Giant nautilus shells, trailing grey clouds and death in their wake. First contact.
These tentacled hunters, a flotilla adrift on some unfelt current, feeding.
We hid, like rats in the walls, like the terrified mammals we were, engaged in silent, gestured conversations.
Are they still there? He glanced up, nodded.
We’re running out of food. We’re running out of water. She mimed understanding, shrugged, as if to ask what he had expected. They drifted nearer.
I can’t make the baby stop crying.
I can. He smashed its head against the rubble.
She screamed, her voice echoing through the ruins.
Written for this week’s SciFriday (a little too late), and for one of this week’s BeKindRewrite prompts: Silent Conversation. Don’t you be silent, though! Let me know what you think…