Husband, dad,(ex)programmer, comic collector and proud Yorkshireman. I have no idea why im here or why im writing but i rather enjoy it. no great fan of punctuation;
Over the many years Ive been dabbling on here I have always enjoyed prompts. Quite often I like to create lists for myself, and I always enjoy them even more when I have an image or two to stir my writing loins.
So I figured I might share some of mine. Use it if you want. or don’t.
Theres no limit to how long or short it should be, just see where it takes you. It could be a short story, a poem, or just whatever takes your fancy.
If you send a pingback or a link to your piece in the comments I will gather all of the outputs together at the end of the week, so for this one the closing date will be Sunday the 24th of March
So this week your prompt is ‘containment breach’, and these are a few pics to go with it.
Oh, and you can do what you want with the images. They are all AI generated so no issues with copyright.
The air hummed with malevolence as the mother clutched her infant close, the weight of the child a stark contrast to the cold metal of the oversized gun in her other hand. The monsters swarmed, their grotesque forms illuminated by the flickering remnants of a once-bustling city. She had no name for them—only knew that they had emerged from the depths of forgotten nightmares.
Her baby’s eyes, wide and innocent, stared up at her. The child was too young to understand the world unraveling around them, too small to comprehend the desperate fight for survival. But the mother would protect this fragile life at any cost.
The monsters lunged, their elongated limbs scraping against the remnants of shattered skyscrapers. Their eyes glowed like dying stars, and their mouths opened to reveal rows of serrated teeth. They were relentless, driven by an insatiable hunger that defied reason.
The mother’s heart pounded as she fired the gun, each shot echoing through the desolate streets. She had never held a weapon before, but instinct guided her. The recoil jarred her arm, and the acrid smell of gunpowder filled her nostrils. She aimed for the monsters’ gaping maws, hoping to hit something vital.
Her baby wailed, the sound lost amidst the chaos. The mother adjusted her grip, her fingers trembling. She couldn’t afford to falter. Her child’s life depended on her resolve.
The monsters closed in, their numbers overwhelming. She fought with a primal fury, her maternal instincts merging with survival instincts. She imagined her baby’s future—a world where laughter echoed instead of screams, where playgrounds replaced ruins. She would carve that future out of the nightmare before her.
One monster lunged, its claws inches from her face. She sidestepped, firing blindly. The creature crumpled, its grotesque form collapsing into the rubble. But more came, their eyes gleaming with hunger.
The mother’s arms ached, her breath ragged. She glanced down at her baby, who stared back with wide-eyed trust. The child’s tiny fingers clung to her shirt, seeking comfort in the midst of chaos.
“Almost there,” she whispered, her voice raw. “We’ll make it.”
She retreated, leading the horde away from the child. The monsters followed, drawn by the scent of life. She reached a narrow alley, her back against the crumbling wall. Her gun clicked empty, and panic surged.
But then she saw it—a glimmer of hope. A rusted fire escape hung precariously above her. She clutched her baby tighter, her legs trembling as she climbed. The monsters clawed at the wall, their snarls echoing in the confined space.
She reached the rooftop, gasping for air. The baby’s cries filled the silence, a reminder of their vulnerability. The mother scanned the horizon—a fractured world, yet still beautiful in its defiance.
The monsters surged upward, their hunger unyielding. The mother held her child to her chest, tears streaming down her face. She would fight until her last breath, for this tiny life and for all the mothers who had lost their children to the darkness.
As the first monster lunged, she leaped, her body crashing through the fragile glass of an abandoned greenhouse. Shards rained down, and she fell, cradling her baby. The monsters followed, their claws inches away.
But in that moment of freefall, she glimpsed a fragile sprout—a green promise amidst the decay. Perhaps hope could grow even here, in the heart of devastation.
And so, with her baby’s cries echoing in her ears, the mother faced the horde. She would fight, not just for survival, but for the chance to nurture life in a world that hungered for destruction.
Over the many years Ive been dabbling on here I have always enjoyed prompts. Quite often I like to create lists for myself, and I always enjoy them even more when I have an image or two to stir my writing loins.
So I figured I might share some of mine. Use it if you want. or don’t.
Theres no limit to how long or short it should be, just see where it takes you. It could be a short story, a poem, or just whatever takes your fancy.
If you send a pingback or a link to your piece in the comments I will gather all of the outputs together at the end of the week, so for this one the closing date will be Sunday the 17th of March
So this week your prompt is ‘Dominion’, and these are a few pics to go with it.
Oh, and you can do what you want with the images. They are all AI generated so no issues with copyright.
This was the prompt. The associated pics are at the bottom of the post. Start of an idea…
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Derin watched the ice bob and swim in his glass as he swirled a cocktail stirrer slowly through the thick honey coloured liquid. He pushed a cube deep into the glass and then watched the drink drip from it as it resurfaced, reluctant miniature icebergs destined for oblivion. Or was that him. Thinking about it, he figured it was equally true for both of them. Slowly disappearing, melting into nothingness and consumed and pissed out by this bitch mistress of a city.
Pink and blue neon lit up the bar and the bar tender loitered, towel over his shoulder, waiting to be beckoned for another shot. Another pint. Another anything. Anything to dull the senses.
He took a deep drink, feeling the liquor course through his chest and into his stomachs. It tasted like desperation and oblivion, like revenge and rage, and he fucking loved it. He loved everything about feeling nothing because perversely it was something, and these days having something was more than most.
One of the local girls noticed him and began to walk over to him, swaying like a tropical palm as she crossed the bar. No, like a drunken sailor, that was it. She was trying to alluring but the night had taken its toll.
“You want to take me home, Derin,” she asked, smiling. She had been beautiful once, but her beauty was faded now, like an old photo, leaving her sallow eyed and pale skinne despite the layers of makeup plastered across her face.
“Not tonight,” Derin replied, slugging what was left of his drink. He motioned for another and slid two crumpled notes across the bar in payment. “keep the change.”
She placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Are you not going to buy me a drink then?” she asked, rubbing the collar of his long overcoat. He could smell her perfume, it was overpowering and stung his nostrils. The human girls would always use too much, trying to hide the stench the night left on them, but he could still smell it. He could smell them. So fucking many of them with their bulging wallets and limp dicks, sad little stories of their wives that just didn’t understand them and bosses that kept busting their balls. As if they had any to start with.
“I said not tonight,” Derin replied, his dark protruding eyes flashing and thin nostrils contracting in his long grey face. She recoiled, stumbling back.
“Jesus, no need to be suck a prick about it,” she said angrily, “A girl’s gotta make a living you know.”
The barman slid his drink over and Derin finished it in one. He wiped his mouth and watched as she turned to head back across the bar towards where a group of sweaty looking businessmen in ill fitting suits had slipped inside and headed to one of the corner booths. Discrete. Private. The perfect place to waste a week’s wage on some exotic off world pussy, even if it was past it’s best by date.
“Hey, wait,” Derin shouted before she was half way across the floor. She stopped and wheeled around. She knew his sort, she thought to herself. Think they’re better than everyone else but their shit stinks just as bad as everyone who drifted into this place when everywhere else had closed.
He felt a hunger stir deep down inside him, and the city coursing through him, hungry and twisted and cruelly desperate. He knew what it wanted him to do to her. What needed to be done. The city whispered it to him, its foul breath warm on his neck as the night air blew on him as they left the bar together.
Her place was closer, safer. Less obvious. Far from the prying eyes of the pointless souls that shuffled like zombies down the long halls of the visitor housing dorms. Piled on top of each other, crammed into windowless rooms and told to wait. That things would be better. That soon they would be processed and they would be free to become part of society, to rebuild what they had lost to the monstrous Earth mining companies.
But they never were, unless you counted recycling. That was the only way out for most. Hundreds from their dorms alone every month. Snuffed out, choked by the misery and emptiness of being so very far from home. From the warmth of twin suns and the caress of gentle summer zephyrs. Lightyears away from cloudless skies and stars that lit up the night like so many fairy lights, sprayed across the inky black.
She opened the door and let him inside.
“You want a drink?” she asked.
He shook his head.
She walked across and pressed herself against him. Her breasts against his chest. Her hand reached between his legs. His lips parted and he let out a sigh.
There was something else he missed. He missed fresh meat. He missed the hunt.
Over the many years Ive been dabbling on here I have always enjoyed prompts. Quite often I like to create lists for myself, and I always enjoy them even more when I have an image or two to stir my writing loins.
So I figured I might share some of mine. Use it if you want. or don’t.
Theres no limit to how long or short it should be, just see where it takes you. It could be a short story, a poem, or just whatever takes your fancy.
If you send a pingback or a link to your piece in the comments I will gather all of the outputs together at the end of the week, so for this one the closing date will be Sunday the 10th of March
So this week your prompt is ‘Mothers Day’, and these are a few pics to go with it.
Oh, and you can do what you want with the images. They are all AI generated so no issues with copyright.
Over the many years Ive been dabbling on here I have always enjoyed prompts. Quite often I like to create lists for myself, and I always enjoy them even more when I have an image or two to stir my writing loins.
So I figured I might share some of mine. Use it if you want. or don’t.
Theres no limit to how long or short it should be, just see where it takes you. It could be a short story, a poem, or just whatever takes your fancy.
If you send a pingback or a link to your piece in the comments I will gather all of the outputs together at the end of the week, so for this one the closing date will be Sunday the 3rd of March
If there is interest or people actually get into it I might compile the best one from each week and pop them into a compilation of sorts and pop it on Amazon at the end of the year (accredited of course). But let’s see how it goes first eh…
So this week your prompt is ‘NIGHTLIFE’, and these are a few pics to go with it.
Oh, and you can do what you want with the miages. They are all AI generated so no issues with copyright.
Slowly and meticulously Albert counted his socks into the washing machine. Three pairs of black, matching. A pair of Christmas socks adorned with Christmas puddings that he reluctantly wore when his clean sock supplies were low. Two pairs of plain brown ones, office socks for the most part, and 4 pairs of white sports socks that he wore to the gym or when he occasionally wore shorts.
Ten pairs.
Twenty socks.
He placed a washing pod into the drum, and poured a careful measure of softener into the open drawer protruding from the washing machine front. He closed the door, click. He closed the softener draw. Click. Beep beep beep and the washing program was initiated. Water hissed and the drum began to spin slowly.
Albert pulled up a chair and placed it in front of the machine and fixed his eyes on the washing machine window. He would wait. He was happy to wait.
At exactly the same time, an immeasurable distance away across space and time, the Grand Acolyte of the Imani people raised his hands to the sky in supplication to the gods. The Imani people, a small tribe of roving cloud shepherds, no more than 50 or so at last count, murmured in approval as the Grand Acolyte implored the heavenly deities to bestow upon them a sign of approval.
The gods found it all rather tiresome, but someone had to shepherd the clouds, and so they cocked an ear. It was the least they could do, and they did seem to be doing quite a good job lately. T
“What are they after now?” asked one of the water gods, dragged from an intriguing conversation with an intergalactic Star Lord whom he thought might make a rather good mate for one of his sons.
“A sign,” grumbled an ancient. He was a whirling collection of electrons and space dust, his heart a burning star and eyes that reflected the meteor showers at the end of time. He was the sort of god that wandering poets and charlatan religious types would tell tales of to scare the locals into offerings of first born children and the best bits of bread from the dinner table.
He sighed. They did love a good sign. Made them feel noticed and significant. Which they were not, but it was always best to not let on otherwise the clouds could end up in a frightful state, and that just would not do.
“So be it, “ he said, and with a wave of what would have been a hand he went to take a bath.
At the same time a number of things happened. The Grand Acolyte gasped and fell to his knees as an electric blue portal opened before him and a Christmas sock fell into his cradled hands. The Imani people declared that surely they were worthy and this was without doubt a great day and from this moment forth they would worship the curious woven pouch that had been bestowed upon them.
On a simple kitchen chair in a small kitchen in a small house in a quaint village about an hour from London, Albert was momentarily distracted from his washing by his post falling through his letterbox and onto the hall floor. Had he not been distracted he might just have noticed a feint blue light inside the washing machine for the briefest of moments.
But he did not see it. And when he counted his socks at the end of the spin cycle, once more he would discover that again, just as happened every time he did a wash, one was missing.
Over the many years Ive been dabbling on here I have always enjoyed prompts. Quite often I like to create lists for myself, and I always enjoy them even more when I have an image or two to stir my writing loins.
So I figured I might share some of mine. Use it if you want. or don’t.
Theres no limit to how long or short it should be, just see where it takes you. It could be a short story, a poem, or just whatever takes your fancy.
If you send a pingback or a link to your piece in the comments I will gather all of the outputs together at the end of the week, so for this one the closing date will be Sunday the 25th of February.
If there is interest or people actually get into it I might compile the best one from each week and pop them into a compilation of sorts and pop it on Amazon at the end of the year (accredited of course). But let’s see how it goes first eh…
So this week your prompt is ‘Portal’, and these are a few pics to go with it.
Oh, and you can do what you want with the miages. They are all AI generated so no issues with copyright.
“Good morning, Toad,” mumbled Frog with a mouthful of dragonfly. “How are you this morning?” She asked.
Toad shuffled alongside the pond’s murky waters and looked across to where Frog sat on her lily pad, eating.
It was a bright, sunny day, and the sun was already climbing into the crystal blue sky.
“Good morning, Frog,” he croaked. “The pond is especially full today, isn’t it?”
Toad was not particularly good at conversation, but he did know a full pond when he saw one, and this pond was most definitely full.
Frog finished her fly before she replied.
“Indeed it is Mr. Toad,” she said, “the storms have come at just the right time, and the ponds and rivers and waterholes are all wonderfully deep. Are you going for a swim this morning?” She asked. “The water is cool, and the flies are many.”
Frog’s dark eyes protruded from her pale green skin, darted left and right and up and down. Toad nodded in answer to her question, and was just about to slip into the water when Frog’s tongue shot out. In the blink of an eye she was chewing on another blue-green dragonfly that had strayed too close. The dragonfly’s delicate, black wings hung from her lips as she ate heartily.
“That looks delicious,” Toad said, enviously.
He was quite hungry himself, and dragonflies were a favourite of his – if he could manage to catch one.
“It looks like another lovely day,” he said.
“Oh, it does,” said Frog.
What a handsome Toad indeed, she thought to herself.
“Would you like to join me for some breakfast Mr. Toad?” She asked, smiling a wide smile.
“Breakfast?” Toad replied, looking somewhat confused. Breakfast with a frog was quite out of the ordinary for toads. Frogs were frogs, and toads were toads as far as he had been led to believe.
Frog saw the confused look on Toad’s face, and she laughed. “Mr. Toad, we are not so different, you and I. You like the pond, don’t you?”
Toad agreed that he did very much like the pond.
“And you like lily pads, don’t you?” Frog asked.
Toad thought for a moment and agreed that yes, he certainly did like lily pads.
“And what about flies?” Frog asked. “Surely, you like flies, don’t you?”
Toad didn’t need to think about this at all; He thoroughly enjoyed flies. Flies were one of his favourite things; flies were better even than lily pads and ponds.
“I do, yes,” Toad answered. “I like flies most definitely.”
Frog smiled and suggested that he should join her for breakfast then, as he enjoyed ponds and lily pads and flies just as much as she did.
Despite enjoying flies and lily pads and ponds, Mr. Toad was still taken aback by the offer as he had never had breakfast with a Frog before.
“I see,” he replied, thinking about the proposal. They did seem to enjoy the same things. “I think then that I would enjoy that.”
Frog jumped from her lily pad into the water with a splash and soon hopped out of the pond to join him as they set off around the water’s edge in search of breakfast.
As Toad shuffled, Frog hopped alongside. They travelled together, chatting and occasionally stopping to gobble a fly or share a juicy centipede. Now and then, they would pop back in the pond for a quick refreshing dip or to rest on a lily pad.
And so, Frog and Toad spent the morning together, and breakfast became lunch, and lunch became supper.
They talked of frog things and toad things and things that were neither frog nor toad things but were still things that frogs and toads might discuss. And when the end of the day came, Frog slipped back into the pond, and Toad walked off slowly back to his log.
“Same time tomorrow?” Shouted Frog bobbing up and down in the water as she watched him walking away slowly, her heart racing just a little faster.
“Most definitely,” said Toad as the sun began to set, golden rays reflecting like fire on the rippled waters of the pond.
He did so enjoy ponds and lily pads and flies after all…
Over the many years Ive been dabbling on here I have always enjoyed prompts. Quite often I like to create lists for myself, and I always wnjoy them even more when I have an image or two to stir my writing loins.
So I figured I might share some of mine. Use it if you want. or don’t.
Theres no limit to how long or short it should be, just see where it takes you. It could be a short story, a poem, or just whatever takes your fancy.
If you send a pingback or a link to your piece in the comments I will gather all of the outputs together at the end of the week, so for this one the closing date will be Sunday the 18th of February.
If there is interest or people actually get into it I might compile the best one from each week and pop them into a compilation of sorts and pop it on Amazon at the end of the year (accredited of course). But let’s see how it goes first eh…
So this week your prompt is ‘Natural Order’, and these are a few pics to go with it.
Oh, and you can do what you want with the miages. They are all AI generated so no issues with copyright.
Countless suns blazed across the inky night sky as the city below held it’s breath, twenty million inhabitants watching as the royal wedding party descended slowly in a small silver pod, the gigantic form of the orbiting class 1 Pleasure Craft an imposing and regal backdrop.
The pod travelled slowly towards the iridescent high towers of the State palace, the twin moons looking on like a heaving pair of breasts, and the pod seemingly slipped between them before disappearing from sight.
Whilst the crowds waited, hungry for the confirmation that the bonds between the two warring peoples had been cemented, crimson clad handmaids whisked the Prince Aurorus from his silent carriage towards the bed chamber. High vaulted ceilings and pristine marble floors reached out before him, the wedding train floating behind.
Wide eyed he gasped at the beauty of the palace, he had always imagined them so savage and base, but this spoke to something more beautiful and advanced. His heart pounded at the closeness of the alien handmaids, for as long as he could remember sworn enemies of her people. But now, through this bond, peace might be restored to the universe.
At least that is what father had told him in those moments before he had been whisked away by the high priests. He remembered how the ground had shaken as the low orbit bombers strafed the citadel back home. Beyond the blast shields that kept them safe, the world burned, and mother sat and watched, tears streaming down her face. She didn’t look as he was escorted from the room. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
And now here he was, surrounded by grandeur once more.
“Make yourself comfortable,“ said one of the handmaids as they passed through large ornate doors into a dimly lit room. He could make out the glitter of gold and precious stones on the walls as he walked towards the large bed that sat in the middle of the floor.
“Here?” he asked.
The handmaid nodded and hissed a command in her own tongue. The others all left the room leaving just the two of them. The handmaid motioned once more to the bed, nodded again and smiled a wide mouthed smile, eyes flashing and her scales catching the light. She then backed slowly out of the room, pulling the heavy doors closed behind her.
Aurorus knew what was next. Simple, painless and necessary he had been told. The priests spoke of duty, of tradition, of oaths that needed to be upheld, of the need to...
“My Prince,“ came a voice from the shadows. “Welcome once more,” it continued.
Barl stepped from the darkness and stood before Aurorus. He seemed larger now that he had during the ceremony. Aurorus tried to speak but the words caught in his throat. Barl walked across to him, his yellow eyes deep set in his head, flashed as he looked at him there on the bed.
“They are waiting for us you know?” he said, “For our people to be united through our union. For light to return to the universe on this most glorious of days.”
Aurorus nodded. He knew. The priests had prepared him, assuring with hand wringing and much nodding that their people were not so different in so many ways.
Barl stood fully eight foot tall, the light reflected on his scales and they flickered with purples and reds, thick horns running the length of his arms and his long tail swishing around behind him, the tip curling as it rose and fell with his breathing.
“What is that?” Aurorus asked, motioning to the thick appendage that he held in his hand. It started in the middle of his chest, curled around his arm, and sat comfortably in his palm.
Barl look confused. “Did they not prepare you? It is my Schlem-na”
Aurorus felt uneasy. The priests had not mentioned that, he was quite certain. That was not something you would easily forget.
“Never heard of that,“ he said, pulling his knees tight to his chest. He watched him hold it towards him, almost as an offering.
Aurorus shook his head.
“The end comes off,“ said Barl, as if that might be some comfort.
Aurorus watched as the end opened up.
“You can fuck right off,“ he exclaimed, shifting back on the bed.
Barl tilted his head to the side, unsure of the words, they weren’t ones he was familiar with.
“And look, from inside the Schlem-na you can see the galtob,” Barl continued. He seemed very proud of his galtob. The galtob snaked from inside the Schlem-na, a full foot long, as thick as a finger and a bright blue. Like the sky at home, Aurora thought, only far more terrifying.
But it was nowhere near as pretty as the skies at home, and when the tip of the galtob hissed and bared a hundred pin like teeth he screamed, recoiling.
“My Prince,” said Barl looking to assure him. “Is it not a most regal and princely thing? Is it not the mightiest galtob across a thousand worlds?”
He seemed to be of a mind that it was, though Aurorus – being no expert in such things, was wholly unprepared to make any sort of qualified assessment as to the majesty of Barl’s Schlem-na, galtob, or anything else for that matter. The bed sheets were quite nice, and he had quite enjoyed the wedding robes and the ceremony, but right now they seemed somewhat secondary considerations.
Barl’s galtob let out a shrill scream.
Aurorus let out one too.
The galtob reared and darted towards him. Barl felt his Schlem-na vibrate in his palm and he groaned with pleasure.
“Galtob approves,” he declared jubilantly, and crawled onto the bed next to him. Galtob did indeed approve and schlem-na backed up his affirmation with another girthy pulse.
“What do you say my prince?,” Barl pressed.
Aurorus recoiled as he stretched out the hand that was not holding his hissing collection of matrimonial hellishness.
Aurorus closed his eyes.
Once more Barl pressed, and the galtob snaked slowly towards Aurorus, swaying hypnotically. The teeth seemed to smile as it neared him and he could have sworn she heard it call his name and tell him what a pretty mouth he had and such slender hips.
“No,“ whispered Aurorus.
Barl leaned in. The Galtob now just inches from his face, pressing once more.
“Are you ready to make the universe whole again? To bring unity and peace and to cease this chaos?” Barl asked.
The galtob trilled sweetly and the pulsing of the schlem-na quickened. Barl smiled, rows of razor sharp teeth in his thick scaled face. A broad aperture opened in his forehead and a second galtob snaked out, though this one was thicker and pink and dripped a thick white liquid.
Barl saw Aurorus' eyes widen..The mouths of the galtob opened in unison.
---------------------------------------------
Does Aurorus:
A) Gently wrap his fingers around the First galtob, giggling as the Schlem-Na flushes pink with anticipation, the second galtob whispering sweet promises in his ear. Don't knock it until you try it, right? It is for world peace after all...
B) Bite off the head of the galtob as it darts from his forehead to his mouth, crush the schem-na in his hand, screaming wildly that the universe can burn for all he cares, whilst he grabs the second galtob, pulling it free and swinging it around his head like a tiny-mouthed lassoo... -----------------------------------------------
Hey I was just pissing about with this. It reminded me a bit of one of those choose your adventure books I had when I was about ten (at least one of which I actually still have) Anyway...it’s something...
Over the many years Ive been dabbling on here I have always enjoyed prompts. Quite often I like to create lists for myself, and I always wnjoy them even more when I have an image or two to stir my writing loins.
So I figured I might share some of mine. Use it if you want. or don’t.
Theres no limit to how long or short it should be, just see where it takes you. It could be a short story, a poem, or just whatever takes your fancy.
If you send a pingback or a link to your piece in the comments I will gather all of the outputs together at the end of the week, so for this one the closing date will be Sunday the 4th of February.
If there is interest or people actually get into it I might compile the best one from each week and pop them into a compilation of sorts and pop it on Amazon at the end of the year (accredited of course). But let’s see how it goes first eh…
So this week your prompt is ‘>>>CONNEXION>>>’, and these are a few pics to go with it.
Oh, and you can do what you want with the miages. They are all AI generated so no issues with copyright.
So this week tje prompt was “To Live and Die” and there were a few pics to go with it.
This is my effort
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The first thought that went through Terence’s mind as he opened his eyes was “What a lovely light,” This thought was soon followed by a second which considered why the devil he might be lying on the floor, and a third one hot on the heels of the second which pondered where exactly he might be.
He attempted to move but nothing happened. His eyes seemed to be working just fine but beyond that nothing else did what it was meant to. Not one thing.
“Well this is just no good,” he said to himself, “this simply will not do at all.”
He strained again but still nothing.
For a while he lay there looking up at the light. “It really is quite pretty,” he thought, “I should get one like that for the hall at home.”
In an instant something about the word home triggered an explosion of memories and emotions inside of him. He was suddenly overwhelmed by a lifetime of experiences flashing before his eyes, and it all started with her.
She was present in almost every thought and every memory. She seemed to have been there from the very beginning but for some reason he could not recall her name. He could feel her touch and he could hear her voice , and she was all at once a stranger and so very familiar.
There were children too, and grand children. Birthdays, holidays, Christmas and so so much love and laughter. There was a little house by the sea, and a dog that always barked when the gate creaked. Memory after memory washed over him as he lay there looking at the ceiling, and as they flashed by she became older, yet no less beautiful.
In between the laughter there were tears, and the cold darkness of solitude and yet always the laughter and the love would return and each time he would see her smiling face. A great sadness overcame him as he saw her laid to rest, her coffin laid into the ground on a cold grey day. Terence lay quite still and enjoyed the intensity of each moment until, at last, he remembered how he got here, where he was and why he was looking at the ceiling.
And then there was nothing.
The Engineer crouched over Terence and ran a scanner across his forehead. He spoke into a small receiver embedded in his grey coverall collar.
“Base 9, this is Henderson, I have found the synth and can confirm that shut down has completed.”
“And what is his Status?” came a response.
Henderson double checked the dial. “I can confirm that the unit has reached end of life cycle and his memories have successfully downloaded to central.”
“Good work Henderson” came the response, “We will format the content and pass it onto the family, seems the owner’s kids were pretty fond of the unit and have asked for the memories.””Copy that.”
Afterwards 