“The Shallow War” is a 494 word microfiction story written for the Harvest Owl 2026 writing competition on WritingBattle.com using the prompts: extraterrestrail xenofiction (genre), vigilante (Character), and seashell (object). It earned pips for Character, Pacing, and Prose as well as Honorable Mentions.
“Quickly, with me!”
The old Snaegl waved. They had urgency in their voice, so I didn’t hesitate. The waeter was thicker than on our homeworld, but it didn’t hinder the Snaegl as their pink foot fluttered in waves over the sandy ground, sending up small puffs in their wake. More surprising since they were carrying a large Gehusod on their back. The hard shell had a unique design, foreign to me, but similar to depictions in our history—it was a Gehusod of warriors. Spiral ridges protruded from the surface to help defend as well as attack. Compared to my smooth, spiraling shape, it looked savage.
“My name’s Muricidae. You can call me Muri.”
“I’m Benthic,” I said. “I suppose you can call me Ben. Where are we going?”
“Away from the Otor.”
A million thoughts ran through my head.
“What’s an Otor?”
Muri saw my confusion. “This is their homeworld, Ben. They were colonizers, maybe refugees, just like us. It’s murky. At some point, they became vigilant against perceived intruders.”
“Do they not know about our dying homeworld? Is there not enough waeter to go around?”
Muri looked on as the sun shimmered across the firmament above. “Yes. They just don’t care to share it with us.”
Muri’s voice trailed as they explained the intricacies of this world’s workings—seventy percent waeter, multicultural, and yet they destroy each other.
“How barbaric.”
Muri nodded.
“Where are we heading?”
“To safety,” they replied.
“Safety?” my features screwed up, “From this… Otor?”
I nearly ran into Muri, who had stopped and turned to me, their face twisted to the firmament with a look of disbelief and awe.
“Yes, from that!”
I turned to follow their gaze. Swimming above us was an absolute leviathan. It was at least ten shells wide or more, and over double that in length. It swam above us with unsettling grace, its eyes tracking us with indifference.
“Flee,” Muri choked out as we lurched forward to no avail.
With ease, the Otor slinked down through the waeter and snatched up Muri from my side; the wake sweeping me up in a violent spiral toward the darkness. I couldn’t gain control as my world went spinning. The Otor repeatedly smashed Muri against a rock. Their Gehusod held against the abuse. Muri twisted, scraping and digging their ridges into the monster. Blood mixed with the waeter, but Muri was too small to make an impact. The monstrosity, seeing an opportunity, bit down on Muri’s soft body, ripping it free of its home.
Muri was no more.
The Otor callously tossed the shell as it swam away.
I watched Muri’s Gehusod as the waves pushed it through the firmament to rest on the sandy shore.
“Cute!”
An incalculably tall creature moving on two pillars picked it up and put it in a large carapace it was carrying. It wore the Gehusod of the dead around its neck. Trophies of a war that shouldn’t exist.
A war ongoing.
Photo by Anna Evans on Unsplash
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