Alaya

Alaya took a look at the remains of the egg which had shattered on the floor before them. They thought how it is most certainly not the first time such tragedy occurs to them; for years, they hadn't made themselves any - by then, it was too late to learn. 

It would've been quite helpful, had it not been their throat where parts of the eggshell landed. Alaya choked, trying to free their breath. Soon, as they panicked, attempting to breath, starting to touch their neck, they came to feel something wet. As they looked at their fingers, they were all red, blood pouring off them. Red colour was coming out of their neck, out of their eyes, out of their ears. Blood was all over the floor, furthermore, it was starting to flood the whole room floor - by now quite a slippery floor. This funeral of order, this graving of structure, angered Alaya. Thus they took a knife out of a drawer and closed it towards their chest. Although they began to swing at themselves, they slipped and lost their knife: it wasn't ever seen again. Weeks passed, months passed, Alaya running all over the room, searching for the knife, bleeding from their neck. One day they saw it had gotten stuck in a toaster. As they began to take the knife out, they noticed the kitchen had been flooded by blood by that point. Convulsing, kicking and swallowing blood around them, Alaya drowned in the tones and kilos of blood they'd lost.

As some minutes passed, Alaya was lying calmly on the ground; drowned in blood they lay for the future generations to unpack this secret as the posadist neo-nuclear fate of the fhrbyaebfpdi-th century takes place.

Lesley Zore