Wednesday, 25 April 2012

From yesterday's Vannguard writers meeting.  The prompt:  "He knew he was going to live.  He wasn't going to die."

He knew he was going to live.  He wasn't going to die.  She was his cure.  He watched as she transferred the phial of translucent purple liquid to a syringe and prepared his upper arm to receive it.  As the warm sensation travelled through his system, he imagined it was her coursing through his veins.  It was her white blonde hair trailing through his arteries.  He took a breath; it was her tinkling laughter filling his chest.  He could feel the reassuring beat of his heart; it was her rhythmic movement synchronised with his own.  It was her radiant smile lighting up his extremities as he gazed at his completely repaired hand.  She brought him a mirror.  Oh God!  His face!  What was it with his face?  All the intricate and elaborate network of nerves, muscle and bone in a face.  Could they possibly have been repaired from the damage he had sustained?  The mirror was almost touching his nose now.  He kept his eyes closed.  Her small voice forced them open.  Her eyes.  His eyes.  Purple like hers and he knew he was going to live ... as one of them.

1 comment:

  1. OOOh! This is amazing!!! Keep writing more of this.

    I've changed your Grandfather story, given it a new title and will be posting it shortly on RFW. Hope you can pop by and comment later.