Wasp's Nest

a chilling postcard story about the coming invasion by special guest L.X. Beckett

The ruby granules are a paralytic… this much I have worked out. Saline dissolves them, leaving a pink wash on my otherwise unobstructed vision as I lie here, face up. The silver grains came in a second swirl, after we were all fixed in place, everyone who’d been outside, anyway. I can just pick up what I think is a family, safe inside that bungalow, watching me do… nothing.

(I went down in their yard, you see.)

It’s hard to do observational science when you’re face up, mouth flapping, on cold grass, but the silver grains have warmth to them, and a vibration I associate with life. I fear they will burrow into my skin, make themselves at home, and—perhaps, in time—grow and hatch.

Distant cars crash. Sirens clamour everywhere. I hear no screams. Above, the sky is swirling with a new burst of colour, diffusing the red and silver clouds. The next phase of the invasion, from what I can see at least, will be orange.

Toronto author and editor L.X. Beckett writes fiction by day and then creeps out at night to beat up wayward manuscripts. Their superpowers are amplified by fine prose, strong espresso, and world-saving technologies. They're probably reading this over your shoulder right now.

Short story written by L.X. Beckett

Story prompt taken from a photo by Clement Percheron