When she saw the swirling moonscapes, the clouds and craters that said embryos— embedded—she named the triplets, Faith, Hope and Charity, anticipating the love. 

A mothership, she floated, only flimsily attached while they cut, peeled her open, floated, far out in aching black space, unaware of their arrival.

She anchored in an insecure berth, shocked by the red screwed faces with greedy mewling mouths, furious at the persistent, selfish cries. The plague of milk spots, the kicking chicken legs and red, swollen genitals. Ugly, hateful, spiteful little things. Pestilence, Gluttony and Wrath. In secret she named them again.

This story was shortlisted in the January 2023 monthly micro fiction competition.

About the author:

Emily Macdonald was born in England but grew up in New Zealand. She has been placed in several writing competitions and has work published with journals including Fictive Dream, Reflex Fiction, Crow & Cross Keys, Ellipsis Zine, Retreat West, Free Flash Fiction, Roi Fainéant and The Phare.