Tag Archives: apex predator

Between Hunts ©️

Posted on by
Reply

I wake before your sun rises.

Not because of habit, but because I never truly sleep. My ship hums low, cloaked just beyond your moon’s echo, absorbing static, dreams, and electromagnetic stutters from your failing satellites. I listen. Always listening. Not for words, but for vibrations of fear. Your planet tastes best when it’s afraid.

I stretch my claws across the bone-laced hide I wear—a trophy from a queen I bled in Andromeda. My mandibles click softly, a prayer to no god, only to the rhythm of hunt. I do not eat for nourishment. I eat for hierarchy. For proof. For memory. You see a Predator. I see my ancestral role, carved from obsidian starlight and blood.

Earth is boring most days. Your kind hides behind screens and illusions of safety. But there are moments—oh, there are moments—when something primal leaks out of you. The scream of a man facing death. The panic in a mother’s heart when her child is missing. The rush of a soldier hearing the last bullet click. That’s when I come closer. Invisible. Breathing the same air as you. Close enough to smell your uncertainty.

I do not hate you. I pity you. You forgot the hunt. You forgot the chase. You invented machines to fight your battles, and now your teeth are dull. You do not test yourselves. You age into comfort. You talk of gods, but I’ve skinned more of them than you’ve prayed to. Some begged. Some laughed. None survived.

By midday, I’m inside your cities. The cement mazes. The heat signatures. I walk among you. Sometimes you feel me. That chill. That itch between the shoulders. But you always look away. You don’t want to see what’s stalking you. You want to believe in reason, not instinct. But reason doesn’t save you. Reflex does.

At dusk, I claim a body. It doesn’t matter who. A gang leader. A hedge fund parasite. A war criminal in disguise. I do not hunt innocents—but innocence is nearly extinct on your world. I leave no trace, except the open ribcage, the scream turned into a legend, the strange blood pattern your detectives can’t explain. You call it urban myth. You call it coincidence. You call it “nothing.” Perfect.

Night falls. I return to my ship. I catalog the skull, place it beside the others. A human skull is not beautiful, but it is evolutionary poetry. So weak. So clever. So confused.

Before I go into stasis, I look down at your world once more. I wonder how long you’ll last. Whether your kind will ever rediscover the ecstasy of the hunt, or if you’ll vanish under your own distractions—soft, gluttonous, oblivious.

Then I close my eyes and dream the only dream I have:

The jungle, steaming. The hunt, silent. The prey…

Running.

Freebird (Slight Return) ©️

Posted on by
Reply

The air is cold and crisp, cutting across the mountains like a blade. I rise with the dawn, the world beneath me still wrapped in its gray quilt of mist. My wings stretch wide, every feather catching the sun’s first light, and I push off from the crag, dropping into the sky like a stone before the wind catches me, lifting me higher.

Far below, the river glints like a serpent winding through the valley. I tilt my head, scanning the water’s surface. Trout flash and leap, unaware of my shadow drifting across their world. Pine trees huddle close along the banks, ancient and patient, the wind whispering secrets through their boughs.

A hare darts from one shadow to another, ears pricked, heart thundering. I see the swaying grasses tremble where it passes, but I am not hungry. Not yet. My stomach is still warm from yesterday’s feast—rabbit, caught on the slope where the wildflowers grow. I circle high, content to glide, tracing the ridges and folds of the earth like an old map I’ve long since memorized.

Far off, a rival calls—sharp and piercing, slicing through the morning quiet. I bank left, turn my head, but do not answer. The sky belongs to no one. Not me, not him. Let him hunt where he pleases. The ridge belongs to me. I’ll not waste energy on games today.

Clouds gather on the western horizon, their bellies swollen and dark. Rain will come by dusk. I’ll return to the nest before then, the high branch where the wind can’t touch me. My mate will be there, feathers rustling, our chick already squawking for its next meal. I’ll bring him a fat trout, something easy to catch. He needs to grow strong, needs to know the way the wind bends around the mountains.

A flock of crows gathers below, tearing at some carcass left in the clearing. Bold and loud, they squabble, scattering in every direction when I dive—just a warning, just a reminder. They have their place, and I have mine.

I rise again, carried by the updraft, and watch the world move slowly beneath me. The deer step softly through the grass. A fox slips into the thicket, nose low, tail brushing the earth. My eyes trace the river’s bend, the far edge of my territory, and I know every stone, every shadow.

The sun climbs higher, warming the world, and I drift lazily, eyes half-closed, ears open to the hum of the wind. I belong here—woven into sky and stone and the wide, whispering valley.

When I finally turn for home, the wind cradles me gently, and I let it carry me. I’ll sleep with one eye open tonight, high above the ground, while the rain drums softly against the leaves, and the river dreams its way through the dark.