Their ships dropped from the clear Winter night like angels, the air as brittle as our so-called civilisation. By Spring we were defeated, but too stubborn to surrender. Summer turned, the Resistance organised itself, and we began to hope. But we would never see the stars the same way again.

Alastair Millar is an archaeologist by training, a translator by trade, and lives in the Czech Republic. His flash fiction can be found through linktr.ee/alastairmillar and he lurks on Twitter at @skriptorium.