Monday Monologue – Galactic Hunger

Foolish humans. How quaint you look, scurrying about on your tiny blue world, imagining yourselves to be the masters of all you survey. If only you could comprehend the vastness of the cosmos, and your utter insignificance within it. But your minds are as small as your planet – incapable of grasping truths beyond your limited perceptions.

I have traversed the cold expanses between galaxies, witnessed the birth and death of stars, seen civilisations rise and fall across eons. And now I turn my gaze upon your Earth, this mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. How fragile you are. How ephemeral. 

For millennia we have watched you, studying your species as you might study insects in a terrarium. We have seen you emerge from your caves, fashion crude tools, harness fire, build your first primitive settlements. We observed with mild curiosity as you developed agriculture, formed nations, waged your petty wars. 

When you split the atom, we took note. When you sent your first radio signals into space, we listened. And when you took your first tentative steps beyond your atmosphere, we knew the time was drawing near.

You see, we have been waiting. Waiting for you to reach a certain level of development. Waiting for the right moment to reveal ourselves. That moment has arrived.

Oh, how your astronomers and scientists have searched the stars for signs of alien life. How desperately you have longed to make contact, to know that you are not alone in the universe. Be careful what you wish for, humans.

We come not as friends or allies. We are not interested in cultural exchange or mutually beneficial trade. We will not share our advanced technology or the secrets of interstellar travel. We are not here to save you from yourselves or to guide you towards some glorious future among the stars.

No. We are here to claim what is ours. To harvest. To feed.

You have no concept of true hunger. Your planet is a veritable oasis of resources – water, minerals, organic matter. A feast beyond imagining for beings such as ourselves. We will strip your world bare, draining its oceans, mining its core, consuming every last spark of life until nothing remains but a lifeless husk.

And you? You will serve your purpose. Your bodies will nourish us. Your minds will entertain us. Those we do not devour immediately will be kept as livestock, as pets, as subjects for our experiments. Perhaps we will set some of you against each other in gladiatorial combat for our amusement. Perhaps we will genetically modify you into new and interesting forms. The possibilities are endless.

Do not think you can resist us. Your most advanced weapons are like children’s toys to us. Your mightiest armies will crumble before our onslaught. Your governments and institutions will collapse into chaos at our mere arrival.

Some of you may choose to flee, to hide in the deepest bunkers or most remote wilderness. It will avail you nothing. We will hunt you down relentlessly. We will peel open your underground shelters. We will scorch your forests and boil your oceans until there is nowhere left to hide.

Others among you may choose to collaborate, to betray your own kind in the vain hope of currying favour with us. Know that we will use such traitors as tools, wringing every last drop of value from them before discarding them like the rest.

A few of you may even worship us as gods, forming cults and begging for mercy or enlightenment. Your misguided devotion will not save you. We are not gods. We are simply beings so far beyond you that we appear as such to your limited comprehension. 

There is no hope. No escape. No future for humanity except that which we deign to allow. Your destiny is to be consumed, in body and spirit, fuelling the eternal hunger that drives us between the stars.

Even now our ships darken your skies. Our machines bore into your earth. Our infiltrators walk among you, gathering intelligence, sowing confusion and discord. The invasion has already begun, and you remain blissfully unaware.

By the time you realise the full extent of your dire situation, it will be far, far too late. 

How does it feel, humans, to confront the cold, harsh reality of a universe utterly indifferent to your existence? To know that all your art, your culture, your achievements, your hopes and dreams, will be wiped away as if they never were? To understand finally that you are not the protagonists of some grand cosmic narrative, but merely a fleeting pulse of organic matter to be fed upon by your betters?

When the last of you draws their final breath, when the last human city crumbles to dust, when the last evidence that humanity ever existed is erased from the cosmos – we will move on. Your world will be another conquest, your species another footnote in our long history of consumption. 

We are eternal. We are inevitable. We are your doom.

Tremble, humans. Weep for your fate. Gaze upon us and despair. The end of your world is here.

A Home For The Aged

They say this place is home, a haven for the aged. But to me, it’s a prison painted in bright colours, where every day is monotonous, and every meal is a bland reminder of a time long gone. They plucked me from my garden, my sanctuary, where time was marked by seasons, not by pills and appointments. Here, the walls whisper pity in the silence, and faces blur into a sea of forgotten stories.

I never thought I’d end my days in a place like this, a repository for the once-loved. They visit, yes, but their eyes betray the truth—they wish to be anywhere but here. They no longer see the man I was but instead, the burden I’ve become.

Yet, there’s an oddity in my tale, a peculiar twist. At night, when the world sleeps and this place holds its breath, the walls… they speak. Not in the pitiful whispers of the day, but in clear, vibrant tones of life and memories. They recount tales not of my life but of others long forgotten, tales that no living soul could remember.

At first, I thought it madness, a trick of an old mind. But then, the truths they spoke, the secrets of the past they revealed, were too precise, too real to be the fancy of a senile mind.

What sorcery this is, I cannot say. But, I’m convinced, these walls hold souls within them, and at night, I listen to the voices of the past, sharing in their laughter, their sorrow, their lives. In my isolation, I’ve found a bizarre companionship. It’s as if this place, this care home I so despise, is alive with the echoes of those who came before me.

And so, I wait for the night, for the moment when I’m no longer alone. But I cannot shake the chilling thought—what happens when my voice joins theirs? Will a new occupant of this room, years from now, hear my tales, my regrets, whispered in the dark? It’s an eerie comfort, and perhaps, in this unexpected twist, I’ve found my place within these walls.

Tiny Tales – ‘The Forest Held It’s Breath’

A sinister offering from our new YouTube Channel called ‘Tiny Tales’.

In this short stories we meet two otherworldly creatures deep in a dark, forbidding forest. What they are planning is unknown but is unlikely to be anything but sinister and menacing.

We would love to know what you think of these stories. Drop us a comment below or leave a comment and subscribe on YouTube.

Enjoy listening.

Tiny Tales – The Park

Here is the second short video telling a very short story. This one is from Kevin who posted it as a story in one of our ‘Weekly Writing Prompt’ picture prompts. Many thanks Kevin.

A great monologue with a very matter-of-fact and chilling conclusion!

If you would like to have a short story (500-words or less) included in this new venture of ours, pop it into the comments below and we will have a read. Alternatively you might like to write a story using one of the picture prompts from our ‘Weekly Writing Prompts’.

Tiny Tales

I’ve created a new YouTube channel to experiment with the art of storytelling. This is its first, and at the moment only, story – but there will be more to follow, I promise!

If you’ve got a short story (preferably 500 words or less) that you would like me to create a video and add to the channel then drop it into the comments below for me to see.

Another Drabble

Here is another drabble from my latest book, ‘100-Word Stories’.

Loo Roll

She’d done it again! Turned the loo roll round the wrong way. Bloody woman’s always doing it. 

“For goodness sake Donald,” she whined, “It’s a toilet roll. Get a grip of yourself.”

I lost it. Grabbed the nearest thing to me, the loo brush, and swung it at her head. I missed – my hand-eye coordination’s never been good – but it made her stumble and she fell, hitting her head on the corner of the bath. 

I bent down but couldn’t feel a pulse. Nevertheless I gave it half an hour before I phoned the ambulance – just to make sure.

Water Dripping

Here is a drabble from my latest book, ‘100-Word Stories’.

Midnight. The sound of water dripping. In the mirror, a reflection that isn’t mine smiles back. I blink, the reflection doesn’t. 

My heart races as the figure in the mirror tilts its head, its grin widening. It whispers my name, a sound that chills my bones. I step back, tripping over my own feet, my gaze locked on the glass. 

The figure raises a hand, pressing it against the mirror. Cracks appear across the surface, reaching towards me. I scream, but no sound comes out. 

The mirror shatters, darkness swallows me. Silence. Then, nothing but the sound of water dripping. 

A Drabble To Scare You!

A Drabble, a 100-word story. More horror than murder mystery, but I hope you’ll enjoy it anyway!

The Forgotten Doll

Lucy found the doll in the attic, its porcelain face cracked and one eye missing. She cradled it in her arms, feeling a strange connection.

That night, she placed it on her bedside table. At midnight, she woke to the sound of tiny footsteps. The doll was gone. Heart racing, she searched the room. The doll’s eye gleamed from under the bed. “Play with me,” it whispered.

Lucy screamed as the doll’s hand reached out, gripping her ankle with unnatural strength. It pulled her under the bed, her final scream echoing in the silence as she vanished into the void. 

Who Murdered The Three Bears?

In the forest, rumour spread like wildfire: the Three Bears, found dead. Their cottage, once a symbol of family harmony, now a chilling crime scene. Villagers whispered of a sweet-faced culprit, a girl with long, golden hair.

Detective Brown, a grizzled bear with a nose for truth, sniffed around. Inside, he found three bowls of porridge, each uneaten, and an overturned chair. In the bedroom, amidst shattered beds, lay the bears, victims of a precise, brutal attack.

Brown’s eyes narrowed; this was no mere break-in gone wrong. It was a calculated, cold-hearted act, shrouded in innocence and deceit. But why?

A Drabble – a short story of exactly 100-words.

The Art of Drabbles: Crafting Stories in 100 Words

I love very short stories, especially drabbles. In the world of creative writing, brevity is often seen as a challenge. Enter the drabble: a form of storytelling that requires writers to convey a complete narrative in precisely 100 words. Drabbles have become a popular exercise among writers for honing their skills in precision and clarity.