I am a speck in a cloud.

A machine of death.

From high above, I stalk my prey.



Searching for the tell-tale signs: the flicker of a blade of grass, the flash of grey in a sea of colour. One moment of carelessness, and I strike.

My senses lock on, tracking the movement as I drop silently from the hot, blue sky. The on-rushing air flattens my feathers against my body, transforming me into a sleek harpoon as the ground leaps up to meet me. At the last moment I evade its claws, levelling out to extend my own as my target detects my presence. Too late.

Too late.

A thud, a squelch as the impact alone all but crushes the life out of it. A further flex of the right muscles, and it is done. There is no resistance, no yelp of protest – just a warm, sticky mess dripping from my talons. A flawless kill.

I will retire to my eyrie now, where the well-honed hooks of my machinery will rend my prize into its constituent parts for my digestion. Yet even in satiation, my sensors never cease their movement: obsidian in gold, always flickering, always searching.




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4 Responses to Predator

  1. Pingback: Notes on Predator and the State of the Blog | Of Words and Worlds

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