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Literature Text
"Following the meeting of Parliament,—"
Paul didn't know or care much for politics anyway – did England even do politics like America? – so he shut off the TV and inhaled the rest of his tea. Maybe it was the London smog, but he had caught a cold somehow. It was dark out now. His clothes were in the dryer. After discovering that nastiness that was just too close to his crotch, he had stripped as fast as he could and tossed his things in the washer. Disgusting.
The dryer went off.
He heaved his blanket-wrapped self off the bed and retrieved his clothes. He could have just folded them up then and tossed them in a drawer. He could have. Instead, he looked for any remnants of the vomit.
"…The hell?"
The vomit was gone, oh, sure. But there was a…mark in its place. He almost laughed, because hey, it sort of looked like a tadpole. Seriously, though—
A small coughing fit seized him and he felt the phlegm rise in his throat. He rushed to the bathroom and spat in the sink, grimacing.
Dark mucus perched at the edge of the drain. As Paul reached for the faucet to drown it, he could have sworn he saw it twitch. Then it was gone in a splash of water. It was weird, but he went back to his room to stare at the tadpole stain.
His pants were gone.
He sighed pinched the bridge of his nose. So now he was crazy—
Click.
He had seen plenty of cop shows to know the sound of some gun being cocked.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder and spun him around. His knees gave way and he collapsed on the bed in terror, eyes shut, babbling, "Just take what you want, I'm not looking so I can't report you—oh God don't!"
Because the hand gripped his chin and yanked his face upward, turning it left, right. He slowly opened his eyes and balked. "Hey!"
The woman from the train who had called the red-head stranger out on a seizure frowned and lightly slapped his cheek. "Quiet. Marcus!"
Paul shied away as the Belt Man from the train entered. He was tall, wasn't he? Belt Man held up a plastic square to Paul's face and tapped.
It was glowing, for God's sake.
But Belt Man frowned and looked to his companion. "It's negative."
Two pairs of eyes turned to Paul in wonder, and the woman breathed, "You're not infected."
Well, damn.
Paul didn't know or care much for politics anyway – did England even do politics like America? – so he shut off the TV and inhaled the rest of his tea. Maybe it was the London smog, but he had caught a cold somehow. It was dark out now. His clothes were in the dryer. After discovering that nastiness that was just too close to his crotch, he had stripped as fast as he could and tossed his things in the washer. Disgusting.
The dryer went off.
He heaved his blanket-wrapped self off the bed and retrieved his clothes. He could have just folded them up then and tossed them in a drawer. He could have. Instead, he looked for any remnants of the vomit.
"…The hell?"
The vomit was gone, oh, sure. But there was a…mark in its place. He almost laughed, because hey, it sort of looked like a tadpole. Seriously, though—
A small coughing fit seized him and he felt the phlegm rise in his throat. He rushed to the bathroom and spat in the sink, grimacing.
Dark mucus perched at the edge of the drain. As Paul reached for the faucet to drown it, he could have sworn he saw it twitch. Then it was gone in a splash of water. It was weird, but he went back to his room to stare at the tadpole stain.
His pants were gone.
He sighed pinched the bridge of his nose. So now he was crazy—
Click.
He had seen plenty of cop shows to know the sound of some gun being cocked.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder and spun him around. His knees gave way and he collapsed on the bed in terror, eyes shut, babbling, "Just take what you want, I'm not looking so I can't report you—oh God don't!"
Because the hand gripped his chin and yanked his face upward, turning it left, right. He slowly opened his eyes and balked. "Hey!"
The woman from the train who had called the red-head stranger out on a seizure frowned and lightly slapped his cheek. "Quiet. Marcus!"
Paul shied away as the Belt Man from the train entered. He was tall, wasn't he? Belt Man held up a plastic square to Paul's face and tapped.
It was glowing, for God's sake.
But Belt Man frowned and looked to his companion. "It's negative."
Two pairs of eyes turned to Paul in wonder, and the woman breathed, "You're not infected."
Well, damn.
Never done this before. Kinda excited. It was so difficult to limit my words (I'm a descriptive writer), and even then, I was a little over. But I tried!
First try at it! Who knows, maybe I'll submit a second time.
First try at it! Who knows, maybe I'll submit a second time.
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Comments4
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This was a very good concept and fairly well written. But because concentrating your word count is so important let me make one suggestion. Well more like an example.
See this sentence here:
"The woman from the train who had called the red-head stranger out on a seizure frowned and lightly slapped his cheek."
Could have just been "It was a women from the train. She slapped his cheek."
See this sentence here:
"The woman from the train who had called the red-head stranger out on a seizure frowned and lightly slapped his cheek."
Could have just been "It was a women from the train. She slapped his cheek."