The fixed-odds betting terminal fired out an electronic pulse, causing my bio-interface implant to twitch in excited anticipation. I paused, my finger poised above the play button, and adjusted the frequency receiver to that of the sender. An incoming message.
What the machine had to say was this: HELP ME.
Matt Thompson is a London-based writer of oddball fantastical fiction: short stories, flash fiction, comics scripts, poetry, and the occasional novel. He is endeavouring to follow Ray Bradbury’s advice of writing a story every week. To date, this has been adhered to in theory more than reality.
Something was wrong. It was a feeling more than an observation, something intangible, instinctive. Hannah backed away.
The creature seemed offended. “How typically human. You see a purely biological life form and consider me slimy, primitive, and murderous. How ignorant.”
The heads-up display built into Hannah’s eyes blinked a warning.
This story is based on the adjectives intangible, slimy, and murderous, as provided by @RubyCosmos.
“Hey, have I told you about the sci-fi book I’m writing? It’s set in the coolest solar system ever. The main characters live on a lava planet which is kept cool by the rays of an icy anti-sun.”
“…You can’t be serious.”
“And there are secret cloned laser cyborg aliens.”
This story is based on the title suggested by @Yax.
The heifer chewed her cud. It was thicker than yesterday’s. Oh, what was that? There was something crunchy in her mouth. Cud wasn’t supposed to crunch. Had she eaten something unusual? The heifer couldn’t remember.
In the burning depths of Hades, Cyborg George massaged his seething soul, already plotting revenge.
(Or is it?)
Whirring, spinning, and hissing, Cyborg George advanced towards the unimpressed heifer, who stood at the fence chewing her cud.
“This ends NOW!” cried George, cocking the shotgun mounted on his arm. He raised his metallic arm high. “NOW!”
As if on cue, a bolt of lightning burst from the sky.
Twelve ravens watched as the door of the farmhouse opened and a grime-smeared figure emerged.
His left leg was steel and pistons; steam whiffed out of the joints as he moved. A shotgun was mounted along his handless right forearm.
“Death, death, raawk!” croaked the ravens.
Cyborg George laughed aloud.