Watchful Eyes
Well, here's a weird one. I wrote this for another Not Quite Write contest. What was I thinking? Not a clue.
They think they’re safe.
“Mom? Where’d you put my cleats?” whines the smallest of the pink softies. It almost left the sector without proper stump protection.
Reckless.
Now the larger one who plants flora within the soil while imbibing fermented grapes must assist its progeny with the search. This is why my time will soon come. I’ve existed for years among these ruinous vines and wasting stones, my eyes ever open, ingesting knowledge… ingesting power… until the day when I’ll finally feed upon their supple meats.
In my thoughts, I have already completed the deed thousands of times, licking my cold lips from the decadent taste of sweet softie. Hunger that could quickly drive one mad floods my waking senses.
Patience.
“I found them!”
The fleshling holds its prize aloft, as if it had claimed some glorious trophy. A paltry celebration undeserving of my attention. My wish is for the larger pinkling to scold its careless ward.
“Where were they?” asked the parental unit.
“One was in my closet, the other was in the hamper with my dirty uniform.”
A miracle? Hardly. Their perceptions of import are inefficient and, therefore, a weakness to be exploited.
The young one leaps through the yard, bounding once more to the yellow behemoth waiting beyond the gate. In my mind, I’ve crept behind it, waiting for the rest of the disgusting babies to enter the motorized prison where they’d be trapped like insects within a predator’s nest. The feral screams of my prey fueling my lust for meat and marrow…
Not yet.
I must resist moving prematurely. To do so could be folly, and my prize may slip from my stiff fingers. I can’t have that.
“Is he off, then?” Ah, the Alpha softie appears. A lumbering sandbag from whence the fleshling was formed, this one emerges only for one purpose.
“Ooh, yes, baby… we have the house to ourselves.” The floral attendee places its gaping maw over the Alpha’s, attempting to merge their visages into one.
Coitus.
The pink softies must breed. Sickening, but necessary. I stand vigil with piercing eyes, observing each creature removing secondary skins until all that remains are dangling masses of flesh fastened to squishy trunks of squeamish fat.
Disgusting.
This act, brazenly carried out near me on the domicile’s exterior landing, should attract other beasts’ attention, yet the tall, protective, wooden zone barrier ensures their survival. For now, that is.
“Donald, are you in yet?”
“Dammit, Brenda, yes! Can’t you tell?”
“Sorry, I feel like you’re smaller… you told me you quit the steroids!”
“I did!”
“And?”
“And then I started again!”
This is my Hell.
Endless hours, biding time until I silence them all and sate my agonizing hunger. Not long now. Not long at all.
Tonight. Tonight I sha—wha?! Oof!
SMASH.
“What was that, Donald?”
“Huff… huff… nothing, I just kicked the garden gnome off the porch… huff …might be broken…”
“Thing always creeped me out, actually. Are you in yet?”
“FINE. I’ll quit the steroids!”
Disturbingly hilarious