.
Everything changed the moment he flipped the stark, resistant toggle switch. The sound made him flinch.
Slumped against the view-port was a fleshy mass that only wanted love.
She lowered her guard momentarily, enough for the swamp to duplicate her.
When The Archaic Scream broke down the door they countered with steady bombardments of grief.
When the sun went out there was an enormous sigh of relief.
The rolling ocean was vermilion and all the ships had wings.