The Splotch

The starfish-shaped splotch looked so small, like a careless spill of oil on frozen pavement. It wasn’t until the helicopters overflew it that we realized the “pavement” was several hundred miles of the North Atlantic, and that the splotch was growing. One tendril consumed St. John’s this morning. The videos of the screaming carnage had gone viral in minutes.

We knew what happened. The terrible creatures in their lightless cities had broken the Accords. They intoned a forbidden ritual and welcomed a lost god. They must have thought they couldn’t be stopped.

They forgot we have rituals, too.

They’ll learn.

The newsletter is late, mostly because this week has been…not great for the creative part of my brain. That’s not a fantastic excuse, I know, but perhaps you’ll understand. On the up side, we’re not even three weeks into 2018 and I’ve put four stories into the wide open air! That’s a good trend!

Okay. You see the prompt? There’s a story in your about that prompt we very much want to see. Go write it!